O hadst thou, Savage! known thy lot to prize,
And sacred held fair friendship's generous ties;
Hadst thou, sincere to wisdom, virtue, truth,
Curb'd the wild sallies of impetuous youth;
Had but thy life been equal to thy lays,
In vain had envy strove to blast thy bays;
In vain thy mother's unrelenting pride
Had strove to push thee helpless from her side
Fair competence had lent her genial dow'r,
And smiling peace adorn'd thy evening-hour;
True pleasure would have led thee to her shrine,
And every friend to merit had been thine.
Bless'd with the choicest boon that Heaven can give,
Thou then hadst learnt with dignity to live;
The scorn of wealth, the threats of want to brave,
Nor sought from prison a refuge in the grave.
The' immortal Rembrandt all his pictures made
Soft as their union into light and shade:
Whene'er his colours wore too bright an air,
A kindred shadow took off all the glare;
Whene'er that shadow, carelessly embrown'd,
Stole on the tints, and breath'd a gloom around,
The' attentive artist threw a warmer dye,
Or call'd a glory from a pictur'd sky;
Till both the' opposing powers mix'd in one,
Cool as the night, and brilliant as the sun.
Passions, like colours, have their strength and ease,
Those too insipid, and too gaudy these:
Some on the heart, like Spagnoletti's, throw
Fictitious horrors, and a weight of woe;
Some, like Albano's, catch from every ray
Too strong a sunshine, and too rich a day;
Others, with Carlo's Magdalens, require
A quicker spirit, and a touch of fire:
Or want, perhaps, though of celestial race,
Corregio's softness, and a Guido's grace.
Would'st thou then reach what Rembrandt's ge-
nius knew,
And live the model that his pencil drew,
Form all thy life with all his warmth divine,
Great as his plan, and faultless as his line;
Let all thy passions, like his colours, play,
Strong without harshness, without glaring gay :
Contrast them, curb them, spread them, or confine,
Ennoble these, and those forbid to shine;
With cooler shades ambition's fire allay,
And mildly melt the pomp of pride away;
Her rainbow robe from vanity remove,
And soften malice with the smile of love;
Bid o'er revenge the charities prevail,
Nor let a grace be seen without a veil:
So shalt thou live as Heaven itself design'd,
Each pulse congenial with the' informing mind,
Each action station'd in its proper place,
Each virtue blooming with its native grace,
Each passion vigorous to its just degree,
And the fair whole a perfect symmetry.
BECAUSE WE USE IT IMPROPERLY.
I own it, Belmour! say whate'er we can,
The lot of sorrow seems the lot of man;
Affliction feeds with all her keenest rage
On youth's fair blossoms, and the fruits of age;
And wraps alike beneath her harpy wings
The cells of peasants, and the courts of kings.
Yet sure unjustly we ascribe to fate
Those ills, those mischiefs, we ourselves create;
Vainly lament that all the joys we know
Are more than number'd by the pangs of woe;
And yet those joys in mean profusion waste,
Without reflection, and without a taste;
Careless of all that virtue gives to please,
For thought too active, and too mad for ease,
We give each appetite too loose a rein,
Push every pleasure to the verge of pain;
Impetuous follow where the passions call,
And live in rapture, or not live at all.
Hence half the plagues that fill with pain and strife Each softer moment of domestic life; The palsied hand, the visionary brain, The' infected fluid, and the torpid vein; The ruin'd appetite, that lothing slights The richest olio of the cook at White's; The aching impotence of loose desire, A nerveless body, with a soul on fire; The' eternal blush that lights the cheek of shame For wasted riches, and unheeded fame; Unhallow'd reveries, low thoughted cares, The wish that riots, and the pang that tears: Each awful tear that weeps the night away, Each heartfelt sigh of each reflecting day; All that around the louring eye of spleen Throws the pale phantom, and terrific scene; Or, direr still, calls from the abyss below Despair's dread genius to the couch of woe, Where, lost to health, and hope's all-cheering ray, as the dead eye-ball to the orb of day,
Pale riot bleeds for all his mad expense
In each rack'd organ, or acuter sense;
Where sad remorse beholds in every shade
The murder'd friend, or violated maid;
And, stung to madness in his inmost soul,
Grasps the keen dagger, or empoison'd bowl.
Impious it were, to think the' Eternal Mind
Is but the scourge and tyrant of mankind!
Sure he who gives us sunshine, dew, and show'r
The vine ambrosial, and the blooming flow'r,
Whose own bright image lives on man impress'd,
Meant that that being should be wise and bless'd,
And taught each instinct in his heart enshrin'd
To feel for bliss, to search it, and to find.
But where's this bliss, you ask, this heaven-born
We all pretend to, and we all admire?
Breathes it in Ceylon's aromatic isle?
Flows it along the waters of the Nile?
Lives it in India's animated mould,
In rocks of crystal, or in veins of gold?
Not there alone, but boundless, unconfin'd,
Spreads through all life, and flows to all mankind;
Waits on the winds that blow, the waves that roll,
And warms alike the equator and the pole.
For as kind Nature through the globe inspires
Her parent warmths, and elemental fires,
Forms the bright gem in earth's unfathom'd caves,
Bids the rich coral blush beneath the waves,
And with the same prolific virtue glows
In the rough bramble, as the damask rose;
So, in the union of her moral plan,
The ray of bliss shines on from man to man,
Whether in purples or in skins array'd,
He wields the sceptre, or he plies the spade,
Slaves on the Ganges, triumphs on the Rhone,
Hides in a cell, or beams upon a throne.
In vain the man whose soul ambition fires,
Whom birth ennobles, and whom wealth inspires,
Insists that happiness for courts was made,
And laughs at every genius of the shade,
As much mistakes the sage, who fain would prove
Fair pleasure lives but in his grot and grove.
Each scene of life, or open or confin'd,
Alike congenial to its kindred mind;
Alike ordain'd by Heaven to charm or please
The man of spirit and the man of ease,
Just as our taste is better or is worse,
Becomes a blessing, or becomes a curse.
When lust and envy share the soul by turns,
When fear unnerves her, or mad vengeance burns;
When luxury brutes her in the wanton bow'r,
And guilt's black phantoms haunt her midnight hour;
Not all the wealth each warmer sun provides,
All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides;
Not all the pomps that round proud greatness shine,
When suppliant nations bow before her shrine,
Can ease the heart, or ray upon the breast
Content's full sunshine, and the calm of rest.
No-all the bliss that nature feels or knows,
Of heartfelt rapture, or of cool repose,
Howe'er improv'd by wisdom and by art,
Lives in ourselves, and beams but from the heart.
Quite independent of those alien things,
Applauding senates, and the smiles of kings,
Of empty purses, or of wealthy bags,
A robe of ermines, or a coat in rags.
Conclude we then that Heaven's supreme decree Gives ease and joy to monarchs and to me:
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