And violent will of the wrong-doing great;
The venomed tongue injurious to his fame,
Which nor can wisdom shun, nor fair advice reclaim.
Esteem we these, my friends, event and chance,
Produced as atoms form their fluttering dance;
Or higher yet their essence may we draw
From destined order, and eternal law!
Again, my muse, the cruel doubt repeat;
Spring they, I say, from accident or fate;
Yet such, we find they are, as can control
The servile actions of our wavering soul;
Can fright, can alter, or can chain the will;
Their ills all built on life, that fundamental ill.
O fatal search! in which the labouring mind, Still pressed with weight of woe, still hopes to find
A shadow of delight, a dream of peace,
From years of pain, one moment of release;
Hoping at least she may herself deceive,
Against experience willing to believe,
Desirous to rejoice, condemned to grieve.
Happy the mortal man, who now at last
Has through this doleful vale of misery passed;
Who to his destined stage has carried on
The tedious load, and laid his burden down;
Whom the cut brass, or wounded marble shows
Victor o'er life, and all her train of woes.
He happier yet, who, privileged by fate
To shorter labour, and a lighter weight,
Received but yesterday the gift of breath,
Ordered to-morrow to return to death.
But O! beyond description happiest he,
Who ne'er must roll on life's tumultuous sea;
Who with blessed freedom from the general doom
Exempt, must never force the teeming womb,
Nor see the sun, nor sink into the tomb.
Who breathes, must suffer, and who thinks, must
And he alone is blessed, who ne'er was born.
'Yet in thy turn, thou frowning preacher, hear:
Are not these general maxims too severe.
Say, cannot power secure its owner's bliss,
And is not wealth the potent sire of peace!
Are victors blessed with fame, or kings with ease?'
I tell thee, life is but one common care;
And man was born to suffer, and to fear.
'But is no rank, no station, no degree
From this contagious taint of sorrow free?'
None, mortal, none; yet in a bolder strain
Let me this melancholy truth maintain;
But hence, ye worldly, and profane, retire:
For I adapt my voice, and raise my lyre
To notions not by vulgar ear received:
Ye still must covet life, and be deceived:
Your very fear of death shall make ye try
To catch the shade of immortality;
Wishing on earth to linger, and to save
Part of its prey from the devouring grave;
To those who may survive ye, to bequeath
Something entire, in spite of time and death;
A fancied kind of being to retrieve,
And in a book, or from a building live.
False hope, vain labour, let some ages fly;
The dome shall moulder and the volume die.
Wretches, still taught, still will ye think it strange,
That all the parts of this great fabric change,
Quit their old station, and primeval frame,
And lose their shape, their essence, and their name!
Reduce the song: our hopes, our joys are vain: 271 Our lot is sorrow, and our portion pain.
What pause from woe, what hopes of comfort bring
The name of wise or great, of judge or king.
What is a king? A man condemned to bear
The public burden of the nation's care;
Now crowned some angry faction to appease;
Now falls a victim to the people's ease;
From the first blooming of his ill-taught youth,
Nourished in flattery, and estranged from truth:
At home surrounded by a servile crowd,
Prompt to abuse, and in detraction loud.
Abroad begirt with men, and swords, and spears;
His very state acknowledging his fears;
Marching amidst a thousand guards, he shows
His secret terror of a thousand foes;
In war, however prudent, great, or brave,
To blind events, and fickle chance a slave;
Seeking to settle what for ever flies,
Sure of the toil, uncertain of the prize.
But he returns with conquest on his brow,
Brings up the triumph, and absolves the vow;
The captive generals to his car are tied;
The joyful citizens' tumultuous tide
Echoing his glory, gratify his pride.
What is this triumph? Madness, shouts, and noise,
One great collection of the people's voice.
The wretches he brings back in chains, relate
What may to-morrow be the victor's fate.
The spoils and trophies borne before him, show
National loss, and epidemic woe,
Various distress, which he and his may know.
Does he not mourn the valiant thousands slain,
The heroes, once the glory of the plain,
Left in the conflict of the fatal day,
Or the wolf's portion, or the vulture's prey.
Does he not weep the laurel, which he wears,
Wet with the soldier's blood, and widow's tears!
See, where he comes, the darling of the war;
See millions crowding round the gilded car!
In the vast joys of this ecstatic hour,
And full fruition of successful power,
One moment and one thought might let him scan
The various turns of life, and fickle state of man.
Are the dire images of sad distrust,
And popular change obscured amid the dust,
That rises from the victor's rapid wheel;
Can the loud clarion, or shrill fife repel
The inward cries of care! Can Nature's voice
Plaintive be drowned, or lessened in the noise;
Though shouts as thunder loud afflict the air,
Stun the birds now released, and shake the ivory chair!
Yon crowd (he might reflect), yon joyful crowd,
Pleased with my honours, in my praises loud,
(Should fleeting victory to the vanquished go;
Should she depress my arms, and raise the foe)
Would for that foe with equal ardour wait
At the high palace, or the crowded gate;
With restless rage would pull my statues down,
And cast the brass anew to his renown.
O impotent desire of worldly sway!
That I, who make the triumph of to-day,
May of to-morrow's pomp one part appear
Ghastly with wounds, and lifeless on the bier!
Then, vileness of mankind, then of all these,
Whom my dilated with labour sees,
Would one, alas, repeat me good, or great,
Wash my pale body, or bewail my fate!
Or, marched I chained behind the hostile car,
The victor's pastime, and the sport of war,
Would one, would one his pitying sorrow lend,
Or be so poor, to own he was my friend?
Avails it then, O reason, to be wise,
To see this cruel scene with quicker eyes;
To know with more distinction to complain,
And have superior sense in feeling pain!
Let us revolve that roll with strictest eye,
Where safe from time distinguished actions lie;
And judge if greatness be exempt from pain,
Or pleasure ever may with power remain.
Adam, great type, for whom the world was made, The fairest blessing to his arms conveyed, A charming wife, and air, and sea, and land, And all that move therein to his command Rendered obedient, say, my pensive muse, What did these golden promises produce! Scarce tasting life, he was of joy bereaved: One day, I think, in Paradise he lived; Destined the next his journey to pursue, Where wounding thorns, and cursed thistles grew. 360 Ere yet he earns his bread, adown his brow, Inclined to earth, his labouring sweat must flow; His limbs must ache, with daily toils oppressed Ere long-wished night brings necessary rest. Still viewing with regret his darling Eve, He for her follies, and his own must grieve. Bewailing still afresh their hapless choice, His ear oft frighted with the imaged voice Of Heaven, when first it thundered; oft his view Aghast, as when the infant lightning flew; And the stern cherub stopped the fatal road, Armed with the flames of an avenging God.
|
