Could human courts take vengeance on the mind,
Axes might rust, and racks and gibbets fall;
Guard then thy mind, and leave the rest to fate.
Lorenzo, wilt thou never be a man?
The man is dead, who for the body lives,
Lured, by the beating of his pulse, to list
With ev'ry lust that wars against his peace;
And sets him quite at variance with himself.
Thyself, first, know; then love: A self there is
Of virtue fond, that kindles at her charms.
A self there is as fond of ev'ry vice,
While ev'ry virtue wounds it to the heart;
Humility degrades it, justice robs,
Blest bounty beggars it, fair truth betrays,
And godlike magnanimity destroys.
This self, when rival to the former, scorn;
When not in competition, kindly treat,
Defend it, feed it:-But when virtue bids,
Toss it, or to the fowls, or to the flames.
And why? 'Tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed;
Comply, or own self-love extinct, or blind.
For what is vice? Self-love in a mistake:
A poor blind merchant buying joys too dear.
And virtue, what? 'Tis self-love in her wits,
Quite skilful in the market of delight.
Self-love's good sense is love of that dread pow'r,
From whom she springs, and all she can enjoy.
Other self-love is but disguised self-hate;
More mortal than the malice of our foes;
A self-hate, now, scarce felt; then felt full sore,
When being, curst; extinction, loud implored;
And ev'ry thing preferr'd to what we are.
Yet this self-love Lorenzo makes his choice:
And, in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy.
How is his want of happiness betray'd,
By disaffection to the present hour!
Imagination wanders far a-field:
The future pleases: Why? The present pains.-
"But that's a secret.'-Yes, which all men know:
And know from thee, discover'd unawares.
Thy ceaseless agitation, restless rolls
From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause;
What is it?'Tis the cradle of the soul,
From instinct sent, to rock her in disease,
Which her physician, reason, will not cure.
A poor expedient! yet thy best; and while
It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.
Such are Lorenzo's wretched remedies!
The weak have remedies; the wise have joys.
Superior wisdom is superior bliss.
And what sure mark distinguishes the wise?
Consistent wisdom ever wills the same;
Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing.
Sick of herself, is folly's character;
As wisdom's is, a modest self-applause.
A change of evils is thy good supreme;
Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest.
Man's greatest strength is shewn in standing still.
The first sure symptom of a mind in health
Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
False pleasure from abroad her joys imports:
Rich from within, and self-sustain'd, the true.
The true is fix'd, and solid as a rock;
Slipp'ry the false, and tossing as the wave.
This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain:
That, like the fabled self-enamour'd boy,*
Home-contemplation her supreme delight;
* Narcissus.
She dreads an interruption from without,
Smit with her own condition; and the more
Intense she gazes, still it charms the more.
No man is happy, till he thinks on earth
There breathes not a more happy than himself:
Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on all;
And love o'erflowing makes an angel here.
Such angels all, entitled to repose
On Him who governs fate: though tempest frowns,
Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heav'n!
To lean on Him on whom archangels lean!
With inward eyes, and silent as the grave,
They stand collecting ev'ry bean of thought,
Till their hearts kindle with divine delight;
For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of old
In Israel's dream,* come from, and go to, heav'n;
Hence are they studious of sequester'd scenes;
While noise and dissipation comfort thee.
Were all men happy, revellings would cease,
That opiate for inquietude within.
Lorenzo! never man was truly blest,
But it composed, and gave him such a cast,
As folly might mistake for want of joy:
A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud;
A modest aspect, and a smile at heart.
Oh for a joy from thy Philander's spring!
A spring perennial, rising in the breast,
And permanent, as pure! No turbid stream
Of rapt'rous exultation, swelling high;
Which, like land-floods, impetuous pour awhile,
Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire.
What does the man who transient joy prefers?
What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?
Vain are all sudden sallies of delight;
Convulsions of a weak distemper'd joy:
Joy's a fix'd state; a tenure, not a start.
Bliss there is none, but unprecarious pliss;
That is the gem: sell all, and purchase that.
Why go a begging to contingencies
Not gain'd with ease, nor safely lov'd, if gain'd?
At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;
Suspect it; what thou canst ensure, enjoy;
And nought but what thou giv'st thyself, is sure.
Reason perpetuates joy that reason gives,
And makes it as immortal as herself:
To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth.
Worth, conscious worth! should absolutely reign
And other joys ask leave for their approach;
Nor, unexamined, ever leave obtain.
Thou art all anarchy! a mob of joys
Wage war, and perish in intestine broils;
Not the least promise of internal peace!
No bosom comfort! or unborrow'd bliss!
Thy thoughts are vagabonds: all outward-bound,
Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure:
If gain'd, dear bought; and better miss'd than gain'd.
Much pain must expiate what much pain procured.
Fancy, and sense, from an infected shore,
Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize.
Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst!
By fond indulgence but inflamed the more!)
Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tired.
Imagination is the Paphian shop,
Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame,
Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess,
And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires)
With wanton art, those fatal arrows form,
Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame.
Wouldst thou receive them, other thoughts there are,
On angel-wing, descending from above,
Which these, with art divine, would counterwork,
And form celestial armour for thy peace.
In this is seen imagination's guilt;
But who can count her follies! She betrays thee,
To think in grandeur there is something great.
For works of curious art, and ancient fame,
Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain'd:
And foreign climes must cater for thy taste.
Hence, what disaster!-Though the price was paid,
That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome,
Whose foot (ye gods!) though cloven, must be kiss'd,
Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian shore;
(Such is the fate of honest protestants!)
And poor magnificence is starved to death.
Hence just resentment, indignation, ire!--
Be pacified; if outward things are great,
'Tis magnanimity great things to scorn:
Pompous expenses, and parades august,
And courts, that insalubrious soil to peace.
True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye;
True happiness resides in things unseen.
No smiles of fortune ever bless'd the bad,
Nor can her frowns rob innocence of joys;
That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor:
So tell his holiness, and be revenged.
Pleasure, we both agree, is man's chief good;
Our only contest, what deserves the name.
Give pleasure's name to nought, but what has pass'd
The authentic seal of reason (which, like Yorke,
Demurs on what it passes) and defies
The tooth of time; when past, a pleasure still;
|