The Poetical Works of Edward Young - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Wretches, who fight their own belief, And labour to be lost!
Though vice by no superior joys Her heroes keeps in pay; Through pure disinterested love Of ruin they obey!
Strict their devotion to the wrong, Though tempted by no prize; Hard their commandments, and their creed A magazine of lies
From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles At reason plain, and cool; Fancy, whose curious trade it is To make the finest fool.
Voltaire! long life's the greatest curse That mortals can receive, When they imagine the chief end Of living is to live;
Quite thoughtless of their day of death, That birthday of their sorrow!
Knowing, it may be distant far, Nor crush them till-to-morrow.
These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd Beneath an humble cot; Not mine, your genius, or your state, No castle is my lot:(59)
But soon, quite level shall we lie; And, what pride most bemoans, Our parts, in rank so distant now, As level as our bones;
Hear you that sound? Alarming sound!
Prepare to meet your fate!
One, who writes finis to our works, Is knocking at the gate;
Far other works will soon be weigh'd; Far other judges sit; Far other crowns be lost or won, Than fire ambitious wit:
Their wit far brightest will be prov'd, Who sunk it in good sense; And veneration most profound Of dread omnipotence.
'Tis that alone unlocks the gate Of blest eternity; O! mayst thou never, never lose That more than golden key!(60)
Whate'er may seem too rough excuse, Your good I have at heart: Since from my soul I wish you well; As yet we must not part:
Shall you, and I, in love with life, Life's future schemes contrive, The world in wonder not unjust, That we are still alive?
What have we left? How mean in man A shadow's shade to crave!
When life, so vain! is vainer still, 'Tis time to take your leave:
Happier, than happiest life, is death, Who, falling in the field Of conflict with his rebel will, Writes vici, on his s.h.i.+eld;
So falling man, immortal heir Of an eternal prize; Undaunted at the gloomy grave, Descends into the skies.
O! how disorder'd our machine, When contradictions mix!
When nature strikes no less than twelve, And folly points at six!
To mend the moments of your heart, How great is my delight Gently to wind your morals up, And set your hand aright!
That hand, which spread your wisdom wide To poison distant lands: Repent, recant; the tainted age Your antidote demands;
To Satan dreadfully resign'd, Whole herds rush down the steep Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd, And perish in the deep.
Men's praise your vanity pursues; 'Tis well, pursue it still; But let it be of men deceas'd, And you'll resign the will;
And how superior they to those At whose applause you aim; How very far superior they In number, and in name!
Postscript.
Thus have I written, when to write No mortal should presume; Or only write, what none can blame, Hic jacet-for his tomb:
The public frowns, and censures loud My puerile employ; Though just the censure, if you smile, The scandal I enjoy;
But sing no more-no more I sing Or rea.s.sume the lyre, Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part Where Raphael leads the choir:
What myriads swell the concert loud!
Their golden harps resound High as the footstool of the throne, And deep as h.e.l.l profound:
h.e.l.l (horrid contrast!) chord and song Of raptur'd angels drowns In self-will's peal of blasphemies, And hideous burst of groans;
But drowns them not to me; I hear Harmonious thunders roll (In language low of men to speak) From echoing pole to pole!
Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies- "Above, beneath the sun, Through boundless age, by men, by G.o.ds, Jehovah's will be done!"
'Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurl'd Self-will with Satan fell; And must from earth be banish'd too, Or earth's another h.e.l.l;
Madam! self-will inflicts your pains: Self-will's the deadly foe Which deepens all the dismal shades, And points the shafts of woe:
Your debt to nature fully paid, Now virtue claims her due: But virtue's cause I need not plead, 'Tis safe; I write to you:
You know, that virtue's basis lies In ever judging right; And wiping error's clouds away, Which dim the mental sight:
Why mourn the dead? you wrong the grave, From storm that safe resort; We still are tossing out at sea, Our admiral in port.
Was death denied, this world, a scene How dismal and forlorn!
To death we owe, that 'tis to man A blessing to be born;
When every other blessing fails, Or sapp'd by slow decay, Or, storm'd by sudden blasts of fate, Is swiftly whirl'd away;
How happy! that no storm, or time, Of death can rob the just!
None pluck from their unaching heads Soft pillows in the dust!
Well pleas'd to bear heaven's darkest frown, Your utmost power employ; 'Tis n.o.ble chemistry to turn Necessity to joy.
Whate'er the colour of my fate, My fate shall be my choice: Determin'd am I, whilst I breathe, To praise and to rejoice;
What ample cause! triumphant hope!
O rich eternity!
I start not at a world in flames, Charm'd with one glimpse of thee:
And thou! its great inhabitant!
How glorious dost thou s.h.i.+ne!
