Young's Night Thoughts Part 12

Some mischievously weep, not unapprised Tears, sometimes, aid the conquest of an eye. 540 With what address the soft Ephesians draw Their sable network o'er entangled hearts!

As seen through crystal, how their roses glow, While liquid pearl runs trickling down their cheek!

Of hers not prouder Egypt's wanton queen, Carousing gems, herself dissolved in love.

Some weep at death, abstracted from the dead, And celebrate, like Charles,[22] their own decease.

By kind construction some are deem'd to weep, Because a decent veil conceals their joy. 550 Some weep in earnest, and yet weep in vain; As deep in indiscretion, as in woe.

Pa.s.sion, blind Pa.s.sion! impotently pours Tears, that deserve more tears; while Reason sleeps; Or gazes like an idiot, unconcern'd; Nor comprehends the meaning of the storm; Knows not it speaks to her, and her alone.

Irrationals all sorrow are beneath, That n.o.ble gift! that privilege of man!

From sorrow's pang, the birth of endless joy. 560 But these are barren of that birth divine: They weep impetuous, as the summer storm, And full as short! The cruel grief soon tamed, They make a pastime of the stingless tale; Far as the deep resounding knell, they spread The dreadful news, and hardly feel it more.

No grain of wisdom pays them for their woe.

Half-round the globe, the tears pump'd up by Death Are spent in watering vanities of life; In making folly flourish still more fair, 570 When the sick soul, her wonted stay withdrawn, Reclines on earth, and sorrows in the dust; Instead of learning, there, her true support, Though there thrown down her true support to learn.

Without Heaven's aid, impatient to be bless'd, She crawls to the next shrub, or bramble vile, Though from the stately cedar's arms she fell; With stale, forsworn embraces, clings anew, The stranger weds, and blossoms, as before, In all the fruitless fopperies of life: 580 Presents her weed, well-fancied, at the ball, And raffles for the Death's-head on the ring.

So wept Aurelia, till the destined youth Stepp'd 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 died to give him, orphan'd in his birth!

Not such, Narcissa, my distress for thee.

I'll make an altar of thy sacred tomb, 590 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; (Heaven knows I labour with severer still!) 594 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 exhaled, and went to heaven.

Time on this head has snow'd; yet still 'tis borne 602 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 chastised surpa.s.sing in a fault, Father of all, forgetfulness of death: As if, like objects pressing on the sight, Death had advanced too near us to be seen: 610 Or, that life's loan Time ripen'd into right; And men might plead prescription from the grave; Deathless, from repet.i.tion of reprieve.

Deathless? far from it! such are dead already; Their hearts are buried, and the world their grave.

Tell me, some G.o.d! my guardian angel! tell, What thus infatuates? what enchantment plants The phantom of an age 'twixt us, and Death Already at the door? He knocks, we hear, And yet we will not hear. What mail defends 620 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; Though bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!

We see Time's furrows on another's brow, And Death intrench'd, preparing his a.s.sault; 628 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.

Though grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are green; Like damaged 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 every kind.

And wherefore mad for more, when relish fails?

Object, and appet.i.te, must club for joy; Shall Folly labour hard to mend the bow, 640 Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without, While Nature is relaxing every string?

Ask thought for joy; grow rich, and h.o.a.rd within.

Think you the soul, when this life's rattles cease, Has nothing of more manly to succeed?

Contract the taste immortal; learn even 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 wish is praise, and promise; it applauds 650 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. 660 What folly can be ranker? Like our shadows, Our wishes lengthen, as our sun declines. 662 No wish 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 subdue; Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn sh.o.r.e Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon; 670 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, 680 Puff'd off by the first blast, and lost for ever.

Dost ask, Lorenzo, why so warmly press'd, By repet.i.tion 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, plied home, Will soon reduce the ghastly precipice O'er-hanging h.e.l.l, will soften the descent, And gently slope our pa.s.sage to the grave; How warmly to be wish'd! What heart of flesh 690 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, 695 And stamp the die for an eternity?

Aid me, Narcissa! aid me to keep pace With Destiny; and ere her scissors cut My thread of life, to break this tougher thread Of moral death, that ties me to the world.

Sting thou my slumbering reason to send forth A thought of observation on the foe; 702 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, though 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. 710 Man is a self-survivor every year.

Man, like a stream, is in perpetual flow.

Death's a destroyer of quotidian[23] prey.

My youth, my noontide, 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. 720 Shall we then fear, lest that should come to pa.s.s, Which comes to pa.s.s each moment of our lives?

If fear we must, let that Death turn us pale, Which murders strength and ardour; 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! 729 Be death your theme, in every place and hour; Nor longer want, ye monumental sires!

A brother tomb to tell you ye 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!

Would you be still more learned than the learn'd?

Learn well to know how much need not be known, And what that knowledge, which impairs your sense.

Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, 740 Unhedged, 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 G.o.ds: And dive in science for distinguish'd names, Dishonest fomentation of your pride!

Sinking in virtue, as you rise in fame.

Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords 750 Light, but not heat; it leaves you indevout, Frozen at heart, while speculation shines.

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 760 All bold conjecture, and fond hopes of man.

What countless mult.i.tudes not only leave, But deeply disappoint us, by their deaths! 763 Though great our sorrow, greater our surprise.

Like other tyrants, Death delights to smite, What, smitten, most proclaims the pride of power, 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 children's tomb: 770 Me thine, Narcissa!--What though 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 h.o.a.ry youth Methusalems may die; O how misdated on their flattering tombs!

Narcissa's youth has lectured me thus far.

And can her gaiety give counsel too?

That, like the Jews' famed oracle of gems,[24] 780 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; Even let him sweep 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 givest him; young and gay He takes; and plunder is a tyrant's joy.

What if I prove, "The farthest from the fear, 790 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, 796 As Nature's opposites wage endless war, For this offence, as treason to the deep Inviolable stupor of his reign, Where l.u.s.t, and turbulent Ambition, sleep, Death took swift vengeance. As he life detests, More life is still more odious; and, reduced By conquest, aggrandizes more his power. 803 But wherefore aggrandized? By Heaven's decree, To plant the soul on her eternal guard, In awful expectation of our end.

Thus runs Death's dread commission: "Strike, but so As most alarms the living by the dead."

Hence stratagem delights him, and surprise, And cruel sport with man's securities. 810 Not simple conquest, triumph is his aim; And, where least fear'd, there conquest triumphs most.

This proves my bold a.s.sertion 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 unconfess'd in foreign courts, Who travel under cover, Death a.s.sumes The name and look of life, and dwells among us.

He takes all shapes that serve his black designs: 820 Though master of a wider empire far Than that o'er which the Roman eagle flew.

Like Nero, he's a fiddler, 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, 830 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!