The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 24

What shall I write? Thalia, tell; Say, long abandon'd muse!

What field of fancy shall I range?

What subject shall I choose?

A choice of moment high inspire, And rescue me from shame, For doting on thy charms so late, By grandeur in my theme.

Beyond the themes, which most admire, Which dazzle, or amaze, Beyond renown'd exploits of war, Bright charms, or empire's blaze,

Are themes, which, in a world of woe Can best appease our pain; And, in an age of gaudy guilt, Gay folly's flood restrain;

Amidst the storms of life support A calm, unshaken mind; And with unfading laurels crown The brow of the resign'd.

O resignation! yet unsung, Untouch'd by former strains; Though claiming every muse's smile, And every poet's pains,

Beneath life's evening, solemn shade, I dedicate my page To thee, thou safest guard of youth!

Thou sole support of age!

All other duties crescents are Of virtue faintly bright, The glorious consummation, thou!

Which fills her orb with light:

How rarely fill'd! the love divine In evils to discern, This the first lesson which we want, The latest, which we learn;

A melancholy truth! for know, Could our proud hearts resign, The distance greatly would decrease 'Twixt human and divine.

But though full n.o.ble is my theme, Full urgent is my call To soften sorrow, and forbid The bursting tear to fall:

The task I dread; dare I to leave Of humble prose the sh.o.r.e, And put to sea? a dangerous sea?

What throngs have sunk before!

How proud the poet's billow swells!

The G.o.d! the G.o.d! his boast: A boast how vain! What wrecks abound!

Dead bards stench every coast.

What then am I? Shall I presume, On such a moulten wing, Above the general wreck to rise, And in my winter, sing;

When nightingales, when sweetest bards Confine their charming song To summer's animating heats, Content to warble young?

Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues; How shameful her request!

My brain in labour for dull rhyme!

Hers teeming with the best!

But you a stranger will excuse, Nor scorn his feeble strain; To you a stranger, but, through fate, No stranger to your pain.

The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends, His old wound bleeds anew; His sorrows are recall'd to life By those he sees in you;

Too well he knows the twisting strings Of ardent hearts combin'd When rent asunder, how they bleed, How hard to be resign'd:

Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed; The pang you feel, he felt; Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids His heart at yours to melt.

But what can heart, or head, suggest?

What sad experience say?

Through truths austere, to peace we work Our rugged, gloomy way:

What are we? whence? for what? and whither?

Who know not, needs must mourn; But thought, bright daughter of the skies!

Can tears to triumph turn.

Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's Impenetrable shield, When, sent by fate, we meet our foes, In sore affliction's field;

It plucks the frightful mask from ills, Forbids pale fear to hide, Beneath that dark disguise, a friend, Which turns affection's tide.

Affection frail! train'd up by sense, From reason's channel strays: And whilst it blindly points at peace, Our peace to pain betrays.

Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream From daily dying flowers, To nourish rich immortal blooms, In amaranthine bowers;

Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down On what once shock'd their sight; And thank the terrors of the past For ages of delight.

All withers here; who most possess Are losers by their gain, Stung by full proof, that, bad at best, Life's idle all is vain:

Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream; Did not its course offend, But murmur cease; life, then, would seem Still vainer, from its end.

How wretched! who, through cruel fate, Have nothing to lament!

With the poor alms this world affords Deplorably content!

Had not the Greek his world mistook, His wish had been most wise; To be content with but one world, Like him, we should despise.

Of earth's revenue would you state A full account and fair?

We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast The total up---- _Despair._

Since vain all here, all future, vast, Embrace the lot a.s.sign'd; Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends; Its stroke severe, most kind.

But in laps'd nature rooted deep, Blind error domineers; And on fools' errands, in the dark, Sends out our hopes and fears;

Bids us for ever pains deplore, Our pleasures overprize; These oft persuade us to be weak; Those urge us to be wise.

From virtue's rugged path to right By pleasure are we brought, To flowery fields of wrong, and there Pain chides us for our fault:

Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace If folly is withstood; And says, time pays an easy price, For our eternal good.

In earth's dark cot, and in an hour, And in delusion great, What an economist is man To spend his whole estate,

And beggar an eternity!

For which as he was born, More worlds than one against it weigh'd, As feathers he should scorn.

Say not, your loss in triumph leads Religion's feeble strife; Joys future amply reimburse Joys bankrupts of this life.

But not deferr'd your joy so long, It bears an early date; Affliction's ready pay in hand, Befriends our present state;

What are the tears, which trickle down Her melancholy face, Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price, They purchase lasting peace.