The Complaint,

or Night Thoughts

on Life, Time, Friendship,

Death, and Immortality:

In Nine Nights

______________________________________________________________________________

Night V.

The Relapse.

Humbly inscribed to the

Right Hon. the Earl of Lichfield.

Lorenzo! to recriminate is just.

Fondness for fame is avarice of air.

I grant the man is vain who writes for praise.

Praise no man e'er deserved, who sought no more.

5

As just thy second charge. I grant the Muse

Has often blush'd at her degenerate sons,

Retain'd by Sense to plead her filthy cause

To raise the low, to magnify the mean,

And subtilize the gross into refined:

10

As if to magic numbers' powerful charm

'T was given to make a civet of their song

Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.

Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute,

And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.

15

The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.

We wear the chains of Pleasure and of Pride:

These share the man; and these distract him too;

Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.

Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;

20

But Pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground.

Joys shared by brute-creation Pride resents,

Pleasure embraces. Man would both enjoy,

And both at once: a point how hard to gain!

But what can't Wit, when stung by strong desire?

25

Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise.

Since joys of Sense can't rise to Reason's taste,

In subtle Sophistry's laborious forge

Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops

To sordid scenes, and greets them with applause.

30

Wit calls the Graces the chaste zone to loose,

Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl;

A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells,

A thousand opiates scatters to delude,

To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,

35

And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.

Thus that which shock'd the Judgment, shocks no more;

That which gave Pride offence, no more offends.

Pleasure and Pride, by nature mortal foes,

At war eternal which in man shall reign,

40

By Wit's address, patch up a fatal peace,

And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,

From rank refined to delicate and gay.

Art, cursed Art! wipes off the' indebted blush

From Nature's cheek, and bronzes every shame.

45

Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,

And Infamy stands candidate for praise.

All writ by man in favour of the soul

These sensual ethics far in bulk transcend.

The flowers of eloquence profusely pour'd

50

O'er spotted Vice, fill half the letter'd world.

Can powers of genius exorcise their page,

And consecrate enormities with song?

But let not these inexpiable strains

Condemn the Muse that knows her dignity;

55

Nor meanly stops at Time, but holds the world—

As 't is, in Nature's ample field, a point—

A point in her esteem; from whence to start,

And run the round of universal space,

To visit being universal there,

60

And Being's Source, that utmost flight of mind!

Yet, spite of this so vast circumference,

Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great.

Sing sirens only? Do not angels sing?

There is in Poesy a decent pride,

65

Which well becomes her when she speaks to Prose,

Her younger sister; haply, not more wise.

Think'st thou, Lorenzo, to find pastimes here?

No guilty passion blown into a flame,

No foible flatter'd, dignity disgraced,

70

No fairy field of fiction, all on flower,

No rainbow colours here, or silken tale;

But solemn counsels, images of awe,

Truths which Eternity lets fall on man

With double weight, through these revolving spheres,

75

This death-deep silence, and incumbent shade:

Thoughts such as shall revisit your last hour;

Visit uncall'd, and live when life expires;

And thy dark pencil, Midnight, darker still

In melancholy dipp'd, embrowns the whole.

80

Yet this, e'en this, my laughter-loving friends!

Lorenzo, and thy brothers of the smile!

If what imports you most can most engage,

Shall steal your ear, and chain you to my song.

Or if you fail me, know, the wise shall taste

85

The truths I sing; the truths I sing shall feel;

And, feeling, give assent; and their assent

Is ample recompence; is more than praise.

But chiefly thine, O Lichfield! nor mistake:

Think not unintroduced I force my way;

90

Narcissa, not unknown, not unallied,

By virtue or by blood, illustrious youth,

To thee, from blooming amaranthine bowers,

Where all the language harmony, descends

Uncall'd, and asks admittance for the Muse;

95

A Muse that will not pain thee with thy praise;

Thy praise she drops, by nobler still inspired.

O Thou blest Spirit! whether the supreme,

Great antemundane Father! in whose breast

Embryo-creation, unborn being, dwelt,

100

And all its various revolutions roll'd

Present, though future, prior to themselves;

Whose breath can blow it into nought again;

Or from His throne some delegated Power,

Who, studious of our peace, dost turn the thought

105

From vain and vile to solid and sublime!

Unseen Thou lead'st me to delicious draughts

Of inspiration, from a purer stream,

And fuller of the God, than that which burst

From famed Castalia: nor is yet allay'd

110

My sacred thirst; though long my soul has ranged

Through pleasing paths of moral and Divine,

By Thee sustain'd, and lighted by the STARS.

By them best lighted are the paths of thought:

Nights are their days, their most illumined hours.

115

By day the soul, o'erborne by life's career,

Stunn'd by the din, and giddy with the glare,

Reels far from reason, jostled by the throng.

By day the soul is passive, all her thoughts

Imposed, precarious, broken, ere mature.

120

By night, from objects free, from passion cool,

Thoughts uncontroll'd and unimpress'd, the births

Of pure election, arbitrary range,

Not to the limits of one world confined,

But from ethereal travels light on earth,

125

As voyagers drop anchor, for repose.

Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians, fond

Of feather'd fopperies, the sun adore:

Darkness has more divinity for me:

It strikes thought inward; it drives back the soul

130

To settle on herself, our point supreme!

There lies our theatre; there sits our judge.

Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull scene;

'T is the kind hand of Providence stretch'd out

'Twixt man and vanity; 't is Reason's reign,

135

And Virtue's too; these tutelary shades

Are man's asylum from the tainted throng.

Night is the good man's friend, and guardian too;

It no less rescues Virtue than inspires.

Virtue for ever frail, as fair, below,

140

Her tender nature suffers in the crowd,

Nor touches on the world without a stain.

The world's infectious; few bring back at eve,

Immaculate, the manners of the morn.

Something we thought, is blotted; we resolved,

145

Is shaken; we renounced, returns again.

Each salutation may slide-in a sin

Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.

Nor is it strange; light, motion, concourse, noise,

All scatter us abroad; Thought, outward-bound,

150

Neglectful of our home-affairs, flies off

In fume and dissipation, quits her charge,

And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe.

Present example gets within our guard,

And acts with double force, by few repell'd.

155

Ambition fires ambition; love of gain

Strikes like a pestilence, from breast to breast;

Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapours breathe;

And inhumanity is caught from man,

From smiling man! A slight, a single glance,

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And shot at random, often has brought home

A sudden fever to the throbbing heart

Of envy, rancour, or impure desire.

We see, we hear, with peril; Safety dwells

Remote from multitude; the world's a school

165

Of wrong, and what proficients swarm around!

We must or imitate or disapprove;

Must list as their accomplices, or foes;

That stains our innocence, this wounds our peace.

From Nature's birth, hence, Wisdom has been smit

170

With sweet recess, and languish'd for the shade.

This sacred shade and solitude,—what is it?

'T is the felt presence of the Deity.

Few are the faults we flatter when alone.

Vice sinks in her allurements, is ungilt,

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And looks, like other objects, black by night:

By night an Atheist half-believes a God.

Night is fair Virtue's immemorial friend;

The conscious Moon, through every distant age,

Has held a lamp to Wisdom, and let fall

180

On Contemplation's eye her purging ray.

The famed Athenian, he who woo'd from heaven

Philosophy the fair, to dwell with men,

And form their manners, not inflame their pride,—

While o'er his head, as fearful to molest

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His labouring mind, the stars in silence slide,

And seem all gazing on their future guest,

See him soliciting his ardent suit

In private audience: all the live-long night,

Rigid in thought, and motionless, he stands;

190

Nor quits his theme or posture till the sun

(Rude drunkard! rising rosy from the main)

Disturbs his nobler intellectual beam,

And gives him to the tumult of the world.

Hail, precious moments, stolen from the black waste

195

Of murder'd Time! auspicious Midnight, hail!

The world excluded, every passion hush'd,

And open'd a calm intercourse with Heaven,

Here the soul sits in council; ponders past,

Predestines future action; sees, not feels,

200

Tumultuous life, and reasons with the storm;

All her lies answers, and thinks down her charms.

What awful joy! what mental liberty!

I am not pent in darkness: rather say,

(If not too bold,) in darkness I'm embower'd.

205

Delightful gloom! the clustering thoughts around

Spontaneous rise, and blossom in the shade;

But droop by day, and sicken in the sun.

Thought borrows light elsewhere; from that flast fire,

Fountain of animation, whence descends

210

Urania, my celestial guest! who deigns

Nightly to visit me, so mean; and now,

Conscious how needful discipline to man,

From pleasing dalliance with the charms of Night,

My wandering thought recalls, to what excites

215

Far other beat of heart,—Narcissa's tomb!

Or is it feeble Nature calls me back,

And breaks my spirit into grief again?

Is it a Stygian vapour in my blood,

A cold, slow puddle, creeping through my veins?

220

Or is it thus with all men?—Thus with all.

What are we? how unequal! now we soar,

And now we sink. To be the same, transcends

Our present prowess. Dearly pays the soul

For lodging ill; too dearly rents her clay.

225

Reason, a baffled counsellor, but adds

The blush of weakness to the bane of woe.

The noblest spirit, fighting her hard fate

In this damp, dusky region, charged with storms,

But feebly flutters, yet untaught to fly;

230

Or, flying, short her flight, and sure her fall.

Our utmost strength, when down, to rise again;

And not to yield, though beaten, all our praise.

'T is vain to seek in men for more than man.

Though proud in promise, big in previous thought,

235

Experience damps our triumph. I, who late,

Emerging from the shadows of the grave,

Where Grief detain'd me prisoner, mounting high,

Threw wide the gates of everlasting day,

And call'd mankind to glory, shook off pain,

240

Mortality shook off, in ether pure,

And struck the stars; now feel my spirits fail:

They drop me from the zenith; down I rush,

Like him whom Fable fledged with waxen wings,

In sorrow drown'd—but not in sorrow lost.

245

How wretched is the man who never mourn'd!

I dive for precious pearl in sorrow's stream:

Not so the thoughtless man that only grieves;

Takes all the torment, and rejects the gain,

(Inestimable gain!) and gives Heaven leave

250

To make him but more wretched, not more wise.

If wisdom is our lesson, (and what else

Ennobles man? what else have angels learnt?)

Grief, more proficients in thy school are made

Than Genius, or proud Learning, e'er could boast.

255

Voracious Learning, often over-fed,

Digests not into sense her motley meal.

This Book-case, with dark booty almost burst,

This forager on others' wisdom, leaves

Her native farm, her reason, quite untill'd.

260

With mix'd manure she surfeits the rank soil,

Dung'd, but not dress'd, and rich to beggary.

A pomp untameable of weeds prevails.

Her servant's wealth encumber'd Wisdom mourns.

And what says Genius? “Let the dull be wise.”

265

Genius, too hard for right, can prove it wrong;

And loves to boast where blush men less inspired.

It pleads exemption from the laws of Sense;

Considers Reason as a leveller;

And scorns to share a blessing with the crowd;

270

That wise it could be, thinks an ample claim

To Glory, and to Pleasure gives the rest.

Crassus but sleeps, Ardelio is undone.

Wisdom less shudders at a fool than wit.

But Wisdom smiles when humbled mortals weep.

275

When Sorrow wounds the breast, as ploughs the glebe,

And hearts obdurate feel her softening shower;

Her seed celestial, then, glad Wisdom sows;

Her golden harvest triumphs in the soil.

If so, Narcissa! welcome my Relapse:

280

I'll raise a tax on my calamity,

And reap rich compensation from my pain.

I'll range the plenteous intellectual field;

And gather every thought of sovereign power,

To chase the moral maladies of man;

285

Thoughts which may bear transplanting to the skies,

Though natives of this coarse penurious soil;

Nor wholly wither there, where seraphs sing,

Refined, exalted, not annull'd, in heaven:

Reason, the sun that gives them birth, the same

290

In either clime, though more illustrious there.

These, choicely cull'd, and elegantly ranged,

Shall form a garland for Narcissa's tomb;

And, peradventure, of no fading flowers.

Say, on what themes shall puzzled choice descend?

295

“The” importance of contemplating the tomb;

Why men decline it; Suicide's foul birth;

The various kinds of Grief; the faults of Age;

And Death's dread character,”—invite my song.

And, first, the' importance of our end survey'd.

300

Friends counsel quick dismission of our grief.

Mistaken kindness! our hearts heal too soon.

Are they more kind than He who struck the blow,

Who bid it do His errand in our hearts,

And banish peace, till nobler guests arrive,

305

And bring it back a true and endless peace?

Calamities are friends: as glaring day

Of these unnumber'd lustres robs our sight,

Prosperity puts out unnumber'd thoughts

Of import high, and light Divine, to man.

310

The man how bless'd, who, sick of gaudy scenes,

(Scenes apt to thrust between us and ourselves!)

Is led by choice to take his favourite walk

Beneath Death's gloomy, silent, cypress shades,

Unpierced by Vanity's fantastic ray;

315

To read his monuments, to weigh his dust,

Visit his vaults, and dwell among the tombs!

Lorenzo! read with me Narcissa's stone;

(Narcissa was thy favourite;) let us read

Her moral stone: few doctors preach so well;

320

Few orators so tenderly can touch

The feeling heart. What pathos in the date!

Apt words can strike; and yet in them we see

Faint images of what we here enjoy.

What cause have we to build on length of life?

325

Temptations seize when Fear is laid asleep,

And Ill foreboded is our strongest guard.

See, from her tomb, as from an humble shrine,

Truth, radiant goddess, sallies on my soul,

And puts Delusion's dusky train to flight;

330

Dispels the mists our sultry passions raise,

From objects low, terrestrial, and obscene;

And shows the real estimate of things,

Which no man, unafflicted, ever saw;

Pulls off the veil from Virtue's rising charms;

335

Detects Temptation in a thousand lies.

Truth bids me look on men as autumn leaves,

And all they bleed for as the summer's dust,

Driven by the whirlwind. Lighted by her beams,

I widen my horizon, gain new powers,

340

See things invisible, feel things remote,

Am present with futurities; think nought

To man so foreign as the joys possess'd,

Nought so much his as those beyond the grave.

No folly keeps its colour in her sight;

345

Pale worldly Wisdom loses all her charms;

In pompous promise from her schemes profound,

If future fate she plans, 't is all in leaves,

Like Sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss!

At the first blast it vanishes in air.

350

Not so celestial. Wouldst thou know, Lorenzo,

How differ worldly Wisdom and Divine?

Just as the waning and the waxing moon.

More empty worldly Wisdom every day,

And every day more fair her rival shines.

355

When later, there's less time to play the fool.

Soon our whole term for Wisdom is expired,

(Thou know'st she calls no council in the grave,)

And “everlasting fool” is writ in fire,

Or real Wisdom wafts us to the skies.

360

As worldly schemes resemble Sibyl's leaves,

The good man's days to Sibyl's books compare,

(En ancient story read, thou know'st the tale,)

In price still rising, as in number less;

Inestimable quite his final hour.

365

For that, who thrones can offer, offer thrones:

Insolvent worlds the purchase cannot pay.

“O let me die his death!” all Nature cries.

“Then live his life!”—all Nature falters there.

Our great Physician daily to consult,

370

To commune with the Grave, our only cure.

What grave prescribes the best? A friend's; and yet

From a friend's grave how soon we disengage!

E'en to the dearest, as his marble, cold.

Why are friends ravish'd from us? 'T is to bind,

375

By soft Affection's ties, on human hearts,

The thought of death, which Reason, too supine,

Or misemploy'd, so rarely fastens there.

Nor Reason, nor Affection, no, nor both

Combined, can break the witchcrafts of the world.

380

Behold the' inexorable hour at hand!

Behold the' inexorable hour forgot!

And to forget it the chief aim of life,

Though well to ponder it is life's chief end.

Is Death, that ever threatening, ne'er remote,

385

That all-important, and that only sure,

(Come when he will,) an unexpected guest?

Nay, though invited by the loudest calls

Of blind Imprudence, unexpected still?

Though numerous messengers are sent before,

390

To warn his great arrival. What the cause,

The wondrous cause, of this mysterious ill?

All heaven looks down, astonish'd at the sight.

Is it, that Life has sown her joys so thick,

We can't thrust in a single care between?

395

Is it, that Life has such a swarm of cares,

The thought of death can't enter for the throng?

Is it, that Time steals on with downy feet,

Nor wakes Indulgence from her golden dream?

To-day is so like yesterday, it cheats;

400

We take the lying sister for the same.

Life glides away, Lorenzo, like a brook;

For ever changing, unperceived the change.

In the same brook none ever bathed him twice:

To the same life none ever twice awoke.

405

We call the brook the same; the same we think

Our life, though still more rapid in its flow;

Nor mark the much irrevocably lapsed,

And mingled with the sea. Or shall we say,

(Retaining still the brook to bear us on,)

410

That life is like a vessel on the stream?

In life embark'd, we smoothly down the tide

Of time descend, but not on time intent;

Amused, unconscious of the gliding wave;

Till on a sudden we perceive a shock;

415

We start, awake, look out; what see we there?

Our brittle bark is burst on Charon's shore.

Is this the cause Death flies all human thought?

Or is it Judgment by the Will struck blind,

(That domineering mistress of the soul,)

420

Like him so strong, by Delilah the fair?

Or is it Fear turns startled Reason back,

From looking down a precipice so steep?

'T is dreadful; and the dread is wisely placed,

By Nature, conscious of the make of man.

425

A dreadful friend it is, a terror kind,

A flaming sword to guard the tree of life.

By that unawed, in life's most smiling hour,

The good man would repine; would suffer joys,

And burn impatient for his promised skies.

430

The bad, on each punctilious pique of Pride,

Or gloom of Humour, would give Rage the rein,

Bound o'er the barrier, rush into the dark,

And mar the schemes of Providence below

What groan was that, Lorenzo? Furies! rise;

435

And drown, in your less execrable yell,

Britannia's shame. There took her gloomy flight,

On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul,

Blasted from hell, with horrid lust of death,

Thy friend, the brave, the gallant Altamont,

440

So call'd, so thought:—and then he fled the field.

Less base the fear of death than fear of life.

O Britain, infamous for suicide!

An island in thy manners! far disjoin'd

From the whole world of rationals beside!

445

In ambient waves plunge thy polluted head,

Wash the dire stain, nor shock the Continent.

But thou be shock'd, while I detect the cause

Of Self-Assault, expose the monster's birth,

And bid Abhorrence hiss it round the world.

450

Blame not thy clime, nor chide the distant sun;

The sun is innocent, thy clime absolved:

Immoral climes kind Nature never made.

The cause I sing in Eden might prevail,

And proves it is thy folly, not thy fate.

455

The soul of man, (let man in homage bow,

Who names his soul,) a native of the skies,

High-born and free, her freedom should maintain,

Unsold, unmortgaged for Earth's little bribes.

The' illustrious stranger, in this foreign land,—

460

Like strangers, jealous of her dignity,

Studious of home, and ardent to return,—

Of Earth suspicious, Earth's enchanted cup

With cool reserve light touching, should indulge

On Immortality her godlike taste;

465

There take large draughts; make her chief banquet there.

But some reject this sustenance Divine;

To beggarly vile appetites descend;

Ask alms of Earth for guests that came from heaven;

Sink into slaves; and sell, for present hire,

470

Their rich reversion, and (what shares its fate)

Their native freedom, to the prince who sways

This nether world; and, when his payments fail,

When his foul basket gorges them no more,

Or their pall'd palates loathe the basket full,

475

Are instantly, with wild demoniac rage,

For breaking all the chains of Providence,

And bursting their confinement; though fast barr'd

By laws Divine and human; guarded strong

With horrors doubled to defend the pass

480

The blackest Nature or dire Guilt can raise;

And moated round with fathomless destruction,

Sure to receive and whelm them in their fall.

Such, Britons! is the cause, to you unknown,

Or worse, o'erlook'd; o'erlook'd by magistrates,

485

Thus criminals themselves. I grant the deed

Is madness; but the madness of the heart.

And what is that? Our utmost bound of guilt.

A sensual, unreflecting life is big

With monstrous births, and Suicide, to crown

490

The black infernal brood. The bold to break

Heaven's law supreme, and desperately rush

Through sacred Nature's murder on their own,

Because they never think of death, they die.

'T is equally man's duty, glory, gain,

495

At once to shun and meditate his end.

When by the bed of languishment we sit,

(The seat of wisdom! if our choice, not fate,)

Or o'er our dying friends in anguish hang,

Wipe the cold dew, or stay the sinking head,

500

Number their moments, and in every clock

Start at the voice of an eternity;

See the dim lamp of life just feebly lift

An agonizing beam, at us to gaze,

Then sink again, and quiver into death,

505

That most pathetic herald of our own:—

How read we such sad scenes? as sent to man

In perfect vengeance? No; in pity sent,

To melt him down, like wax, and then impress,

Indelible, Death's image on his heart;

510

Bleeding for others, trembling for himself.

We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile:

The mind turns fool before the cheek is dry.

Our quick-returning folly cancels all;

As the tide rushing rases what is writ

515

In yielding sands, and smooths the letter'd shore.

Lorenzo! hast thou ever weigh'd a sigh,

Or studied the philosophy of tears?

(A science yet unlectured in our schools:)

Hast thou descended deep into the breast,

520

And seen their source? If not, descend with me,

And trace these briny rivulets to their springs.

Our funeral tears from different causes rise.

As if from separate cisterns in the soul,

Of various kinds, they flow. From tender hearts,

525

By soft contagion call'd, some burst at once,

And stream obsequious to the leading eye.

Some ask more time, by curious art distill'd.

Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to melt,

Struck by the magic of the public eye,

530

Like Moses' smitten rock, gush out amain.

Some weep to share the fame of the deceased,

So high in merit, and to them so dear.

They dwell on praises which they think they share;

And thus, without a blush, commend themselves.

535

Some mourn in proof that something they could love;

They weep, not to relieve their grief, but show.

Some weep in perfect justice to the dead,

As conscious all their love is in arrear.

Some mischievously weep, not unapprized

540

Tears sometimes aid the conquest of an eye.

With what address the soft Ephesians draw

Their sable net-work o'er entangled hearts!

As seen through crystal, how their roses glow,

While liquid pearl runs trickling down their cheek!

545

Of hers not prouder Egypt's wanton queen,

Carousing gems, herself dissolved in love.

Some weep at Death, abstracted from the dead,

And celebrate, like Charles, their own decease.

By kind construction some are deem'd to weep,

550

Because a decent veil conceals their joy.

Some weep in earnest, and yet weep in vain;

As deep in indiscretion as in woe.

Passion, blind Passion, impotently pours

Tears that deserve more tears, while Reason sleeps,

555

Or gazes, like an idiot, unconcern'd,

Nor comprehends the meaning of the storm;

Knows not it speaks to her, and her alone.

Irrationals all sorrow are beneath,

That noble gift, that privilege of man!

560

From Sorrow's pang, the birth of endless joy.

But these are barren of that birth Divine:

They weep impetuous as the summer storm,

And full as short! The cruel grief soon tamed,

They make a pastime of the stingless tale;

565

Far as the deep-resounding knell, they spread

The dreadful news, and hardly feel it more:

No grain of wisdom pays them for their woe.

Half round the globe, the tears pump'd up by Death

Are spent in watering vanities of life;

570

In making Folly flourish still more fair.

When the sick soul, her wonted stay withdrawn,

Reclines on earth, and sorrows in the dust,

Instead of learning there her true support,

Though there thrown down her true support to learn,

575

Without Heaven's aid impatient to be bless'd,

She crawls to the next shrub or bramble vile,

Though from the stately cedar's arms she fell;

With stale, forsworn embraces clings anew,

The stranger weds, and blossoms, as before,

580

In all the fruitless fopperies of life;

Presents her weed, well fancied, at the ball,

And raffles for the death's-head on the ring.

So wept Aurelia, till the destined youth

Stepp'd in with his receipt for making smiles,

585

And blanching sables into bridal bloom.

So wept Lorenzo fair Clarissa's fate,

Who gave that angel boy on whom he dotes;

And died to give him, orphan'd in his birth!

Not such, Narcissa, my distress for thee;

590

I'll make an altar of thy sacred tomb,

To sacrifice to Wisdom. What wast thou?

“Young, gay, and fortunate!” Each yields a theme:

I'll dwell on each, to shun thought more severe;

(Heaven knows I labour with severer still!)

595

I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy death.

A soul without reflection, like a pile

Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

And, first, thy youth: what says it to grey hairs?

Narcissa, I'm become thy pupil now.—

600

Early, bright, transient, chaste, as morning dew,

She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

Time on this head has snow'd, yet still 't is borne

Aloft, nor thinks but on another's grave.

Cover'd with shame I speak it, Age severe

605

Old worn-out Vice sets down for Virtue fair;

With graceless gravity chastising Youth,

That Youth chastised surpassing in a fault,

Father of all, forgetfulness of Death!

As if, like objects pressing on the sight,

610

Death had advanced too near us to be seen;

Or, that life's loan Time ripen'd into right,

And men might plead prescription from the grave;

Deathless, from repetition of reprieve.

Deathless? far from it! such are dead already;

615

Their hearts are buried; and the world their grave.

Tell me, some god! my guardian angel, tell,

What thus infatuates? what enchantment plants

The phantom of an age 'twixt us and Death

Already at the door? He knocks; we hear him,

620

And yet we will not hear. What mail defends

Our untouch'd hearts? What miracle turns off

The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers

Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd?

We stand, as in a battle, throngs on throngs

625

Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;

Though bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!

We see Time's furrows on another's brow,

And Death, intrench'd, preparing his assault:

How few themselves in that just mirror see!

630

Or, seeing, draw their inference as strong!

There Death is certain; doubtful here: he must,

And soon—we may, within an age—expire.

Though grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are green;

Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent;

635

Folly sings six, while Nature points at twelve.

Absurd longevity! “More, more,” it cries:

More life, more wealth, more trash of every kind.

And wherefore mad for more, when relish fails?

Object and Appetite must club for joy.

640

Shall Folly labour hard to mend the bow,

(Baubles I mean, that strike us from without,)

While Nature is relaxing every string?

Ask Thought for joy; grow rich, and hoard within.

Think you the soul, when this life's rattles cease,

645

Has nothing of more manly to succeed?

Contract the taste immortal; learn e'en now

To relish what alone subsists hereafter.

Divine or none, henceforth, your joys for ever.

Of age the glory is, to wish to die;

650

That wish is praise and promise; it applauds

Past life, and promises our future bliss.

What weakness see not children in their sires?

Grand-climacterical absurdities!

Grey-hair'd authority to faults of youth,

655

How shocking! it makes Folly thrice a fool;

And our first childhood might our last despise.

Peace and esteem is all that age can hope.

Nothing but wisdom gives the first; the last,

Nothing but the repute of being wise.

660

Folly bars both: our age is quite undone.

What folly can be ranker? Like our shadows,

Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

No wish should loiter, then, this side the grave.

Our hearts should leave the world before the knell

665

Calls for our carcasses to mend the soil.

Enough to live in tempest, die in port.

Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat

Defects of judgment, and the will's subdue;

Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore

670

Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon,

And put good works on board, and wait the wind

That shortly blows us into worlds unknown;

If unconsider'd too, a dreadful scene!

All should be prophets to themselves; foresee

675

Their future fate; their future fate foretaste:

This art would waste the bitterness of death.

The thought of death alone the fear destroys.

A disaffection to that precious thought

Is more than midnight darkness on the soul,

680

Which sleeps beneath it, on a precipice,

Puff d off by the first blast, and lost for ever.

Dost ask, Lorenzo, why so warmly press'd,

By repetition hammer'd on thine ear,

The thought of Death? That thought is the machine,

685

The grand machine that heaves us from the dust,

And rears us into men! That thought plied home

Will soon reduce the ghastly precipice

O'erhanging hell, will soften the descent,

And gently slope our passage to the grave.

690

How warmly to be wish'd! What heart of flesh

Would trifle with tremendous, dare extremes,

Yawn o'er the fate of infinite? What hand,

Beyond the blackest brand of censure bold,

(To speak a language too well known to thee,)

695

Would at a moment give its all to chance,

And stamp the die for an eternity?

Aid me, Narcissa! aid me to keep pace

With Destiny; and ere her scissors cut

My thread of life, to break this tougher thread

700

Of moral death, that ties me to the world.

Sting thou my slumbering Reason to send forth

A thought of observation on the foe;

To sally, and survey the rapid march

Of his ten thousand messengers to man;

705

Who, Jehu-like, behind him turns them all.

All accident apart, by Nature sign'd,

My warrant is gone out, though dormant yet;

Perhaps behind one moment lurks my fate.

Must I then forward only look for Death?

710

Backward I turn mine eye, and find him there.

Man is a self-survivor every year.

Man, like a stream, is in perpetual flow.

Death's a destroyer of quotidian prey.

My youth, my noon-tide, his; my yesterday;

715

The bold invader shares the present hour.

Each moment on the former shuts the grave.

While man is growing, life is in decrease,

And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun;

720

As tapers waste that instant they take fire.

Shall we then fear lest that should come to pass,

Which comes to pass each moment of our lives?

If fear we must, let that death turn us pale

Which murders strength and ardour; what remains

725

Should rather call on Death, than dread his call.

Ye partners of my fault and my decline!

Thoughtless of death, but when your neighbour's knell

(Rude visitant!) knocks hard at your dull sense,

And with its thunder scarce obtains your ear!

730

Be death your theme in every place and hour;

Nor longer want, ye monumental sires,

A brother-tomb to tell you, you shall die.

That death you dread, (so great is Nature's skill!)

Know, you shall court, before you shall enjoy.

735

But you are learn'd; in volumes deep you sit,

In wisdom shallow. Pompous ignorance!

Would you be still more learned than the learn'd?

Learn well to know how much need not be known,

And what that knowledge which impairs your sense.

740

Our needful knowledge, like our needful food,

Unhedged, lies open in life's common field,

And bids all welcome to the vital feast.

You scorn what lies before you in the page

Of Nature and Experience,—moral truth,

745

Of indispensable, eternal fruit;

Fruit on which mortals, feeding, turn to gods,—

And dive in science for distinguish'd names,

Dishonest fomentation of your pride,

Sinking in virtue as you rise in fame.

750

Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords

Light, but not heat; it leaves you undevout,

Frozen at heart, while speculation shines.

Awake, ye curious indagators, fond

Of knowing all, but what avails you known.

755

If you would learn Death's character, attend.

All casts of conduct, all degrees of health,

All dies of fortune, and all dates of age,

Together shook in his impartial urn,

Come forth at random; or, if choice is made,

760

The choice is quite sarcastic, and insults

All bold conjecture and fond hopes of man.

What countless multitudes not only leave

But deeply disappoint us by their deaths!

Though great our sorrow, greater our surprise.

765

Like other tyrants, Death delights to smite

What, smitten, most proclaims the pride of power

And arbitrary nod. His joy supreme,

To bid the wretch survive the fortunate;

The feeble wrap the' athletic in his shroud;

770

And weeping fathers build their children's tomb:

Me thine, Narcissa!—What, though short thy date?

Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures.

That life is long which answers life's great end.

The time that bears no fruit deserves no name.

775

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

In hoary youth Methuselahs may die;

O how misdated on their flattering tombs!

Narcissa's youth has lectured me thus far.

And can her gaiety give counsel too?

780

That, like the Jews' famed oracle of gems,

Sparkles instruction; such as throws new light,

And opens more the character of Death,

Ill known to thee, Lorenzo! This thy vaunt:

“Give death his due,—the wretched and the old;

785

E'en let him sweep his rubbish to the grave:

Let him not violate kind Nature's laws,

But own man born to live, as well as die”

Wretched and old thou givest him: young and gay

He takes; and plunder is a tyrant's joy.

790

What if I prove, “The farthest from the fear

Are often nearest to the stroke of Fate?”

All more than common, menaces an end.

A blaze betokens brevity of life:

As if bright embers should emit a flame,

795

Glad spirits sparkled from Narcissa's eye,

And made youth younger, and taught life to live.

As Nature's opposites wage endless war,

For this offence, as treason to the deep

Inviolable stupor of his reign,

800

Where Lust and turbulent Ambition sleep,

Death took swift vengeance. As he life detests,

More life is still more odious; and, reduced

By conquest, aggrandizes more his power.

But wherefore aggrandized? By Heaven's decree,

805

To plant the soul on her eternal guard,

In awful expectation of our end.

Thus runs Death's dread commission: “Strike, but so

As most alarms the living by the dead.”

Hence stratagem delights him, and surprise,

810

And cruel sport with man's securities.

Not simple conquest, triumph is his aim;

And where least fear'd, there conquest triumphs most.

This proves my bold assertion not too bold.

What are his arts to lay our fears asleep?

815

Tiberian arts his purposes wrap up

In deep dissimulation's darkest night.

Like princes unconfess'd in foreign courts,

Who travel under cover, Death assumes

The name and look of Life, and dwells among us;

820

He takes all shapes that serve his black designs;

Though master of a wider empire far

Than that o'er which the Roman eagle flew,

Like Nero, he's a fiddler, charioteer;

Or drives his phaeton in female guise;

825

Quite unsuspected, till, the wheel beneath,

His disarray'd oblation he devours.

He most affects the forms least like himself,

His slender self: hence burly corpulence

Is his familiar wear, and sleek disguise.

830

Behind the rosy bloom he loves to lurk,

Or ambush in a smile; or, wanton, dive

In dimples deep: Love's eddies, which draw-in

Unwary hearts, and sink them in despair.

Such on Narcissa's couch he loiter'd long

835

Unknown, and, when detected, still was seen

To smile: such peace has Innocence in death!

Most happy they whom least his arts deceive!

One eye on Death, and one full fix'd on Heaven,

Becomes a mortal and immortal man.

840

Long on his wiles a piqued and jealous spy,

I've seen, or dreamt I saw, the tyrant dress,

Lay by his horrors, and put on his smiles.

Say, Muse, for thou remember'st, call it back;

And show Lorenzo the surprising scene:

845

If 'twas a dream, his genius can explain.

'T was in a circle of the gay I stood:

Death would have enter'd; Nature push'd him back;

Supported by a Doctor of renown,

His point he gain'd; then artfully dismiss'd

850

The sage, for Death design'd to be conceal'd.

He gave an old vivacious usurer

His meagre aspect, and his naked bones;

In gratitude for plumping up his prey,

A pamper'd spendthrift, whose fantastic air,

855

Well-fashion'd figure, and cockaded brow,

He took in change, and underneath the pride

Of costly linen tuck'd his filthy shroud.

His crooked bow he straighten'd to a cane,

And hid his deadly shafts in Myra's eye.

860

The dreadful masquerader, thus equipp'd,

Out-sallies on adventures. Ask you where?

Where is he not? For his peculiar haunts

Let this suffice:—Sure as night follows day,

Death treads in Pleasure's footsteps round the world,

865

When Pleasure treads the paths which Reason shuns.

When against Reason Riot shuts the door,

And Gaiety supplies the place of Sense,

Then foremost, at the banquet and the ball,

Death leads the dance, or stamps the deadly die:

870

Nor ever fails the midnight bowl to crown.

Gaily carousing to his gay compeers,

Inly he laughs to see them laugh at him,

As absent far; and when the revel burns,

When Fear is banish'd, and triumphant Thought,

875

Calling for all the joys beneath the moon,

Against him turns the key, and bids him sup

With their progenitors,—he drops his mask,

Frowns out at full; they start, despair, expire.

Scarce with more sudden terror and surprise

880

From his black mask of nitre, touch'd by fire,

He bursts, expands, roars, blazes, and devours.

And is not this triumphant treachery,

And more than simple conquest, in the fiend?

And now, Lorenzo, dost thou wrap thy soul

885

In soft security, because unknown

Which moment is commission'd to destroy?

In Death's uncertainty thy danger lies.

Is Death uncertain? Therefore thou be fix'd,

Fix'd as a sentinel, all eye, all ear,

890

All expectation of the coming foe.

Rouse, stand in arms, nor lean against thy spear,

Lest slumber steal one moment o'er thy soul,

And Fate surprise thee nodding. Watch, be strong:

Thus give each day the merit and renown

895

Of dying well, though doom'd but once to die.

Nor let life's period hidden (as from most)

Hide, too, from thee the precious use of life.

Early, not sudden, was Narcissa's fate:

Soon, not surprising, Death his visit paid:

900

Her Thought went forth to meet him on his way,

Nor Gaiety forgot it was to die;

Though Fortune, too, (our third and final theme,)

As an accomplice, play'd her gaudy plumes,

And every glittering gewgaw, on her sight,

905

To dazzle and debauch it from its mark.

Death's dreadful advent is the mark of man,

And every thought that misses it is blind.

Fortune, with Youth and Gaiety, conspired

To weave a triple wreath of happiness

910

(If happiness on earth) to crown her brow.

And could Death charge through such a shining shield?

That shining shield invites the tyrant's spear,

As if to damp our elevated aims,

And strongly preach humility to man.

915

O how portentous is prosperity!

How, comet-like, it threatens while it shines!

Few years but yield us proof of Death's ambition,

To cull his victims from the fairest fold,

And sheathe his shafts in all the pride of life.

920

When flooded with abundance, purpled o'er

With recent honours, bloom'd with every bliss,

Set up in ostentation, made the gaze,

The gaudy centre, of the public eye;

When Fortune thus has toss'd her child in air,

925

Snatch'd from the covert of an humble state,

How often have I seen him dropp'd at once,

Our morning's envy, and our evening's sigh!

As if her bounties were the signal given,

The flowery wreath, to mark the sacrifice,

930

And call Death's arrows on the destined prey!

High Fortune seems in cruel league with Fate.

Ask you for what? To give his war on man

The deeper dread, and more illustrious spoil;

Thus to keep daring mortals more in awe.

935

And burns Lorenzo still for the sublime

Of life? to hang his airy nest on high,

On the slight timber of the topmost bough,

Rock'd at each breeze, and menacing a fall?

Granting grim Death at equal distance there,

940

Yet peace begins just where ambition ends.

What makes man wretched? happiness denied?

Lorenzo! no: 't is Happiness disdain'd.

She comes too meanly dress'd to win our smile,

And calls herself Content, a homely name:

945

Our flame is Transport, and Content our scorn.

Ambition turns, and shuts the door against her,

And weds a Toil, a Tempest, in her stead;

A Tempest, to warm Transport near of kin.

Unknowing what our mortal state admits

950

Life's modest joys we ruin while we raise,

And all our ecstasies are wounds to peace;

Peace, the full portion of mankind below.

And since thy peace is dear, ambitious youth!

Of Fortune fond, as thoughtless of thy fate!

955

As late I drew Death's picture, to stir up

Thy wholesome fears; now, drawn in contrast, see

Gay Fortune's, thy vain hopes to reprimand.

See, high in air the sportive goddess hangs,

Unlocks her casket, spreads her glittering ware,

960

And calls the giddy winds to puff abroad

Her random bounties o'er the gaping throng.

All rush rapacious,—friends o'er trodden friends,

Sons o'er their fathers, subjects o'er their kings,

Priests o'er their gods, and lovers o'er the fair,

965

(Still more adored,)—to snatch the golden shower.

Gold glitters most where Virtue shines no more,

As stars from absent suns have leave to shine.

O what a precious pack of votaries,

Unkennell'd from the prisons and the stews,

970

Pour in, all opening in their Idol's praise!

All, ardent, eye each wafture of her hand,

And, wide-expanding their voracious jaws

Morsel on morsel swallow down unchew'd,

Untasted, through mad appetite for more;

975

Gorged to the throat, yet lean and ravenous still;

Sagacious all to trace the smallest game,

And bold to seize the greatest. If (blest chance!)

Court-zephyrs sweetly breathe, they launch, they fly

O'er just, o'er sacred, all forbidden ground,

980

Drunk with the burning scent of place or power,

Staunch to the foot of Lucre, till they die.

Or, if for men you take them, as I mark

Their manners, thou their various fates survey.

With aim mismeasured and impetuous speed,

985

Some, darting, strike their ardent wish far off,

Through fury to possess it: some succeed,

But stumble, and let fall the taken prize.

From some, by sudden blasts, 't is whirl'd away,

And lodged in bosoms that ne'er dream'd of gain.

990

To some it sticks so close, that, when torn off,

Torn is the man, and mortal is the wound.

Some, o'er-enamour'd of their bags, run mad,

Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.

Together some (unhappy rivals!) seize,

995

And rend abundance into poverty.

Loud croaks the raven of the law, and smiles:

Smiles too the goddess; but smiles most at those

(fust victims of exorbitant desire!)

Who perish at their own request, and, whelm'd

1000

Beneath her load of lavish grants, expire.

Fortune is famous for her numbers skin:

The number small which happiness can bear.

Though various for a while their fates, at last

One curse involves them all: at Death's approach,

1005

All read their riches backward into loss,

And mourn in just proportion to their store.

And Death's approach (if orthodox my song)

Is hasten'd by the lure of Fortune's smiles.

And art thou still a glutton of bright gold?

1010

And art thou still rapacious of thy ruin?

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow;

A blow which, while it executes, alarms,

And startles thousands with a single fall.

As when some stately growth of oak, or pine,

1015

Which nods aloft, and proudly spreads her shade,

The sun's defiance and the flock's defence,

By the strong strokes of labouring hinds subdued,

Loud groans her last, and, rushing from her height,

In cumbrous ruin thunders to the ground;

1020

The conscious forest trembles at the shock,

And hill, and stream, and distant dale resound.

These high-aim'd darts of Death, and these alone,

Should I collect, my quiver would be full;

A quiver which, suspended in mid air,

1025

Or near Heaven's Archer, in the zodiac, hung,

(So could it be,) should draw the public eye,

The gaze and contemplation of mankind;

A constellation awful, yet benign,

To guide the gay through life's tempestuous wave;

1030

Nor suffer them to strike the common rock,—

“From greater danger to grow more secure,

And, wrapp'd in happiness, forget their fate.”

Lysander, happy past the common lot,

Was warn'd of danger, but too gay to fear.

1035

He woo'd the fair Aspasia; she was kind:

In youth, form, fortune, fame, they both were bless'd:

All who knew envied, yet in envy loved:

Can Fancy form more finish'd happiness?

Fix'd was the nuptial hour. Her stately dome

1040

Rose on the sounding beach. The glittering spires

Float in the wave, and break against the shore:

So break those glittering shadows, human joys!

The faithless morning smiled; he takes his leave,

To re-embrace, in ecstasies, at eve.

1045

The rising storm forbids. The news arrives;

Untold she saw it in her servant's eye.

She felt it seen; (her heart was apt to feel;)

And, drown'd without the furious ocean's aid,

In suffocating sorrows, shares his tomb.

1050

Now round the sumptuous bridal monument

The guilty billows innocently roar;

And the rough sailor, passing, drops a tear.

A tear!—can tears suffice?—but not for me.

How vain our efforts! and our arts how vain!

1055

The distant train of thought I took, to shun,

Has thrown me on, my fate.—These died together;

Happy in ruin! undivorced by death!

Or ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.—

Narcissa! Pity bleeds at thought of thee;

1060

Yet thou wast only near me; not myself.

Survive myself?—That cures all other woe.

Narcissa lives; Philander is forgot.

O the soft commerce! O the tender ties,

Close twisted with the fibres of the heart!

1065

Which, broken, break them, and drain off the soul

Of human joy, and make it pain to live.—

And is it then to live? When such friends part,

Tis the survivor dies.—My heart! no more.