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 deserv'd, who sought no more. As just thy Second Charge. I grant the Muse Has often blusht at her degen'rate Sons, Retain'd by Sense to plead her filthy Cause; To raise the Low, to magnify the Mean, And subtilize the Gross into Refin'd: As if to magic Numbers pow'rful Charm 'Twas giv'n, 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. 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 diff'rent Ways, and clash in their Commands. Pride, like an Eagle, builds among the Stars; But Pleasure, Lark-like, nests upon the Ground. Joys shar'd 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? Wit dares attempt this arduous Enterprize. Since Joys of Sense can't rise to Reason's Taste; In subtle Sophistry's laborious Forge, Wit hammers out a Reason now, that stoops To sordid Scenes, and meets them with Applause. 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, And the fool'd Mind of Man 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, By Wit's Address, patch up a fatal Peace, And Hand in Hand lead on the rank Debauch, From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay. Art, cursed Art! wipes off the indebted Blush From Nature's Check, and bronzes ev'ry Shame, 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 Flow'rs of Eloquence, profusely pour'd O'er spotted Vice, fill half the letter'd World. Can Pow'rs of Genius exorcise their Page, And consecrate Enormities with Song ? But let not these inexpiable Strains Condemn the Muse that knows her Dignity; Nor meanly stops at Time, but holds the World As 'tis, 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, 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 Syrens only? Do not Angels sing? There is in Poesy a decent Pride, Which well becomes her when the 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 disgrac'd, No Fairy Field of Fiction, all on Flow'r, No Rainbow Colours, here, or silken Tale: But solemn Counsels, Images of Awe, Truths, which Eternity lets fall on Man With double Weight, thro' these revolving Spheres, 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 dipt, embrowns the Whole. Yet this, ev'n 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 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 Litchfield! nor mistake; Think not un-introduc'd I force my Way; Narcissa, not unknown, not unally'd, By Virtue, or by Blood, illustrious Youth! To thee, from blooming Amaranthine Bow'rs, Where all the Language Harmony, descends Uncall'd, and asks Admittance for the Muse: A Muse that will not pain thee with thy Praise; Thy Praise she drops, by nobler still inspir'd. O Thou! Blest Spirit! whether the Supreme, Great antemundane Father! in whose Breast Embryo Creation, unborn Being, dwelt, And all its various Revolutions roll'd Present, tho' future; prior to themselves; Whose Breath can blow it into Nought again; Or, from his Throne some delegated Pow'r, Who, studious of our Peace, dost turn the Thought 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 fam'd Castalia: Nor is yet allay'd My sacred Thirst; tho' long my Soul has rang'd Thro' 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 illumin'd Hours. 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 Impos'd, precarious, broken, ere mature. By Night from Objects free, from Passion cool, Thoughts uncontroul'd, and unimpress'd, the Births Of pure Election, arbitrary range, Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/91Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/92Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/93Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/94Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/95Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/96Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/97Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/98Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/99Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/100Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/101Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/102Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/103Tho' from the stately Cedar's Arms she fell; With stale, forewarn Embraces, clings anew, The Stranger weds, and blossoms, as before, In all the fruitless Fopperies of Life: Presents her Weed, well-fansy'd, at the Ball, And raffles for the Death's-Head on the Ring. So wept Aurelia, till the destin'd Youth Stept in, with his Receipt for making Smiles, And blanching Sables into bridal Bloom. So wept Lorenzo fair Clarissa's Fate; Who gave that Angel Boy, on whom he doats; And dy'd to give him, orphan'd in his Birth! Not such, Narcissa, my Distress for Thee. 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; (Heav'n knows I labour with feverer still!) 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— Early, Bright, Transient, Chaste, as Morning Dew, She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to Heav'n. Time on this Head has snow'd; yet till 'tis borne Aloft; nor thinks but on another's Grave. Cover'd with Shame I speak it, Age severe Old worn-out Vice sets down for Virtue fair; With graceless Gravity, chastising Youth, That Youth chastis'd surpassing in a Fault, Father of all, Forgetfulness of Death: As if, like Objects pressing on the Sight, Death had advanc'd 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; Their Hearts are bury'd, and the World their Grave. Tell me, some God! my Guardian Angel! tell, What thus infatuates? what Inchantment plants The Phantom of an Age 'twixt us; and Death Already at the Door? He knocks, we hear him, 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 Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves; Tho' 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! Or, seeing, draw their Inference as strong! There Death is certain; doubtful Here: He must, And soon; We may, within an Age, expire. Tho' grey our Heads, our Thoughts and Aims are green; Like damag'd Clocks, whose Hand and Bell dissent; Folly sings Six, while Nature points at Twelve. Absurd Longevity! More, More, it cries: More Life, more Wealth, more Trash of ev'ry Kind. And wherefore mad for more, when Relish fails? Object, and Appetite, must club for Joy; Shall Folly labour hard to mend the Bow, Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without, While Nature is relaxing ev'ry String? Ask Thought for Joy; grow rich, and hoard within. Think you the Soul, when this Life's Rattles cease, Has nothing of more Manly to succeed? Contract the Taste immortal; learn ev'n Now To relish what alone subsists hereafter. Divine, or none, henceforth your Joys for ever. Of Age the Glory is, to wish to die. That With 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, 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. Folly bars both; our Age is quite undone. What Folly can be ranker? Like our Shadows, Our Wishes lengthen, as our Sun declines. No With should loiter, then, this Side the Grave. Our Hearts should leave the World, before the Knell Calls for our Carcases 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 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 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, Which sleeps beneath it, on a Precipice, Puff'd off by the first Blast, and lost for ever. Dost ask, Lorenzo, why so warmly prest, By Repetition hammer'd on thine Ear, The Thought of Death? That Thought is the Machine, The grand Machine! that heaves us from the Dust, And rears us into Men. That Thought ply'd home Will soon reduce the ghastly Precipice O'er hanging Hell, will soften the Descent, And gently slope our Passage to the Grave; How warmly to be wisht! 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) 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 Scissars cut My Thread of Life, to break this tougher Thread Of Moral Death, that ties me to the World, Sting thou my slumb'ring 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; Who, Jehu-like, behind him turns them all. All Accident apart, by Nature sign'd, My Warrant is gone out, tho' dormant yet; Perhaps behind one Moment lurks my Fate. Must I then forward only look for Death? Backward I turn mine Eye, and find him there. Man is a Self-survivor ev'ry Year. Man, like a Stream, is in perpetual Flow. Death's a Destroyer of Quotidian Prey. My Youth, my Noon-tide, His; my Yesterday; 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; 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 Ardor; what remains 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! Be Death your Theme, in ev'ry 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. But you are learn'd; in Volumes, deep you sit; In Wisdom, shallow: Pompous Ignorance! Wou'd you be still more learned, than the Learn'd? Learn well to know how much need not be known, And what that Knowlege, which impairs your Sense. Our needful Knowlege, like our needful Food, Unhedg'd, 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; Of indispensable, eternal Fruit; Fruit, on which Mortals feeding, turn to Gods: And dive in Science for distinguisht Names, Dishonest Fomentation of your Pride; Sinking in Virtue, as you rise in Fame. Your Learning, like the Lunar Beam, affords Light, but not Heat; it leaves you undevout, Frozen at Heart, while Speculation fines. Awake, ye curious Indagators! fond Of knowing All, but what avails you, known. 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, The Choice is quite sarcastic, and insults All bold Conjecture, and foud Hopes of Man. What countless Multitudes, not only leave, But deeply disappoint us, by their Deaths! Tho' great our Sorrow, greater our Surprize. Like other Tyrants, Death delights to smite, What, smitten, most proclaims the Pride of Pow'r, And arbitrary Nod. His Joy supreme, To bid the Wretch survive the Fortunate; The Feeble wrap th'Athletic in his Shroud; And weeping Fathers build their Childrens Tomb: Me Thine, Narcissa! What tho' 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; The Man of Wisdom is the Man of Years. In hoary Youth Methusalems may die; O how misdated on their flatt'ring Tombs! Narcissa's Youth has lectur'd me thus far. And can her Gaiety give Counsel too? That, like the Jews fam'd 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, "Ev'n let him (weep 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 giv'st Him; Young and Gay He takes; and Plunder is a Tyrant's Joy. 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, Glad Spirits sparkled from Narcissa's Eye, And made Youth younger, and taught Life to live. A As Nature's Opposites wage endless War, For this Offence, as Treason to the deep Inviolable Stupor of his Reign, Where Lust, and turbulent Ambition, sleep, Death took swift Vengeance. As he Life detests, More Life is still more odious; and, reduc'da ba By Conquest, aggrandizes more his Pow'r. But wherefore aggrandiz'd? By Heav'n's Decree, To plant the Soul on her eternal Guard, In aweful Expectation of our End. Thus runs Death's dread Commislion: "Strike, but so, "As most alarms the Living by the Dead." Hence Stratagem delights him, and Surprize, 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? Tiberian Arts his Purposes wrap up In deep Dissimulation's darkest Night. Like Princes unconfest in foreign Courts, Who travel under Cover, Death assumes The Name and Look of Life, and dwells among us. He takes all Shapes that serve his black Designs: Tho' Master of a wider Empire far Than that, o'er which the Roman Eagle flew; Like Nero, he's a Fidler, Charioteer, Or drives his Phaeton, in Female Guise; 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. 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 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 Heav'n, Becomes a Mortal, and Immortal Man. Long on his Wiles a piqu'd 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 shew Lorenzo the surprising Scene, If 'twas a Dream, his Genius can explain. 'Twas in a Circle of the Gay I stood. Death would have enter'd; Nature pusht him back; Supported by a Doctor of Renown, His Point he gain'd. Then artfully dismist 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, Well-fashioned Figure, and cockaded Brow, He took in Change, and underneath the Pride Of costly Linen, tuck'd his filthy Shroud. His crooked Bow he straiden'd to a Cane; And hid his deadly Shafts in Myra's Eye. The dreadful Masquerader, thus equipt, 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, When Pleasure treads the Paths, which Reason hans. 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; Nor ever fails the midnight Bowl to crown. Gaily carousing to his gay Compeers, or read Inly he laughs, to see them laugh at him, As absent far: And when the Revel burns, When Fear is banisht, and triumphant Thought, 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 Surprize, From his black Masque of Nitre, touch'd by Fire, He barsts, expands, roars, blazes, and devours. And is not this triumphant Treachery, And more than simple Conquest, in the Fiend? And now, Lorenzo, doit thou wrap thy Soul In soft Security, because unknown Which Moment is commillion'd to destroy In Death's Uncertainty thy Danger lies. Is Death uncertain? Therefore Thou be fixt; Fixt as a Centinel, all Eye, all Ear, All Expectation of the coming Foe. Roufe, fland in Arms, nor lean against thy Spear; Left Slumber fteal one Moment o'er thy Soul, And Fate furprife thee nodding. Watch, be ftrong; Thus give each Day the Merit, and Renown, Of dying well; tho' doom'd but once to die. Nor let Life's Period hidden (as from molt) Hide too from Thee the precious Uſe of Life. Early, not fadden, was NARCISSA's Fate. Soon, not furprifing, Death his Vifit paid. Her Thought went forth to meet him on his Way, Nor Gaiety forgot it was to die. Tho' Fortune too (our third and final Theme), As an Accomplice, play'd her gaudy Plumes, And ev'ry glitt'ring Gewgaw, on her Sight, To dazzle, and debauch it from its Mark. Death's dreadful Advent is the Mark of Man; And ev'ry Thought that miffes it, is blind. Fortune, with Youth and Gaiety, confpir'd To weave a triple Wreath of Happinefs (If Happinefs on Earth) to crown her Brow. And could Death charge thro' fuch a fhining Shield? That shining Shield invites the Tyrant's Spear. As if to damp our elevated Aims, And strongly preach Humility to Man. O how portentous is Profperity! How, Comet-like, it threatens, while it fhines! Few Years but yield us Proof of Death's Ambition, A To cull his Victims from the faireft Fold, And theath his Shafts in all the Pride of Life. When flooded with Abundance, purpled o'er With recent Honours, bloom'd with ev'ry Blife, Set up in Oftentation, made the Gaze, The gaudy Centre, of the public Eye, When Fortune thus has toss'd her Child in Air, Snatcht from the Covert of an humble State, How often have I seen him dropt at once, Our Morning's Envy! and our Ev'ning's Sigh! As if her Bounties were the Signal giv'n, The flow'ry Wreath to mark the Sacrifice, And call Death's Arrows on the destin'd 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. And burns Lorenzo still for the Sublime Of Life? to hang his airy Nest on high, On the slight Timber of the topmost Bough, Rockt at each Breeze, and menacing a Fall? Granting grim Death at equal Distance there; Yet Peace begins just where Ambition ends. What makes Man wretched? Happiness deny'd? Lorenzo! no: 'Tis Happiness disdain'd. She comes too meanly drest to win our Smile; And calls herself Content, a homely Name! 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, 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! As late I drew Death's Picture, to stir up Thy wholsome 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 glitt'ring Ware, 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, (Still more ador'd) to snatch the golden Show'r. 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, Pour in, all op'ning 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, thro' mad Appetite for more; Gorg'd to the Throat, yet lean and rav'nous 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, Drunk with the burning Scent of Place or Pow'r, 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 mis-measur'd, and impetuous Speed, Some darting, strike their ardent Wish far off, Thro' Fury to possess it: Some succeed, But stumble, and let fall the taken Prize, From some, by sudden Blasts, 'tis whirl'd away, And lodg'd in Bosoms that ne'er dream'd of Gain. 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, And rend Abundance into Poverty; Loud croaks the Raven of the Law, and smiles: Smiles too the Goddess; but smiles most at these, (Just Victims of exorbitant Desire!) Who perish at their own Request, and, whelm'd Beneath her Load of lavish Grants, expire. Fortune is famous for her Numbers slain. The Number small, which Happiness can bear. Tho' various for a while their Fates; at last One Curse involves them All: At Death's Approach, 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? 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, Which nods aloft, and proudly spreads her Shade, The Sun's Defiance, and the Flock's Defence; By the strong Strokes of lab'ring Hinds subdu'd, Loud groans her last, and, rushing from her Height, In cumb'rous Ruin, thunders to the Ground: 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, Or near Heav'n's Archer, in the Zodiac, hung, (So could it be) should draw the public Eye, The Gaze and Contemplation of Mankind! A Constellation aweful, yet benign, To guide the Gay thro' Life's tempestuous Wave; Nor suffer them to strike the common Rock, "From greater Danger to grow more secure, "And, wrapt in Happiness, forget their Fate." Lysander, happy past the common Lot, Was warn'd of Danger, but too gay to fear. He woo'd the fair Aspasia: She was kind: In Youth, Form, Fortune, Fame, they both were blest: All who knew, envy'd; yet in Envy lov'd: Can Fancy form more finisht Happiness? Fixt was the Nuptial Hour. Her stately Dome Rose on the sounding Beach. The glitt'ring Spires Float in the Wave, and break against the Shore: So break those glitt'ring Shadows, Human Joys. The faithless Morning smil'd: He takes his Leave, To re-embrace in Ecstasies, at Eve. 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. 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! The distant Train of Thought I took, to shun, Has thrown me on my Fate—These dy'd together; Happy in Ruin! undivorc'd by Death! Or ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is Peace— Narcissa! Pity bleeds at Thought of Thee. 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 Tyes, Close-twisted with the Fibres of the Heart! 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.
