The Relapse.
85
A Pomp untameable of Weeds prevails.
Her Servant's Wealth incumber'd Wisdom mourns.
And what says Genius? "Let the Dull be Wise."
Genius, too hard for Right, can prove it Wrong;
And loves to boast, where blush Men less inspir'd.
It pleads Exemption from the Laws of Sense;
Considers Reason as a Leveller;
And scorns to share a Blessing with the Croud.
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.
When Sorrow wounds the Breast, as Ploughs the Glebe,
And Hearts obdurate feel her soft'ning Shower;
Her Seed Celestial, then, glad Wisdom sows;
Her golden Harvest triumphs in the Soil.
If so, Narcissa! welcome my Relapse;
I'll raise a Tax on my Calamity,
And reap rich Compensation from my Pain.
I'll range the plenteous Intellectual Field;
And gather ev'ry Thought of sov'reign Power
To chase the moral Maladies of Man;
Thoughts, which may bear transplanting to the Skies,
Tho' Natives of this coarse penurious Soil;
Nor wholly wither there, where Seraphs sing,
Refin'd, exalted, not annull'd, in Heav'n.
Reason, the Sun that gives them Birth, the same
In either Clime, tho' more illustrious There.
These choicely cull'd, and elegantly rang'd,
Shall form a Garland for Narcissa's Tomb;
And, peradventure, of no fading Flow'rs.
Say, On what Themes shall puzzled Choice descend?
"Th' Importance of Contemplating the Tomb;
"Why Men decline it; Suicide's foul Birth;
Her Servant's Wealth incumber'd Wisdom mourns.
And what says Genius? "Let the Dull be Wise."
Genius, too hard for Right, can prove it Wrong;
And loves to boast, where blush Men less inspir'd.
It pleads Exemption from the Laws of Sense;
Considers Reason as a Leveller;
And scorns to share a Blessing with the Croud.
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.
When Sorrow wounds the Breast, as Ploughs the Glebe,
And Hearts obdurate feel her soft'ning Shower;
Her Seed Celestial, then, glad Wisdom sows;
Her golden Harvest triumphs in the Soil.
If so, Narcissa! welcome my Relapse;
I'll raise a Tax on my Calamity,
And reap rich Compensation from my Pain.
I'll range the plenteous Intellectual Field;
And gather ev'ry Thought of sov'reign Power
To chase the moral Maladies of Man;
Thoughts, which may bear transplanting to the Skies,
Tho' Natives of this coarse penurious Soil;
Nor wholly wither there, where Seraphs sing,
Refin'd, exalted, not annull'd, in Heav'n.
Reason, the Sun that gives them Birth, the same
In either Clime, tho' more illustrious There.
These choicely cull'd, and elegantly rang'd,
Shall form a Garland for Narcissa's Tomb;
And, peradventure, of no fading Flow'rs.
Say, On what Themes shall puzzled Choice descend?
"Th' Importance of Contemplating the Tomb;
"Why Men decline it; Suicide's foul Birth;
"The
