Chapter XIII: Prologue: To Mr Addison's Tragedy of Cato (2)

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! 290 Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee! Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view) Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu! O Grace serene! O Virtue heavenly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky! 300 And Faith, our early immortality! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest; Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. 'Come, sister, come!' (it said, or seem'd to say) 'Thy place is here, sad sister, come away! 310 Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd, Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: But all is calm in this eternal sleep; Here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to weep, Even Superstition loses every fear: For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.'

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow: 320 Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day; See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! Ah, no!--in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah, then thy once-loved Eloisa see! It will be then no crime to gaze on me. 330 See from my cheek the transient roses fly! See the last sparkle languish in my eye! Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; And even my Abelard be loved no more. O Death all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we doat on when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy, (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy!) In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd, Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, 340 From opening skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave[67] unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wandering lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; 350 Then sadly say,--with mutual pity moved, 'Oh, may we never love as these have loved!' From the full choir when loud hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, Amid that scene, if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven, One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven. And sure, if Fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, 360 Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more; Such if there be, who love so long, so well, Let him our sad, our tender story tell; The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER.[68]

Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung, Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Blest in each science, blest in every strain! Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear--in vain!

For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; 10 Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,) Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays, Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Behold thee glorious only in thy fall. 20

And sure, if aught below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine: A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all passion, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade: 'Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace, Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. 30 When interest calls off all her sneaking train, And all the obliged desert, and all the vain, She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. Even now she shades thy evening-walk with bays, (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise), Even now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day; Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he. 40

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.,

SECRETARY OF STATE.[69]

A soul as full of worth, as void of pride, Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide, Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows. A face untaught to feign; a judging eye, That darts severe upon a rising lie, And strikes a blush through frontless flattery. All this thou wert; and being this before, Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more. Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways, Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise; But candid, free, sincere, as you began, Proceed--a minister, but still a man. Be not (exalted to whate'er degree) Ashamed of any friend, not even of me: The patriot's plain, but untrod path pursue; If not, 'tis I must be ashamed of you.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO MR JERVAS,

WITH MR DRYDEN'S TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY'S 'ART OF PAINTING.'

This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse This from no venal or ungrateful Muse. Whether thy hand strike out some free design, Where life awakes, and dawns at every line; Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass, And from the canvas call the mimic face: Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire: And, reading, wish like theirs our fate and fame, So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; 10 Like them to shine through long succeeding age, So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister-arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength and light. How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, While summer suns roll unperceived away! How oft our slowly-growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art! 20 How oft review; each finding, like a friend, Something to blame, and something to commend!

What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, Fired with ideas of fair Italy. With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn. Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn: With thee repose where Tully once was laid, Or seek some ruin's formidable shade: 30 While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view. And builds imaginary Rome anew. Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye; A fading fresco here demands a sigh: Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare, Match Raphael's grace with thy loved Guide's air, Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.

How finish'd with illustrious toil appears This small, well-polish'd gem, the work of years![70] 40 Yet still how faint by precept is express'd The living image in the painter's breast! Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow, Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow; Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed, Those tears eternal, that embalm the dead; Call round her tomb each object of desire, Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire: 50 Bid her be all that cheers or softens life, The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife: Bid her be all that makes mankind adore; Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. Beauty, frail flower that every season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise, And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;[71] 60 Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow, And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh, lasting as those colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line; New graces yearly like thy works display, Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains; And finish'd more through happiness than pains. The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 70 Yet should the Graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on every face; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, And these be sung till Granville's Myra die: Alas! how little from the grave we claim! Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT,

WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.[72]

In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine, And all the writer lives in every line; His easy art may happy nature seem, Trifles themselves are elegant in him. Sure, to charm all was his peculiar fate, Who without flattery pleased the fair and great; Still with esteem no less conversed than read; With wit well-natured, and with books well-bred: His heart, his mistress, and his friend did share, His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair. 10 Thus wisely careless, innocently gay, Cheerful he play'd the trifle, Life, away; Till Fate scarce felt his gentle breath suppress'd, As smiling infants sport themselves to rest. Even rival wits did Voiture's death deplore, And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before; The truest hearts for Voiture heaved with sighs, Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes: The Smiles and Loves had died in Voiture's death, But that for ever in his lines they breathe. 20

Let the strict life of graver mortals be A long, exact, and serious comedy; In every scene some moral let it teach, And if it can, at once both please and preach. Let mine an innocent gay farce appear, And more diverting still than regular, Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace, Though not too strictly bound to time and place: Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please, Few write to those, and none can live to these. 30

Too much your sex is by their forms confined, Severe to all, but most to womankind; Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide; Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride; By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame; Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame. Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase, But sets up one, a greater, in their place; Well might you wish for change, by those accursed, But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. 40 Still in constraint your suffering sex remains, Or bound in formal, or in real chains: Whole years neglected, for some months adored, The fawning servant turns a haughty lord. Ah, quit not the free innocence of life, For the dull glory of a virtuous wife; Nor let false shows, or empty titles please: Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease!

The gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers, Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, 50 The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate. She glares in balls, front boxes, and the Ring, A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing! Pride, pomp, and state but reach her outward part: She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart.

But, madam, if the Fates withstand, and you Are destined Hymen's willing victim too: Trust not too much your now resistless charms, Those, age or sickness, soon or late, disarms: 60 Good-humour only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past; Love, raised on beauty, will like that decay, Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day; As flowery bands in wantonness are worn, A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn; This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong, The willing heart, and only holds it long.

Thus Voiture's early care still shone the same, And Monthansier[73] was only changed in name: 70 By this, even now they live, even now they charm, Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.

Now crown'd with myrtle, on the Elysian coast, Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost: Pleased, while with smiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you. The brightest eyes of France inspired his Muse; The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse; And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride Still to charm those who charm the world beside.

* * * * *

EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT.

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.[74]

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholesome country air, Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh; From the dear man unwilling she must sever, Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, She sigh'd not that they staid, but that she went. 10

She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day: To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea; Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; 20 Up to her godly garret after seven, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.

Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whist, whose treat, a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries--No words! Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things--but his horse. 30

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green; Before you pass the imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls! 40

So when your slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of you; Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow, Look sour, and hum a tune, as you do now. 50

* * * * *

TO MRS M. B.[75] ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend: Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. With added years, if life bring nothing new, But, like a sieve, let every blessing through, Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain, some sad reflection more; Is that a birthday? 'tis alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year. 10

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy, Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb, And wake to raptures in a life to come. 20

* * * * *

TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN,[76] ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742.

Resign'd to live, prepared to die, With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run (Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet lays A table,[77] with a cloth of bays; And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, Presents her harp[78] still to his fingers. The feast, his towering genius marks In yonder wild goose and the larks; 10 The mushrooms show his wit was sudden; And for his judgment, lo, a pudden! Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, And grace, although a bard, devout. May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise The price of prologues[79] and of plays, Be every birthday more a winner, Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach. 20

* * * * *

VARIATION.

VER. 15. Originally thus in the MS.:--

And oh, since Death must that fair frame destroy, Die, by some sudden ecstasy of joy; In some soft dream may thy mild soul remove, And be thy latest gasp a sigh of love.

TO MR JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

1 How much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceived by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All humankind are worms.

2 Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.

3 That woman is a worm, we find
E'er since our grandame's evil;
She first conversed with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.

4 The learn'd themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm:

5 The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.

6 The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux.
And death-watches, physicians.

7 That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.

8 Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
If thou couldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies!

9 O learnèd friend of Abchurch Lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free!
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat even thee.

10 Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years--no more;
Even Button's Wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.

TO MR C.,[80] ST JAMES'S PLACE.

1 Few words are best; I wish you well:
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here;
Some morning walks along the Mall,
And evening friends, will end the year.

2 If in this interval, between
The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit'nam green,
Your friend, your poet, and your host:

3 For three whole days you here may rest
From office business, news, and strife;
And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else except your wife.

* * * * *

EPITAPHS.

I. ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET, IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, IN SUSSEX.

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

VIRG.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died. The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state: Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true, As show'd vice had his hate and pity too. Blest courtier! who could king and country please, Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease. Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine, And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

II. ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.[81]

A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind; Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd: Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd, Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest: An honest courtier, yet a patriot too; Just to his prince, and to his country true: Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth, A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth; A generous faith, from superstition free: A love to peace, and hate of tyranny; Such this man was; who now, from earth removed, At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

III. ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT, AT THE CHURCH OF STANTON HARCOURT, IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Oh, let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, And, with a father's sorrows, mix his own!

IV. ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIAE: VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV. OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear! Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approved, Praised, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he loved.

V. INTENDED FOR MR ROWE, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust: Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest! Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest! One grateful woman to thy fame supplies What a whole thankless land to his denies.

VI. ON MRS CORBET, WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense: No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired, No arts essay'd, but not to be admired. Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, Convinced that virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so composed a mind; So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined; Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

VII. ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HONOURABLE EGBERT DIGBY, AND HIS SISTER MARY.

ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER THE LORD DIGBY, IN THE CHURCH OF SHERBORNE, IN DORSETSHIRE, 1727.

Go! fair example of untainted youth, Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth: Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate, Good without noise, without pretension great. Just of thy word, in every thought sincere, Who knew no wish but what the world might hear: Of softest manners, unaffected mind, Lover of peace, and friend of human kind: Go live! for Heaven's eternal year is thine,[82] Go, and exalt thy moral to divine.

And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom, Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb, Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore, Not parted long, and now to part no more! Go then, where only bliss sincere is known! Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!

Yet take these tears, Mortality's relief, And till we share your joys, forgive our grief: These little rites, a stone, a verse receive; 'Tis all a father, all a friend can give!

VIII. ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1723.

Kneller, by Heaven, and not a master, taught, Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures Thought; Now for two ages having snatch'd from Fate Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great, Lies crown'd with princes' honours, poets' lays, Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise.

Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.

IX. ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1729.

Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country's friend, but more of human kind. Oh, born to arms! oh, worth in youth approved! Oh, soft humanity, in age beloved! For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear, And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere. Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove Thy martial spirit, or thy social love! Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage, Still leave some ancient virtues to our age: Nor let us say (those English glories gone) The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

X. ON MR ELIJAH FENTON,[83] AT EASTHAMSTEAD, IN BERKS, 1730.

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, Here lies an honest man: A poet, blest beyond the poet's fate, Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great: Foe to loud praise, and friend to learnèd ease, Content with science in the vale of peace. Calmly he look'd on either life, and here Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear; From Nature's temperate feast rose satisfied, Thank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died.

XI. ON MR GAY, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1732.

Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit, a man; simplicity, a child: With native humour tempering virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above temptation in a low estate, And uncorrupted, even among the great: A safe companion, and an easy friend, Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end. These are thy honours! not that here thy bust Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust; But that the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms--Here lies Gay.

XII. INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

ISAACUS NEWTONUS:
QUEM IMMORTALEM
TESTANTUR TEMPUS, NATURA, COELUM:
MORTALEM
HOC MARMOR FATETUR.

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night God said, Let Newton be! and all was light.

XIII. ON DR FRANCIS ATTERBURY,[84] BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, WHO DIED IN EXILE AT PARIS, 1732.

SHE.

Yes, we have lived--one pang, and then we part! May Heaven, dear father! now have all thy heart. Yet ah! how once we loved, remember still, Till you are dust like me.

HE. Dear shade! I will: Then mix this dust with thine--O spotless ghost! O more than fortune, friends, or country lost! Is there on earth one care, one wish beside? Yes--Save my country, Heaven! --He said, and died.

XIV. ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, WHO DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, 1735.

If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd, And every opening virtue blooming round, Could save a parent's justest pride from fate, Or add one patriot to a sinking state; This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear, Or sadly told how many hopes lie here! The living virtue now had shone approved, The senate heard him, and his country loved. Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham: In whom a race, for courage famed and art, Ends in the milder merit of the heart; And chiefs or sages long to Britain given, Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heaven.

XV. FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Heroes and kings! your distance keep: In peace let one poor poet sleep, Who never flatter'd folks like you: Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

XVI. ANOTHER, ON THE SAME.

Under this marble, or under this sill, Or under this turf, or e'en what they will; Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead, Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head, Lies one who ne'er cared, and still cares not a pin What they said, or may say, of the mortal within: But who, living and dying, serene still and free, Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be.

XVII. ON TWO LOVERS STRUCK DEAD BY LIGHTNING.[85]

When Eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, On the same pile the faithful pair expire. Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found, And blasted both, that it might neither wound. Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased, Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized.

[Lord Harcourt, on whose property the unfortunate pair lived, was apprehensive that the country people would not understand the above, and Pope wrote the subjoined]:--

NEAR THIS PLACE LIE THE BODIES OF
JOHN HEWET AND SARAH DREW,
AN INDUSTRIOUS YOUNG MAN,
AND VIRTUOUS MAIDEN OF THIS PARISH;
WHO, BEING AT HARVEST-WORK
(WITH SEVERAL OTHERS),
WERE IN ONE INSTANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING,
THE LAST DAY OF JULY 1718.

Think not, by rigorous judgment seized,
A pair so faithful could expire;
Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased,
And snatch'd them in celestial fire.

Live well, and fear no sudden fate;
When God calls virtue to the grave,
Alike 'tis justice soon or late,
Mercy alike to kill or save.

Virtue unmoved can hear the call,
And face the flash that melts the ball.

AN ESSAY ON MAN:

IN FOUR EPISTLES TO HENRY ST JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE.

THE DESIGN.

Having proposed to write some pieces on human life and manners, such as (to use my Lord Bacon's expression) come home to men's business and bosoms, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering man in the abstract, his nature and his state; since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.

The science of human nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points: there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the anatomy of the mind as in that of the body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The disputes are all upon these last, and, I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and have diminished the practice, more than advanced the theory, of morality. If I could flatter myself that this essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over terms utterly unintelligible, and in forming a _temperate_ yet not _inconsistent_, and a _short_ yet not _imperfect_ system of ethics.

This I might have done in prose; but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for two reasons. The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxims, or precepts so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards: the other may seem odd, but is true; I found I could express them more shortly this way than in prose itself; and nothing is more certain, than that much of the force as well as grace of arguments or instructions, depends on their conciseness. I was unable to treat this part of my subject more in detail, without becoming dry and tedious; or more poetically, without sacrificing perspicuity to ornament, without wandering from the precision, or breaking the chain of reasoning: If any man can unite all these without diminution of any of them, I freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity.

What is now published, is only to be considered as a general map of Man, marking out no more than the greater parts, their extent, their limits, and their connexion, but leaving the particular to be more fully delineated in the charts which are to follow. Consequently, these epistles in their progress (if I have health and leisure to make any progress) will be less dry, and more susceptible of poetical ornament. I am here only opening the _fountains_, and clearing the passage. To deduce the _rivers_, to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a task more agreeable.

EPISTLE I.

ARGUMENT

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE.

Of man in the abstract.--

I. That we can judge only with regard to our own system, being ignorant of the relations of systems and things, ver. 17, &c. II. That Man is not to be deemed imperfect, but a being suited to his place and rank in the creation, agreeable to the general order of things, and conformable to ends and relations to him unknown, ver. 35, &c. III. That it is partly upon his ignorance of future events, and partly upon the hope of a future state, that all his happiness in the present depends, ver. 77, &c. IV. The pride of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more perfection, the cause of Man's error and misery. The impiety of putting himself in the place of God, and judging of the fitness or unfitness, perfection or imperfection, justice or injustice of his dispensations, ver. 109, &c. V. The absurdity of conceiting himself the final cause of the creation, or expecting that perfection in the moral world, which is not in the natural, ver. 131, &c. VI. The unreasonableness of his complaints against Providence, while on the one hand he demands the perfections of the angels, and on the other the bodily qualifications of the brutes; though to possess any of the sensitive faculties in a higher degree, would render him miserable, ver. 173, &c. VII. That throughout the whole visible world, an universal order and gradation in the sensual and mental faculties is observed, which causes a subordination of creature to creature, and of all creatures to Man. The gradations of sense, instinct, thought, reflection, reason; that reason alone countervails all the other faculties, ver. 207. VIII. How much further this order and subordination of living creatures may extend, above and below us; were any part of which broken, not that part only, but the whole connected creation must be destroyed, ver. 233. IX. The extravagance, madness, and pride of such a desire, ver. 259. X. The consequence of all, the absolute submission due to Providence, both as to our present and future state, ver. 281, &c. to the end.

AWAKE, my St John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan; A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot; Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield; 10 The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate the ways of God to Man.[86]

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 unnumber'd, though the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He who through vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, What other planets circle other suns, What varied being peoples every star, May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, The strong connexions, nice dependencies, 30 Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look'd through? or can a part contain the whole?

Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, And drawn, supports, upheld by God, or thee?

II. Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find, Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind? First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less? Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? 40 Or ask of yonder argent fields above, Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove?

Of systems possible, if 'tis confess'd That Wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must full or not coherent be, And all that rises, rise in due degree; Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain, There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man: And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? 50

Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, though labour'd on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; Yet serves to second, too, some other use. So Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60

When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god:[87] Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend His actions', passions', being's use and end; Why doing, suffering, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity.

Then say not Man's imperfect, Heaven in fault; Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought: 70 His knowledge measured to his state and place; His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest to-day is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.

III. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below? 80 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. Oh blindness to the future! kindly given, That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven: Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 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, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 100 His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky-way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; 110 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.

IV. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, Weigh thy opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, Say, here he gives too little, there too much: Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust: If Man alone engross not Heaven's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 120 Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: And who but wishes to invert the laws Of ORDER, sins against the Eternal Cause. 130

V. Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ''Tis for mine: For me kind Nature wakes her genial power, Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; Annual for me the grape, the rose renew, The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.' 140

But errs not Nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? 'No' 'tis replied, 'the first Almighty Cause Acts not by partial, but by general laws; Th' exceptions few; some change, since all began: And what created perfect?'--Why then Man? If the great end be human happiness, Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less? 150 As much that end a constant course requires Of showers and sunshine, as of Man's desires; As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, As men for ever temperate, calm, and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 150 From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs; Account for moral, as for natural things: Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right, is to submit.

Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind, That never passion discomposed the mind. But all subsists by elemental strife; And passions are the elements of life. 170 The general order, since the whole began, Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.

VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar, And, little less than angel, would be more; Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use all creatures if he call, Say, what their use, had he the powers of all? Nature to these, without profusion, kind, The proper organs, proper powers assign'd; 180 Each seeming want compensated, of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: Is Heaven unkind to Man, and Man alone? Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleased with nothing, if not bless'd with all?

The bliss of Man (could pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190 No powers of body or of soul to share, But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a fly. Say, what the use, were finer optics given, T'inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonise at every pore? Or, quick effluvia darting through the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200 If nature thunder'd in his opening ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that Heaven had left him still The whispering zephyr, and the purling rill? Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies?

VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends: Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass: 210 What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam! Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, To that which warbles through the vernal wood: The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew! 220 How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier: For ever separate, yet for ever near! Remembrance and reflection how allied; What thin partitions[88] sense from thought divide: And middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230 The powers of all subdued by thee alone, Is not thy reason all these powers in one?

VIII. See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth: Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of being! which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No glass can reach; from Infinite to Thee, 240 From Thee to Nothing.--On superior powers Were we to press, inferior might on ours: Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.

And, if each system in gradation roll Alike essential to th' amazing whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. 250 Let earth, unbalanced, from her orbit fly, Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on being wreck'd, and world on world; Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, And Nature trembles to the throne of God. All this dread order break--for whom? for thee? Vile worm!--oh madness! pride! impiety!

IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head 260 What if the head, the eye, or ear repined To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this general frame; Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, The great directing Mind of All ordains.

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: 270 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 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; 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. 280

X. Cease then, nor Order imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. Submit--in this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; 290 All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good: And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.

* * * * *

VARIATIONS.

In former editions, VER 64--

Now wears a garland, an Egyptian god.

Altered as above for the reason given in the note.

After VER. 68 the following lines in first edit.--

If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matters, soon or late, or here or there? The blest to-day is as completely so As who began ten thousand years ago.

After VER. 88 in the MS.--

No great, no little; 'tis as much decreed That Virgil's gnat should die as Caesar bleed.

In the first folio and quarto:--

What bliss above He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy bliss below.

After VER. 108 in the first edition:--

But does he say the Maker is not good, Till he's exalted to what state he would: Himself alone high Heaven's peculiar care, Alone made happy when he will, and where?

VER. 238, first edition--

Ethereal essence, spirit, substance, man.

After VER. 282 in the MS.--

Reason, to think of God when she pretends, Begins a censor, an adorer ends.

EPISTLE II.

ARGUMENT.

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO HIMSELF AS AN INDIVIDUAL.

I. The business of Man not to pry into God, but to study himself. His middle nature; his powers and frailties, ver. 1 to 19. The limits of his capacity, ver. 19, &c. II. The two principles of Man, self-love and reason, both necessary, ver. 53, &c. Self-love the stronger, and why, ver. 67, &c. Their end the same, ver. 81, &c. III. The passions, and their use, ver. 93-130. The predominant passion, and its force, ver. 132-160. Its necessity, in directing men to different purposes, ver. 165, &c. Its providential use, in fixing our principle, and ascertaining our virtue, ver. 177. IV. Virtue and vice joined in our mixed nature; the limits near, yet the things separate and evident: What is the office of reason, ver. 202-216. V. How odious vice in itself, and how we deceive ourselves into it, ver. 217. VI. That, however, the ends of Providence and general good are answered in our passions and imperfections, ver. 238, &c. How usefully these are distributed to all orders of men, ver. 241. How useful they are to society, ver. 251. And to the individuals, ver. 263. In every state, and every age of life, ver. 273, &c.

I. KNOW then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is Man. Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reasoning but to err; 10 Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little, or too much: Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused, or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the world![89]