The Relapse.
81
Not to the Limits of one World confin'd;
But from Ethereal Travels light on Earth,
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
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;
'Tis the kind Hand of Providence stretcht out
'Twixt Man and Vanity; 'tis Reason's Reign,
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,
Her tender Nature suffers in the Croud,
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 resolv'd,
Is shaken; we renounc'd, 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,
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.
Ambition fires Ambition; Love of Gain
Strikes, like a Pestilence, from Breast to Breast;
Riot, Pride, Perfidy, blue Vapours breathe;
But from Ethereal Travels light on Earth,
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
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;
'Tis the kind Hand of Providence stretcht out
'Twixt Man and Vanity; 'tis Reason's Reign,
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,
Her tender Nature suffers in the Croud,
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 resolv'd,
Is shaken; we renounc'd, 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,
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.
Ambition fires Ambition; Love of Gain
Strikes, like a Pestilence, from Breast to Breast;
Riot, Pride, Perfidy, blue Vapours breathe;
And
