How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot: Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned; Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; 211 "Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep; "2 Desires composed, affections ever even; Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heaven. Grace shines around her with serenest beams, And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams. For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, 217 220 224 Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy. When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance snatched But vindicate the ways of God to man. 15 I. Say first, of God above, or man below, What can we reason, but from what we know? Of man, what see we but his station here From which to reason or to which refer? 20 Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 25 4I Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind? man: 45 And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) In human works, though laboured on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; 55 From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: 80 Or who could suffer being here below? Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given, 85 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90 Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind 102 ་ How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine ! 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier, Forever separate, yet forever near ! Remembrance and reflection how allied; 225 What thin partitions sense from thought divide: And middle natures, how they long to join, All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul; That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; 2 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 271 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 276 As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. X. Cease then, nor order imperfection P. Shut, shut the door, good John !1 fatigued, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10 No place is sacred, not the church is free; E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer,15 A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? All fly to Twit'nam 5 and in humble strain 21 Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they, want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, 161 And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite; Yet he'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds. Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, 165 Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, E'en such small critics some regard may claim, Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry: I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; 175 But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, 180 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, 185 Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, And swear, not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blessed with each talent and each art to please, 195 And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the 1 verses 2 poetry throne, 198 View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes 210 630 In vain, in vain the all-composing hour Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the power. She comes! she comes ! the sable throne behold Of Night primeval and of Chaos old! Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, And all its varying rainbows die away. Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,1 635 The sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain; As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppressed, Closed one by one to everlasting rest: 2 Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, Art after art goes out, and all is night. See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head! Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. 640 1 Cf. the incantations of Medea, as told by Gower. 2 See the story in Gayley, pp. 92-94. 500 care, Not that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the lustre of my former name, 571 The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. They cry, 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife!' see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. 1 Grecian |