The Poetical Works of Edward Young - LightNovelsOnl.com
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No longer impotent, and frail, Ourselves above we rise: We scarce believe ourselves below!
We trespa.s.s on the skies!
The Lord, the soul, and source of all, Whilst man enjoys his ease, Is executing human will, In earth, and air, and seas;
Beyond us, what can angels boast?
Archangels what require?
Whate'er below, above, is done, Is done as--we desire.
What glory this for man so mean, Whose life is but a span!
This is meridian majesty!
This, the sublime of man!
Beyond the boast of pagan song My sacred subject s.h.i.+nes!
And for a foil the l.u.s.tre takes Of Rome's exalted lines.
"All, that the sun surveys, subdued, But Cato's mighty mind."
How grand! most true; yet far beneath The soul of the resign'd:
To more than kingdoms, more than worlds, To pa.s.sion that gives law; Its matchless empire could have kept Great Cato's pride in awe;
That fatal pride, whose cruel point Transfix'd his n.o.ble breast; Far n.o.bler! if his fate sustain'd And left to heaven the rest;
Then he the palm had borne away, At distance Caesar thrown; Put him off cheaply with the world, And made the skies his own.
What cannot resignation do?
It wonders can perform; That powerful charm, "Thy will be done,"
Can lay the loudest storm.
Come, resignation! then, from fields, Where, mounted on the wing, A wing of flame, blest martyrs' souls Ascended to their king.
Who is it calls thee? one whose need Transcends the common size; Who stands in front against a foe To which no equal rise:
In front he stands, the brink he treads Of an eternal state; How dreadful his appointed post!
How strongly arm'd by fate:
His threatening foe! what shadows deep O'erwhelm his gloomy brow!
His dart tremendous!--at fourscore My sole asylum, thou!
Haste, then, O resignation! haste, 'Tis thine to reconcile My foe, and me; at thy approach My foe begins to smile:
O! for that summit of my wish, Whilst here I draw my breath, That promise of eternal life, A glorious smile in death:
What sight, heaven's azure arch beneath, Has most of heaven to boast?
The man resign'd; at once serene, And giving up the ghost.
At death's arrival they shall smile, Who, not in life o'er gay, Serious and frequent thought send out To meet him on his way:
My gay coevals! (such there are) If happiness is dear; Approaching death's alarming day Discreetly let us fear:
The fear of death is truly wise, Till wisdom can rise higher; And, arm'd with pious fort.i.tude, Death dreaded once, desire:
Grand climacteric vanities The vainest will despise; Shock'd, when beneath the snow of age Man immaturely dies:
But am not I myself the man?
No need abroad to roam In quest of faults to be chastis'd; What cause to blush at home?
In life's decline, when men relapse Into the sports of youth, The second child out-fools the first, And tempts the lash of truth;
Shall a mere truant from the grave With rival boys engage?
His trembling voice attempt to sing, And ape the poet's rage?
Here, madam! let me visit one, My fault who, partly, shares, And tell myself, by telling him, What more becomes our years;
And if your breast with prudent zeal For resignation glows, You will not disapprove a just Resentment at its foes.
In youth, Voltaire! our foibles plead For some indulgence due; When heads are white, their thoughts and aims Should change their colour too:
How are you cheated by your wit!
Old age is bound to pay, By nature's law, a mind discreet, For joys it takes away;
A mighty change is wrought by years, Reversing human lot; In age 'tis honour to lie hid, 'Tis praise to be forgot;
The wise, as flowers, which spread at noon, And all their charms expose, When evening damps and shades descend, Their evolutions close.
What though your muse has n.o.bly soar'd, Is that our truth sublime?
Ours, h.o.a.ry friend! is to prefer Eternity to time:
Why close a life so justly fam'd With such bold trash as this?(54) This for renown? yes, such as makes Obscurity a bliss:
Your trash, with mine, at open war, Is obstinately bent,(55) Like wits below, to sow your tares Of gloom and discontent:
With so much suns.h.i.+ne at command, Why light with darkness mix?
Why dash with pain our pleasure?
Your Helicon with Styx?
Your works in our divided minds Repugnant pa.s.sions raise, Confound us with a double stroke, We shudder whilst we praise;
A curious web, as finely wrought As genius can inspire, From a black bag of poison spun, With horror we admire.
Mean as it is, if this is read With a disdainful air, I can't forgive so great a foe To my dear friend Voltaire:
Early I knew him, early prais'd, And long to praise him late; His genius greatly I admire, Nor would deplore his fate;
A fate how much to be deplor'd!
At which our nature starts; Forbear to fall on your own sword.
To perish by your parts:
"But great your name"-To feed on air, Were then immortals born?
