History of the Royal Society/Chapter 3
Of all that Human Knowledge which has bin
Unforfeited by Man's rebellious Sin,
Though full of years He do appear,
(Philosophy, I say, and call it, He,
For whatsoe're the Painter's Fancy be,
It a male Virtu seems to me)
Has still bin kept in Non-age till of late,
Nor manag'd or enjoy'd his vast Estate:
Three or four thousand Years one would have thought,
To ripeness and perfection might have brought
A Science so well bred and nurst,
And of such hopeful parts too at the first.
But, oh, the Guardians and the Tutors then,
(Some negligent, and some ambitious Men)
Would ne'er consent to set him free,
Or his own natural Powers to let him see,
Left that should put an end to their Authoritie.
They amus'd him with the Sports of wanton Wit,
With the Deserts of Poetry they fed him,
Instead of solid meats t'encrease his Force;
Instead of vigorous Exercise, they led him
Into the pleasant Labyrinths of ever-fresh Discourse:
Instead of carrying him to see
The Riches which do hoarded for him lye
In Nature's endless Treasury,
They chose his Eye to entertain
(His curious but not covetous Eye)
With painted Scenes, and Pageants of the Brain.
Some few exalted Spirits this latter Age has shown,
That labour'd to assert the Liberty
(From Guardians, who were now Usurpers grown)
Of this Old Minor still, captiv'd Philosophy;
But 'twas Rebellion call'd to fight
For such a long-oppressed Right.
Bacon at last, a mighty Man, arose,
Whom a wise King and Nature chose
Lord Chancellor of both their Laws,
And boldly undertook the injur'd Pupils Cause.
Though 'twas but Air condens'd, and stalk'd about,
Like some old Giant's more Gigantic Ghost,
To terrify the learned Rout
With the plain Magic of true Reason's Light,
He chac'd out of our Sight,
Nor suffer'd Living Men to be misled
By the vain shadows of the Dead:
To Graves, from whence it rose, the conquer'd Phantome fled;
He broke that monstrous God which stood
In midst of th' Orchard, and the whole did claim,
Which with a useless Scythe of Wood,
And something else not worth a Name,
(Both vast for shew, yet neither fit
Or to Defend, or to beget;
Ridiculous and senseless Terrors!) made
Children and superstitious Men afraid.
The Orchards open now, and free;
Bacon has broke that Scare-crow Deity;
Come, enter, all that will,
Behold the ripened Fruit, come gather now your Fill.
Yet still, methinks, we fain would be
Catching at the forbidden Tree,
We would be like the Deity.
When Truth and Falshood, Good and Evil, we
Without the Senses Aid within ourselves would see;
For 'tis God only who can find
All Nature in his Mind.
(Though we our Thoughts from them perversly drew)
To Things, the Mind's right Object, he it brought:
Like foolish Birds to painted Grapes we flew;
He sought and gather'd for our Use the true;
And when on Heaps the chosen Bunches lay,
He press'd them wisely the mechanic Way,
Till all their Juice did in one Vessel join,
Ferment into a Nourishment Divine,
The thirsty Soul's refreshing Wine.
Who to the Life an exact Piece would make,
Must not from others Work a Copy take;
No, not from Rubens or Vandike;
Much less content himself to make it like
Th' Ideas and the Images which lye
In his own Fancy, or his Memory:
No, he before his Sight must place,
The natural and living Face;
The real Object must command,
Each Judgment of his Eye, and Motion of his Hand.
In which our wandring Predecessors went,
And like th' old Hebrews many Tears did stray,
In Desarts but of small Extent,
Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last,
The barren Wilderness he past,
Did on the very Border stand
Of the blest promis'd Land,
And from the Mountain's Top of his exalted Wit,
Saw it himself, and shew'd us it.
But Life did never to one Man allow
Time to discover Words, and Conquer too;
Nor can so short a Line sufficient be
To fathom the vast Depth of Nature's Sea:
The work he did we ought t' admire,
And were unjust if we should more require
From his few Years, divided 'twixt th' Excess
Of low Affliction and high Happiness:
For who on Things remote can fix his Sight,
That's always in a Triumph, or a Fight?
These spacious Countries but discover'd yet;
Countries where yet instead of Nature, we
Her Images and Idols worship'd see:
These large and wealthy Regions to subdue,
Though Learning has whole Armies at Command,
Quarter'd about in every Land,
A better Troop she ne'er together drew.
Methinks, like Gideon's little Band,
God with Design has pick'd out you,
To do these noble Wonders by a few:
When the whole Host he saw, they are (said he)
Too many to o'ercome for me;
And now he chuses out his Men,
Much in the way that he did then:
Not those many whom he found
Idly extended on the Ground,
To drink with their dejected Head
The Stream just so as by their Mouths it fled:
No, but those few who took the Waters up,
And made of their laborious Hands the Cup.
Their wondrous Pattern too you take:
Their old and empty Pitchers first they brake,
And with their Hands then lifted up the Light.
Iö! Sound too the Trumpets here!
Already your victorious Lights appear;
New Scenes of Heaven already we espy,
And Crowds of golden Worlds on high;
Which from the spacious Plains of Earth and Sea,
Could never yet discover'd be
By Sailors or Chaldæans watchful Eye.
Nature's great Works no Distance can obscure,
No smalness her near Objects can secure.
You've taught the curious Sight to press
Into the privatest Recess
Of her imperceptible Littleness.
She with much stranger Art than his who put
All th' Iliads in a Nut,
The numerous Work of Life does into Atoms shut.
You've learn'd to read her smallest Hand,
And well begun her deepest Sense to understand.
Who would to Laughter or to Scorn expose
So virtuous and so noble a Design,
So Human for its Use, for Knowledge so Divine.
The Things which these proud Men despise, and call
Impertinent, and vain, and small,
Those smallest Things of Nature let me know,
Rather than all their greatest Actions do.
Whoever would deposed Truth advance
Into the Throne usurp'd from it,
Must feel at first the Blows of Ignorance,
And the sharp Points of envious Wit,
So when by various turns of the Celestial Dance,
In many thousand Years
A Star, so long unknown, appears,
Though Heaven it self more beauteous by it grow,
It troubles and alarms the World below,
Does to the Wife a Star to Fools a Meteor show.
Your Cradle has not idle been:
None e'er but Hercules and you could be
At five Years Age worthy a History.
And ne'er did Fortune better yet
Th' Historian to the Story fit:
As you from all old Errors free
And purge the Body of Philosophy;
So from all modern Follies He
Has vindicated Eloquence and Wit.
His candid Style like a clean Stream does slide,
And his bright Fancy all the way
Does like the Sun-shine in it play;
It does like Thames, the best of Rivers, glide,
Where the God does not rudely overturn,
But gently pour the crystal Urn,
And with judicious Hand does the whole Current guide.
H' has all the Beauties Nature can impart,
And all the comely Dress without the Paint of Art.