William Blake, Mystic

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WILLIAM BLAKEMYSTIC


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NOTE.This issue of Young's poem with

Blake engravings, is reproduced inreduced facsimile from the originalEdition 15 x 12 published by Edwards,New Bond Street, London, in theyear 1797.


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TOSTANLEYMY BROTHER


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WILLIAM BLAKE, MYSTICA STUDY

BYADELINE M. BUTTERWORTH

TOGETHER WITHYOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS : NIGHTS I & II

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BYWILLIAM BLAKEAND FRONTISPIECE

DEATH'S DOOR, FROM BLAIR'S 'THE GRAVE'

LIVERPOOLTHE LIVERPOOL BOOKSELLERS CO.. LTD.LONDON

SIMPKIN. MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.1911


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William Blake, MysticA Study

WILLIAM BLAKE, poet, artist and engraverYet to how few persons is he known, andhow much beloved by the few who do know

him ! He belongs, to use an old Quaker phrase,* to the world outside,' yet that is the world thatcannot understand him, for he speaks to the innersoul, ' to the world inside,' and it is only the fewwho can interpret that speech; so that WilliamBlake stands little chance of ever becoming the idoleven of the literary world.A cultured person may be interested in orattracted by either a poem or a painting of his, buthe must possess a kindred spirithe must belong to'the world inside,' if he would grasp the real mean-ing of any one of Blake's poems or pictures. It is notsufficient to have an intelligent appreciation of artto understand wherein lies the charm of Blake'sairy figuresit is not sufficient to know the laws ofrhythm to comprehend his poems, for more thanmere culture is demanded from Blake's appreciator.

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and that more cannot be learned in the schoolsitmust be innatehe must know, almost intuitively,that which Blake's soul has grasped and which hismind and hand have put into concrete form. If itis not seized by intuition, its power will never berealised, for no amount of technical knowledge aidsin understanding the deep things of the soul. Ifsuch an one does not possess that power, let himclose the book of poems by William Blakeletsuch an one leave unopened the copy of Young'sNight Thoughts or that of Blair's Grave, bothillustrated by Blake, as he would in all probabilityonly see some grotesque figures, which in theirhuge proportions bear perhaps some resemblance tothose of Michael Angelo and would fail to find anyreason for Blake choosing to engrave the momentof the * soul's departure from the body,' or the're-union of the soul and of the body after death,'for, unless he feel their charm when first he seesthem, he will never discover it, though he spendmany hours in studying them. No ! It needs theinsight of the mysticof those belonging to the* world inside ' to understand the mystic soul ofWilliam Blake ; therefore, he is to-day, as he wasmore than a century ago, neglected and passed overby the literary and artistic world, unless with theirculture they possess a soul capable of responding tothe inner meaning of the moments depicted inBlake's pictures, apart from their artistic merit.


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Yet to appreciate him it is not enough to possessthe mystical insight unless it is allied with cultureand intelligence, for an uneducated mystic would nomore be able to appreciate nor understand hispoems or pictures than would the cultured non-mystical person ; there lies his charm and thereinlies the explanation possibly why William Blake isgaining at last some notorietyof the reason whymore than a century after he illustrated the 'Blair,'he is receiving recognition as a mystical poet andartist.Why should he have had to wait so long ?Why should he now be receiving the homage ofthe few who know and appreciate his great talentfor depicting the soul's deep feeling ?

Surely because to-day Mysticism stands on anew level. When William Blake lived and wrotehis mystical poems and painted his visions, "theworld outside " condemned them, for it knewnothing of such things. It was a cultured worldthe world that condemned himfor then, as now,the general public passed him by because he nevercame within their radiusBlake could never bethat which Tennyson became, the poetical idol ofthe people.

It was a cultured world in a conventional periodthat condemned him, a world that condemned alloriginality, a world without any understanding ofmysticism and as it was obliged to explain these


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original productions of Blakeproductions whichseemed quite incomprehensible to itand as it hadno knowledge of the psychical mind nor of thingsmystical, it disposed of Blake and of his poems andpictures by stigmatising them as the work of amadman. Yet even in that material age therewere some who possessed the insight necessary toappreciate Blake and his great genius, as Gilchrist'sstandard Life of William Blake records ; theyprevented his name from passing into oblivionby keeping the tiny flame of interest burning untilthe world of culture that had condemned Blake acentury ago awoke to the fact that he was, at least,an interesting personality, now realising that person-ality under any form is worth studying ; so from thatinterest in him as a manas an unusual personalityas a subject for the psychologists to dissect, and alsobecause the mystical mind is now acknowledged tobe a sane mind, therefore its utterances and pro-ductions are on the same level as the productionsof other normal minds, Blake has been rescuedand has at last a chance of winning lasting fame byhis appeal to those whose souls are attuned to his,and who can feel with him and see

* . . .a world in a grain of sand.And a heaven in a wild flower,Hold infinity in the palm of your hand.And eternity in an hour.'


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The cultured world of to-day knows the nameof William Blake, because the term culture nowincludessome knowledge of the science of psychology,and all who would study that subject gladly availthemselves of so unique a personality, for did henot repeat during his lifetime, when accused ofmaking his figures of so fantastic a character, thathe only painted his visions. These visions werereal things to Blake, as they are to all mystics,only in Blake's case the visionary power which hepossessed in so remarkable a degree was accompaniedby the gifts of a poet and also of those of an artist.Think what a unique position he therefore holdsamong the great spirits of the world, for a greatspirit Blake must assuredly be named if we accedeto the usually-accepted formula that a man is greatin spirit if he possesses the power of discerning theinner truth which underlies all thingsif he is large-souled enough to respond to its demand. In fact,it seems almost a condition of greatness that it, andit alone, is capable of grasping and understandingthe truth which lies hidden. Pater speaks in hisMarius of the * hiddenness of perfect things,'which perhaps means that the thing in its perfectionis hidden from the perception of the meaner spiritand so protected, though nevertheless its hiddennessis no bar to the true spirit of the mystic, who isin some inexpressible way 'one' with its perfec-tion.


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We have only to read a few verses of some ofBlake's poems to find the mystic spirit runningthrough them ; to see how underneath the outwardform he finds an inner form, which thought heclothes as a true mystic ever does in the outerresemblance. Notice how he speaks of the 'angels'which he sees in the * blossom trees 'of how athistle at his feet appeared to him to be an 'old mangrey' who stood in his pathhow he wrote to hisfriend, Mr. Butts, of his ' first vision of lightwhich he saw one day when he was sitting on the'yellow sands' of the seashore, and notice also thetrue mystic's delight in his visions when he writesof how they will be

' Re-engraved time after timeEver in their youthful primeMy designs unchanged remainTime may rage, but rage in vainFor above time's troubled fountainsOn the great Atlantic Mountains,In my golden house on highThere they shine eternally.'

When we turn to examine his engravings, wefind perhaps more clearly still the mystic spirit bothin the choice of subject and in its delineation. Blakewould possibly have preferred exclusively engraving


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his visions ; but, unfortunately, though he mightengrave and colour them, he could not find pur-chasers, so that when he was obliged to earn moneyto support himself and his wife, he had perforce topaint subjects which suited the taste of his patron,even engraving and colouring portraits. It isdifficult to imagine Blake working upon so uncon-genial a subject as a portrait of the famous Brightonbeauty, Mrs. Q (uentin), yet those who have beenfortunate enough to have chanced upon an originalcopy of that coloured engraving must have noticedthe master touch in the softness and wonder of theflesh colour, and felt that the perfectness which heput into a work which must have been distastefulto him proves yet again how great a spirit hepossessed within him.

But it is in his original designs that we see thereal Blakethose designs which were literal copiesof his visions. Of course, all great artists have aninner vision of the subject they propose to paintthey see it in their imagination ; but few, if any,excepting William Blake, have painted what to themhave been objective mental visions, for few peopleseem to have, to that extent, the mystic temperamentallied with the artistic. It is a well-established factto-day that these objective mental visions do cometo persons of a certain temperament, as, for instance,in the recorded historical references to the visionsof S. Francis of Assisi and those of Joan of Arc.

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In fact, it was not until such recorded incidents hadbeen vindicated by the study of psychology thatBlake had a chance of coming into his inheritanceof fame, for he has consistently affirmed that heonly painted that which he perceived as an objectivevisionhe apparently saw its form and colourthough perhaps he did not always succeed in recallingthose visions quite accurately ; yet it is told of himthat when the visions came, perhaps during thenight time, he would rise from his bed and imme-diately begin to paint, having, as it were, the visionin front of him, and once, on being asked whathappened if the visions failed him, his wife replied,* We kneel down and pray.'

It can thus easily be seen that his work bears thestamp of originality and true greatness, for theobjective mental visions are a resultant effect of thepercipient's inner-self which, in Blake's case, reachesup to a level of spiritual insight which is only foundin those who are pure in heart.

Allied with this visionary power, he possessed avery vivid imagination, which he draws upon largelyin his illustrations to Blair's Grave illustrationswhich are full of beauty of form and depth of feeling,and which reveal to all who have the power ofperceiving it what must have been Blake's innatemystical genius which made it possible for him todesign that perfect figure of a youth which he hasplaced (in his plate named * Death's Door,') over the


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cell hewn out of a rock into which a weather-beatenold man, leaning on a crutch, is apparently beingdriven by a strong wind from behind, while abovethe doorway Blake has placed the figure of the youthhalf reclining on the rock, with the rays of the sunsurrounding him, full of life, hope, and strength.When we gaze upon it, it is not of death which wethink but of lifeeternal life, eternal strength,eternal lovewhich are typified by Blake in thatlook of glad expectation which he has placed, notonly upon the face, but on every part of the body,for to Blake's mystical soul death was not the endbut the gateway to eternal life.

Yet it does not follow that only a mystical naturecan see beneath the surface of things, or alone pos-sesses the power of catching the intensest momentsin the lives of his fellow-men, nor that an artistwho is able to depict that moment at its highest pitchmust necessarily be a mystic.

Take Giotto, for instance, in almost any of hisfresco work, especially perhaps the fresco in thecloister of Santa Maria Novella, at Florence, of themeeting of Anna and Joachim at the Golden Gate,and notice how he there portrays just the greatmoment in the lives of Anna and Joachim whenthey meet after a long separation. Giotto depictstheir joy in that meeting. He has seized the innerspirit of that meeting, and yet no man is less of amystic than Giotto, the Florentine painter, who


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perhaps ranks highest of the world's great paintersas a delineator of a passing moment at its intensestpoint ; yet he is not a mystic, for he never chooses amystical subject. Whereas Blake, though he toocatches the spirit of the moment, searches deeperinto the intricacies of the life of the spirit, seeingthat side of life which seems to be only apprehendedby the mystic, and therefore instead of painting asGiotto the meeting of two beloved persons, Blakechooses for his subject the re-union of the soul andof the body. There we see wherein the differencelies, and why Blake's great characteristic is not somuch that he is a great artist or a great poet, butthat he is before all things essentially a mysticseer of visions.

When we turn to the Young illustrations,which were invented and engraved by him, we seethe same characteristics which mark him as a mysticin his choice of subject.

In Night the First, which treats of life, death,and immortality, we find him, instead of dwelling ondeath or the grave, choosing to depict the authorand what an effort Blake made to be conventionalin doing solying on the ground asleep, while hissoul soars 'thro' fairy fields' (lines in the poemwhich seized Blake's fancy), and we have the mostperfect figures representative of the soul's ' fan-tastick measures 'airy figures of pure delightpoised in the air, as only Blake could poise them.

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Again, in the last plate of the same Nighty wefind the lines

* Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life,'claiming Blake out of many other lines containingwords of grief or sorrow ; but his mystical mindpasses them by while he seizes that which is his veryown by innate right of comprehension and delineatesa marvellous figure mounting upward with out-stretched hands, in one of which is a lyre, while thechain which binds him to earth is falling from him,and the soul is rejoicing in its newly-found freedom.It holds us spell-bound.We note, also, in the Young how Blakeconveys a sense of motion in his figures ; theyappear to be coming straight from some etherealregion, only touching earth in passing, as, in thelast two plates of Night the Second^ we havefigures coming to take the soul of the just man atthe moment of death, though there is nothing in theengraving that suggests anything which we usuallyconnect with death, and in the succeeding plate we seethe soul carefully being carried upward by attendantangels, while a graceful figure leans down, asRossetti's Blessed Damozel * from the gold bar ofheaven,' and with outstretched arm and hand wouldgently draw him upward. The two plates make aperfect whole with figures almost revolving in acircle, suggesting movement in every line of theirbodies and joy in the new life of the soul. It could

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surely only be the insight of the mystic which causedBlake so consistently to see always the life of thesoul as something quite distinct from the life of thebody, which is so clearly depicted in his illustrationsto the Young, where he had so varied a choiceof subject, but where we find him choosing so oftento depict mystical things in preference to any othersubject.

It is interesting to read the comment upon thesedesigns to Young's Night Thoughts, published inthe ** advertisement " supposed to have been writtenby Fuseli, for the original edition of 1797:

* Of the merit of Mr. Blake in those designswhich form not only the ornament of the page, but,in many instances, the illustration of the poem, theeditor conceives it to be unnecessary to speak. Tothe eyes of the discerning it need not be pointedout ; and while a taste for the arts of design shallcontinue to exist, the original conception and thebold and masterly execution of this artist cannotbe unnoticed or unadmired.*

Blake's mysticism is, of course, only one part ofhimthat he had many other sides to his characteris well known, yet I maintain that though he maybe praised for his productions as an artist or a poet,or condemned because of much that is incompre-hensible in his work, yet running through all is amystical spirit which can only be known and judgedby a mystical mind, for it needs the possession of

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that faculty to realise the deep beauty of thefollowing words, taken from one of his poems :

* He who bends to himself a joyDoes the winged life destroy ;But he who kisses the joy as it fliesLives in eternity's sunrise.'

And so Blake stands at last on the threshold offame, because men have grown to understand him.It is still but the threshold, for he is only knownand loved by a few kindred spirits. Books engravedby him may still be found in what is named by thebooksellers as *the two-penny box.' They canstill be picked up cheaply in out-of-the-way bookshops, though each year they are becoming morescarce. The collectors of old books, old prints, andcoloured engravings do not yet know the name ofWilliam Blake, nor do they yet know the value ofhis productions, though here or there one may befound who has been asked for a Blake ; but it isan unusual occurrence to find a bookseller whoknows anything of his works, even thoughBlair's Grave and Young's Night Thoughts arebecoming very rare, and it is hard to obtain a copyof either book in the original boards, which factseems to indicate that there is at last some demandfor his books.And what a reward awaits those who discoverhim ! What a great treasure awaits the seeking of

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those who, intuitively, will understand his greatnessof spirit ! How their grasp of the deeper side ofthings will be widened when they come face toface with one of his wonderful productionsforms,which in his delineation, seem to be all spirit.

The world has many rare treasures awaitingthose who have the opportunity for seeking suchthings, but none will fill with purer joy the mindof the mystic than the discovery of an originalengraving by William Blake, or the chance hap-pening, perhaps, upon some of Blake's shorterpoems, which are indeed masterpieces of mysticalpoetry.

September, 1910.

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Explanation of the Engravings.

FRONTISPIECE to NIGHT the FIRST."TJEATH, in the character of an old man, havingswept away with one hand part of the familyseen in this print, is presenting with the othertheir spirits to immortality.

Page 1. Sleep, forsaking the couch of care, shedshis influence, by the touch of his magic wand, onthe shepherd's flock.

Page 4. The imagery of dreaming variously de-lineated according to the poet's description in thepassage referred to by the *.

Page 7. Death, tolling a bell, summons a personfrom sleep to his kingdom the grave.

Page 8. The universal empire of Death characterizedby his plucking the sun from his sphere.

Page 10. An evil genius holding two phials, fromone pours disease into the ear of a shepherd, andfrom the other scatters a blight among his flock ;intimating that no condition is exempt fromaffliction.E I


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Page 12. The frailty of the blessings of this lifedemonstrated, by a representation in which thehappiness of a little family is suddenly destroyedby the accident of the husband's death from thebite of a serpent.

Page 13. The insecurity of life exemplified by thefigure of Death menacing with his dart, anddoubtful which he shall strike ; the mother, orthe infant at her breast.

Page 15. The author, encircled by thorns, em-blematical of grief, lamenting the loss of hisfriend to the midnight hours.

Page 16. The struggling of the soul for immortality,represented by a figure holding a lyre and spring-ing into the air, but confined by a chain to theearth.

FRONTISPIECE to NIGHT the SECOND.Time endeavouring to avert the arrow of Deathfrom two friends.

Page 19. A skeleton discovering the first symptomsof re-animation on the sounding of the archangeFstrump.

Page 23. A man measuring an infant with his span,in allusion to the shortness of life.

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Page 24. Our inattention to the progress of Timeillustrated by a figure of that god^ (as he is calledby the poet) creeping towards us with stealthypace, and carefully concealing his wings from ourview.

Page 25. Time having passed us, is seen displayinghis " broad pinions," and treading nearly on thesummit of the globe, eager "to join anew Eternityhis sire."

Page 26. The same power in his character ofdestroyer, mowing down indiscriminately thefrail inhabitants of this world.

Page 27. Conscience represented as a recordingangel ; who is veiled, and in the act of notingdown the sin of intemperance in a bacchanalian.

Page 31. A good man conversing with his pasthours, and examining their report. The hoursare drawn as aerial and shadowy beings, some ofwhom are bringing their scrolls to the inquirer,while others are carrying their record to heaven.

Page 33. Belshazzar terrified in the midst of hisimpious debauch by the hand-writing on the wall.The passage marked out by the asterisk, suffi-ciently explains the propriety with which thestory is alluded to by the poet, and delineated bythe artist.


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Page 35. A parent communicating instruction to hisfamily.Page 37. The story of the good Samaritan, intro-duced by the artist as an illustration of the poet'ssentiment, that love alone and kind offices canpurchase love.

Page 40. Angels attending the death-bed of therighteous, and administering consolation to hislast moments.

Page 41. Angels conveying the spirit of the goodman to heaven.


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NIGHT THE FIRST.

//

JL IRED nature's sweet restorer, balmy SleepHe, like the world, his readj \isit paysWhere fortune smiles ; the wretched he Forsakes :* SAvifl on his downy pinion flies from woe.And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

From short, as usual, and disturb'd repose,I wake : hoAV happy they, who wake no more !Yet that were xam, if dreams infest the grave.I wake, emerging from a sea of dreamsTumultuous ; where my wreck'd, desponding thoughtFrom wave to wa\ e of fancied misei^'.At random drove, her helm of reason lost

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Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain,A bitter change ! severer for severe :The day too short for my distress ! and night.Even in the zenith of her dark domain.Is sunshine, to the colour of niv fate.

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Niglit, sable goddess ! fioni her ebon throne.In rayless majesty, now stretches forthHer leaden sceptre o'er a siiunb'ring world

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Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound !Nor eje, nor list'ning ear an object finds ;Creation sleeps. 'Tis, as the general pulseOf life stood still, and nature made a pause

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An aweful pause ! prophetick of her end.And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd

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Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more.Silence, and Darkness ! solenui sisters ! twms

From ancient night, who nurse the tender thoughtTo reason, and on reason build resolve.That column of true majesty in man.Assist me : I w ill thank you in the gra\eThe giavc, youi- kingdom : there tliis frame shall fallA \ ictim sacied to your dreary shrine ;But what are ye ? THOU, w ho didst put to flightPrimeval silence, when the morning stars.Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball ;O THOU ! whose word from solid darkness struckThat spark, the sun ; strike wisdom from my soulMy soul, which flies to THEE, her trust, her treasure.As misers to their gold, while others rest.

Through this opaque of nature, and of soul.This double night, transmit one pitying ray.To lighten, and to cheer ; O lead my mind,A mind that fain would wander from its woe.Lead it through \arious scenes of life, and death ;And from each scene, the noblest truths inspire

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Nor less inspire iny* coiuluct, than my song;Teach my best reason, reason; my best willTeach rectitude; and fix my firm resolveWisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear :Noi" let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'clOn this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

The bell strikes one ! We take no note of time,But from its loss : to give it then a tongue.Is wise in man. As if an angol spoke,I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright.It is the knell of mj departed hours :Where arc they ? With the years beyond the floodIt is the signal that demands dispatch :How much IS to be done ! My hopes and fearsStart up alarm d, and o'er life's nari'ow vergeLook downOn what ? A fathomless abyss !A dread eteniity ! how surely nnneAnd can eternity belong to me.Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ?How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,How complicate, how wonderful is manHow passing wonder HE, who made him suchA\'lio centred in our make such strange extremes rFiDin (liflerent natures marvellously mix'd,Connexion exquisite of distant worlds!Distinguish'd link in being's endle.ss chain'Midway from nothing to the Deity IA beam ethereal, sullied, and absorb'd !Though sullied and dishonour'd, still d\\ ineDim miniature of greatness absolute

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v^An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust !Helpless immortal ! insect infinite !A v.'orm ! a God ! 1 tremble at mjself,And in myself am lost ! At home a stranger.Thought Avanders up and down, surprised, aghast.And wond'ring at her own : how reason reels !O what a miracle to man is man.Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy, what dread !Alternately transported, and alarm'd !What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ?An angel's arm can't snatch me from the graveLegions of angels can't confine me there.

'Tis past conjecture : all things rise in proofWhile o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread

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* What, though my soul fantastick measures trodO'er fairy fields ; or mourn'd along the gloomOf pathless woods ; or down the craggy steepHurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool

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Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow winds.With antick shapes wild nati\es of the brain ?Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her natureOf subtler essence than the trodden clod

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x\ctive, aerial, toAv'ring, unconfined,Unfetter'd wuth her gross companion's fall.Even silent night proclaims my soul immortalEven silent night proclaims eternal day.For human weal. Heaven husbands all events ;Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.Why then their loss deplore that are not lost ?Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around.

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In infidel distress ? Are angels there ?Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ?

They live ! they greatly live a life on earthUnkindled, unconceived ! and from an eyeOf tenderness, let heavenly pity fallOn me, more justly number'd with the dead.This is the desart, this the solitude :How populous, how vital, is the grave !This is creation's melancholy vault.The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloomThe land of apparitions, empty shades !All, all on earth is shadow, all beyondIs substance : the reverse is folly's creed :How solid all, where change shall be no more !

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn.The twilight of our day, the vestibule

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Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death.Strong death alone can heave the massy bar.This gross impediment of clay remove.And make us, embryos of existence, free.From real life, but little more remoteIs he, not yet a candidate for light.The future embryo, slumb'ring in his sire

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Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell.Yon ambient azure shell, and sprmg to life.The life of gods, O transport ! and of man.

Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts

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Inters celestial hopes without one sigh :Pris'ner of earth, and pent beneath the moon.Here pinions all his wishes ; wing'd by heaven


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To fly at infinite ; and reach it there.Where seraphs gather immortalityOn life's fair tree, fast by th^ throne of GOD.What golden jojs ambrosial clust'ring glowIn HIS full beam, and ripen for the justWhere momentary ages are no more !Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire !And is it in the flight of threescore years.To push eternity from human thought.And smother souls immortal in the dust ?A soul immortal, spending all her fires.Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness,Thrown into tumult, raptured, or alarm'dAt aught this scene can threaten, or indulge.Resembles ocean into tempest wrought.To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

Where falls this censure ? It o'erwhelms myself:How was my heart incrusted by the worldO how self-fetter'd was my groveling soulHow, like a worm, was I wrapt round and roundIn silken thought, which reptile fancy spunTill darken'd reason lay quite clouded o'erWith soft conceit of endless comfort here.Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the skies !

Night-visions may befriend, as sung aboveOur waking dreams are fatal : how I dreamtOf things impossible ! could sleep do more ?Of joys perpetual in perpetual change !Of stable pleasures on the tossing wave !Eternal sunshine in the storms of life !


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How richly were mj noontide trances hungWith gorgeous tapestries of pictured jojs,Joy behind joj, in endless perspective !* Till at Death's toll, whose restless iron tongueCalls daily for his millions at a meal.Starting I 'woke, and found mjself undone.Where's now my frenzy's pompous furniture ? .The cobweb'd cottage, with its ragged wallOf mould' ring mud, is royalty to me :The spider's most attenuated thread,Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tieOn earthly bliss ; it breaks at every breeze.O ye blest scenes of permanent delightFull, above measure ! lasting, beyond boundA perpetuity of bliss, is bliss.Could you, so rich in rapture, fear an end.That ghastly thought would drink up all your joy.And quite unparadise the realms of light.Safe are you lodged above these rolling spheresThe baleful influence of whose giddy danceSheds sad vicissitude on all beneath.Here teems witli revolutions every hour.And rarely for the better ; or the best.More mortal than the common births of fateEach moment has its sickle, emulousOf time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweepStrikes empires from the root ; each moment playsHis little weapon in the narrower sphereOf sweet domestick comfort, and cuts downThe fairest bloom of sublunary bliss.

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Bliss ! sublunary bliss !proud words, and vainImplicit treason to divine decree !A bold invasion of the rights of heaven

!

I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air

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O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace.What darts of agonj had miss'd my heart* Death ! great propi'ietor of all ! 'tis thineTo tread out empire, and to quench the stars

:

The sun himself by thy permission shines ;And, one daj, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere.Amidst such niightj plunder, wliy exhaustThj partial qui\er on a mark so mean ?Whj thj peculiar rancour wreak'd on me ?Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ?Thy shaft Hew thriceand thrice my peace was slainAnd thrice, ere thrice jon moon had fiU'd her honi.O Cynthia ! whj so pale ? dost thou lamentTliy wretched neighbour ? grieve to see thy wheelOf ceaseless change outwhirfd in human lile ?How wanes my borrow'd bliss from fortune's smile !Precarious courtesj ! not virtue's sure,Self-given, solar ray of sound delight.

In ever)' varied postuiv, place, and hour.How widow'd every thought of everj joy !Thought, busj thought ! too busy for mj peace.Through the dark postern of time long elapsed.Led softly; by the stillness of the night.Led like a murderer, and such it proves

;

Strays, wretched rover ! o'er the pleasing past

;

In quest of wretchedness perversely strays ;

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And finds all desert now ; and meets the ghostsOf my departed jojs, a numerous train !I rue the riches of my former fate :Sweet comfort's blasted clusters I lament:I tremble at the blessings once so dear;And every pleasure pains me to the heart.

Yet whj complain ? or why complain for one ?Hangs out the sun his lustre but for me.The single man ? are angels all beside ?I mourn for millions'tis the common lot

:

In this shape, or in that, has fate entail'dThe mother's throes on all of woman born.Not more the children, than sure heirs of pain.

War, famine, pest, volcano, storm, and fire.Intestine broils, oppression, with her heaitWrapp'd up in triple brass, besiege mankind

.

GOD's image, disinherited of day.Here, plunged in mines, forgets a sun was made ;There, beings, deathless as their haughty lord.Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life

;

And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair

:

Some, for hard masters broken under arms.In battle lopp'd away, with half their limbsBeg bitter bread through realms their valour saved.If so the tyrant, or his minions doom.Want and incurable disease, fell pair !On hopeless multitudes remorseless seizeAt once ; and make a refuge of the grave :How groaning hospitals eject their dead !What numbers groan for sad admission there !


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10What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed.Solicit the cold hand of charityTo shock us moresolicit it in vainYe silken sons of pleasure ! since in painsYou rue more modish visits, visit here.And breathe from your debauch : give, and reduceSurfeit's dominion o'er youbut so greatYour impudence, you blush at what is right.

Happy ! did sorrow seize on such alone :Not prudence can defend, or virtue save

:

* Disease invades the chastest temperance,And punishment the guiltless : and alarm.Through thickest shades pursues the fond of peace.Man's caution often into danger turns.And, his guard falling, crushes him to death.Not happiness itself makes good her name

;

Our very wishes give us not our wish

:

How distant oft the thing we doat on most,From that for which we doat, felicityThe smoothest course of nature has its pains

;

And tiniest friends, through error, wound our rest.Without misfortunewhat calamities !And what hostilitieswithout a foe !Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth :But endless is the list of human ills.And sighs might sooner fail, than cause to sigh.A part how small of the terraqueous globeIs tenanted by man ! the rest a waste ;Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sandsWild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death

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IISuch is earth's melancholy map ! but, farMore sad, this earth is a true map of manSo bounded are its haughty lord's delightsTo woe's wide empire ; where deep troubles toss.Loud sorrows howl, envenom'd passions bite.Ravenous calamities our vitals seize.And threatening fate wide opens to devour.

What then am I, who sorrow for mjself ?In age, in infancy, from others aidIs all our hopeto teach us to be kindThat, nature's first, last lesson to mankind ;The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels

;

More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts ;And conscious virtue mitigates the pang

:

Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me giveSwoln thought a second channel ; wno divide.They weaken too the torrent of their griefTake then, O world ! thy muchrindebted tear :How sad a sight is human happinessTo those, whose thought can pierce beyond an hour !

thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults!Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate ?1 know thou wouldst ; thy pride demands it from me :Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needsThe salutary censure of a friend.Thou happy wretch ! by blindness thou art blest

;

By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles

:

Know, smiler, at thy peril art thou pleasedThy pleasure is the promise of thy pain

:

Misfortune, like a creditor severe.


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But rises in demand for her delay;She makes a scourge of past prosperityTo sting thee more, and double thv disti'ess.

Lorenzo, fortune makes her court to thee

;

Thj fond heart dances, while the syren sings :Dear is thy welfare ; think me not unkind,I would not damp, but to secure thy joys

:

Think not that fear is sacred to the storm

;

Stand on thy guard against the smiles of fate.Is heaven tremendous in its fro\\Tis ? most sureAnd in its favours formidable too

:

* Its fa\ours here are trials, not rewards ;A call to duty, not discharge from care

;

And should alarm us, full as much as woes

;

Awake us to their cause and consequence

;

And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert.Awe nature's tumults, and chastise herjoys.Lest, while we clasp, we kill them ; nay, in\ertTo worse than simple misery their charms

:

Revolted joys, like foes in civil war.Like bosom friendships to resentment sour d,"With rage envenom'd rise against our peace.Beware what earth calls happiness ; bewareAll jovs, but joys that never can expire :"Who builds on less than an immortal base,Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death.

Mine died with thee. Philander ! thy last sighDissohed the charm ; the disenchanted earthLost all her lustre: where her glitt'ring towers?Her golden mountains where ?all darken'd down

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To naked waste ; a dreaiy vale of teai's :The great magician's dead! thou poor pale pieceOf outcast earthin darkness ! what a changeFrom yesterday ! thy darling hope so near,Long-labour'd prize, O how ambition flush'dThy glowing cheek ! ambition, truly great,Of virtuous praise : death's subtle seed within.Sly, treacherous miner ! working m the dark.Smiled at thj well-concerted scheme, and beckon'dThe worm to riot on that rose so red,Unfaded ere it fellone moment's prey

Man's foresight is conditionally wise ;LoRzxzo ! wisdom into folly turnsOft, the first instant its idea fairTo lab'ring thought is born : how dim our eye !* The present moment terminates our sight

;

Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the next"We penetrate, we prophesy in vain :Time is dealt out by particles ; and each.Ere mingled with the streaming sands of life.By fate's inviolable oath is swornDeep silence, " where eternity begins."

By nature's law, what may be, may be now

;

There's no prerogative in human hours

:

In human hearts what bolder thought can rise.Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn ?Where is to-morrow ?in another worldFor numbers this is certain ; the reverseIs sure to none ; and yet on this perhaps.This peradventureinfamous for lies.

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14-

As on a rock of adamant we buildOur mountain hopes ; spin our eternal schemes.As we the fatal sisters would outspin,And, big with life's futurities, expire.

Not even Philander had bespoke his shroud.Nor had he cause ; a warning was denied :How many fall as suddennot as safe !As sudden, though for years admonish'd home.Of human ills the last extreme beware.Beware, Lorenzo ! a slow-sudden death :How dreadful that deliberate surprise !Be wise to-day, 'tis madness to deferNext day the fatal precedent will plead ;Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life :Procrastination is the thief of time ;Year after year it steals, till all are fled ;And to the mercies of a moment leavesThe vast concerns of an eternal scene

:

If not so frequent, would not this be strange ?That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bearsThe palm, " That all men are about to live"For ever on the brink of being born.All pay themselves the compliment to thinkThey one day shall not drivel ; and their prideOn this reversion takes up ready praise.At least their own, their future selves applauds

:

How excellent that life they ne'er Avill lead !Time lodged in tneir own hands is folly's veils ;That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign ;


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#

15The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone :'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool

;

And scarce in human wisdom to do more :All promise is poor dilatory man.And that through every stage : when young, indeed.In full content we sometimes nobly rest,Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish.As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise

:

At thirty man suspects himself a fool ;Knows it at forty, and reforms his planAt fifty chides his infamous delay.Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;In all the magnanimity of thoughtResolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same.

And why ? because he thinks himself immortal

:

All men think all men mortal, but themselves

;

Themselves ;when some alarming shock of fateStrikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread

;

But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,Soon close ; where pass'd the shaft no trace is found.As from the wing no scar the sky retains

;

The parted wa\e no furrow from the keelSo dies in human hearts the thought of death

:

Even with the tender tear which nature shedsO'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.Can I forget Philander? that were strange:O my full heart !but should I give it vent,* The longest night though longer far, would fail.And the lark listen to my midnight song.


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TBThe sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the mom.

Griefs sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast

;

I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheerThe sullen gloom, sweet philomel ! like thee,And call the stars to listen ; every starIs deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay :Yet be not vain ; there are, who thine excel.And charm through distant ages : wrapp'd in shade,Pris'ner of darkness ! to the silent hours.How often I repeat their rage divine.To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe !I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire

:

Dark, though not blini, like thee Maeonides !Or, Milton ! thee ; ah, could I reach your strainOr his, who made Maeonides our own

:

Man too he sungimmortal man I sing

:

* Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life ;What now, but immortality, can please ?O had he press'd his theme, pursued the track.Which opens out of darkness into dayO had he mounted on his Aving of fire,Soar'd, where I sink, and sung immortal man !How had it bless'd mankind, and rescued me !

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\19

NIGHT THE SECOND.

When the cock crew, he wept"smote by that eye"Which looks on me, on all ; that power, who bidsThis midnight centinel, with clarion shrill,* Emblem of that which shall awake the dead.Rouse souls from slumber into thoughts of heaven

:

Shall I too weep ? where then is fortitude ?And, fortitude abandon' d, where is man ?I know the terms on which he sees the light

;

He that is born, is listed ; life is war.Eternal war with woe : who bears it best.Deserves it leaston other themes I'll dwell.Lorenzo ! let me turn my thoughts on thee.And thine, on themes may profit; profit there,"Where most thy needthemes, too, the genuine growthOf dear Phil.\xder's dust : he, thus, though dead.May still befriend.What themes ? time's wondrous price,Death, friendship, and Phil.\xder's final scene.


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20So could I touch these themes, as might obtain

Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengaged.The good deed would delight me ; half impressOn my dark cloud an iris ; and from griefCall glorj -.dost thou mourn Phi lander's fate ?* I know thou say'st it : says thj life the same ?He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire.Where is that thrift, that avarice of time,O glorious avarice ! thought of death inspires.As rumour'd robberies endear our gold rO time ! than gold more sacred ; more a loadThan lead, to fools ; and fools reputed wise

:

A\''hat moment granted man without account ?What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid !Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door.Insidious death ! should his strong hand arrest.No composition sets the pris'ner IVee ;Eternitv's inexorable chainFast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear.How late I shudder'd on the brink ! how lateLife call'd for her last refuge in despair !That time is mine, O Mead ! to thee I oA\'e ;Fain would I pay thee with eternity

;

But ill my genius answers my desireMy sickly song is mortal, past thy cure :Accept the willthat dies not with my strain.For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo ? notFor esculapian, but for moral aid :Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon.


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21Youth is not rich in time ; it maj be, poor

;

Part with it as with moneysparing ; payNo moment but in purchase of its Av^orth ;And what its worth, ask death-beds ; they caji tell

:

Part with it as Avith lifereluctant ; big"With holy hope of nobler time to come

;

Time highex aim'd, still nearer the great markOf men and angelsvirtue more divine.

Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain ?These Heaven benign in vital union binds ;And sport Ave like the natives of the bough,When A-ernal suns inspire ? amusement reignsMan's great demand ; to trifle is to live :And is it then a trifle tooto die ?

Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo ! 'tis confess'd

:

AVhat, if for once I preach thee quite aAvake ?Who Avants amusement in the flame of battle ?Is it not treason to the soul immortal.Her foes in arms, eternity the prize ?Will toys amuse, Avhen med'cines cannot cure ?When spirits ebb, Avhen life's enchanting scenesTheir lustre lose, and lessen in our sight.As lands and cities Avith their glitt'ring spires.To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden stormThroAvn off to sea, and soon to perish there ;Will toys amuse ?No : thrones Avill then be toys,And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.

Redeem Ave time ?Its loss Ave dearly buy :What pleads LoRrcJZO for his high-prized sports ?He pleads time's numerous blanks ; he loudly i)leads


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22The straw-like trifles on life's common stream

:

From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee ?No blank, no trifle nature made, or meant.Virtue, or purposed virtue, still be thine ;This cancels thj complaint at once, this leavesIn act no trifle, and no blank in timeThis greatens, fills, immortalizes all

;

This, the blest art of turning all to gold;This, the good heaz't's prerogative to raiseA royal tribute from the poorest hours ;Immense revenue ! every moment pays.If nothing more than purpose in thy powerThy purpose firm, is- equal to the deed:Who does the best his circumstaiice allows,Does well, acts nobly;angels could no more.Our outward act,' indeed, admits restraint

:

'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer

;

Guard well thy thought ; our thoughts are heard in heaven.On all-important time, through every age.

Though much, and warm, the wise have urged ; the manIs yet unborn, Avho duly weighs an hour." I've lost a day"the prince who nobly cried.Had been an emperor without his crownOf Rome ? say rather, lord of human race ;He spoke, as if deputed by mankind :So should all speak ; so reason speaks in all

:

From the soft whispers of that God in man.Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly.For rescue from the blessings we possess ?Time, the supreme !Time is etemity ;


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23Pregnant with all eteniity can give ;Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile

:

Who murders time, he crushes in the birthA power ethereal, only not adored.Ah ! how unjust to nature and himself.Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man !Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,* We censure nature for a span too short

;

That span too short, we tax as tedious tooTorture invention, all expedients tire.To lash the ling' ring moments into speed.And whirl us, happy riddance ! from ourselves.Art, brainless art ! our furious charioteer.For nature's voice unstifled would recall,Drives headlong tow'rds the precipice of deathDeath, most our dread ; deatli thus more dreadful madeO what a riddle of absurdity !Leisure is pain ; take off our chariot-wheels.How heavily we drag the load of life !Blest leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain,It makes us wander ; wander earth aroundTo fly that tyrant, thought. As Atlas groan'dThe world beneath, we groan beneath an hour

:

We cry for mercy to the next amusement

;

The next amusement mortgages our fieldsSlight inconvenience ! prisons hardly frownFrom hateful time if prisons set us free ;Yet when death kindly tenders us relief.We call him cruel ; years to moments shrink.Ages to years : the telescope is turn'd.


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24To man's false opticks, from his folly false,* Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings.And seems to creep decrepit with his age :Behold him, when past by ; what then is seen.But his broad pinions swifter than the winds ?And all mankind, in contradiction strong.Ruefulaghast cry out on his career.

Leave to thj foes these errors, and these ills ;To nature just, their cause and cure explore.Not short Heaven's bountj, boundless our expence ;No niggard nature ; men are prodigals :We waste, not use our time ; we breathe, not live

:

Time wasted is existence, used is life :And bare existence, man, to live ordain'd.Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight

:

And why ? since time was given for use, not waste,Enjoin'd to fly ; with tempest, tide, and starsTo keep his speed, nor ever wait for man :Time's use was doom'd a pleasure ; waste, a pain

;

That man might feel his error, if unseen ;And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure ;Not, blund'ring, split on idleness for ease.Life's cares are comforts, such by Heaven design'd

;

He that has none, must make them, or be wretched

:

Cares are employments ; and without employThe soul is on the rack ; the rack of rest.To souls most adverse ; action all their joy.

Here, then, the riddle mark'd above, unfolds

;

Then time turns torment, when man turns a fool

:

We rave, we wrestle with great natui'e's plan ;


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25We thwart the DEITY ; and 'tis decreed.Who thwart his will shall contradict their own

:

Hence our unnatural quarrel with oursehes ;Our thoughts at enmitj ; our bosom-broil

:

We push time from us, and we wish him backLavish of lustrums, and jet fond of life ;Life we think long, and short ; death seek, and shunBody and soul, like peevish man and wife.United jar, and jet are loth to part.Oh the dark dajs of \anitj ! while here.How tasteless ! and how terrible when gone !Gone ! thej ne'er go ; when past, thej haunt us stillThe spirit walks of everj daj deceased

;

And smiles an angel, or a furj frowns ;Nor death, nor life delight usif time past.And time possess'd, both pain us, what can please ?That which the DEITY to please ordain'dTime used : the man who consecrates his hoursBj A'igorous effort and an honest aim.At once he draws the sting of life and death

;

He walks with natureand her paths are peace.Our error's cause and cure are seen : see next

Time's nature, origin, importance, speed

;

And tlij great gain from virging his career.All-sensual man, because untouch'd, unseen.He looks on time as nothing : nothing elseIs truly man's ; 'tis fortune'sTime's a God

:

Hast thou ne'er heard of time's omnipotence ?For, or against, what wonders can he doAnd will ! to stand blank neuter he disdains.

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26Not on those terms was time, heavien's stranger, sentOn his important embassy to man.Lorenzo ! no : on the long-destined hour.From everlasting ages growing ripe.That memorable hour of wondrous birth,"When the DREx\D SIRE, on emanation bent.And big with nature, rising in his might,Call'd forth creation,- for then time was born.By godhead streaming through a thousand worlds

;

Not on those terms, from the great days of hea\'en.From old eternity's mysterious orb,"Was time cut off, and cast beneath the skies ;The skies, which Avatch him in his new abode,* Measuring his motions by revolving spheres ;That horologe machinery divine

:

Hours, days, and months, and years, his children play.Like numerous wings, around him, as he flies ;Or rather, as unequal plumes they shapeHis ample pinions, swift as darted flame.To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest.And join anew eternity his sire ;In his immutability to nest,When worlds, that count his circles now, unhinged.Fate the loud signal sounding, headlong rushTo timeless night and chaos, whence they rose.Why spur the speedy ? why with levitiesNew-wing thy short, short day's too rapid flight ?Know'st thou, or what thou dost, or what is done ?Man flies from time, and time from man, too soonIn sad divorce this double flight must end ;

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27And then, where ai'e we ? where, Lorexzo, thenThy sports thy pomps ?I grant thee, in a stateNot unambitious ; in the ruffled shroud.Thy parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath :Has death his fbpj)eries ? then well may lifePut on her plume, and in her rainbow shine.Ye well-ai'raj'd ! ye lihes of our land !Ye lilies male ! who neither toil, nor spin.As sister lilies might ;if not so wiseAs Solomon, more sumptuous to the sightYe delicate ! who nothing can support.Yourselves most insupportable ! for whomThe winter rose must blow, the sun put onA brighter beam in Leo, silky-softFavonius breathe still softer, or be chid ;And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song.And robes, and notions framed in foreign looms !O ye LoRExzos of our age ! who deemOne moment luiamused, a miseryNot made for feeble man ; who call aloudFor every bauble, drivell'd o'er by sense.For rattles and conceits of every cast.For change of follies and relays of joy.To drag your patience through the tedious lengthOf a short winter's daysaysages ; sayWit's oracles ; saydreamers of gay dreams ;How will you weather an eternal night.Where such expedients fail ?

* O treacherous conscience! while she seems to sleepOn rose and myrtle, luU'd with syren song

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28While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to dropOn headlong appetite the slacken'd rein.And gWe us up to licence, unrecall'd,Unmark'd ;see, from behind her secret stand,The slj informer minutes e\ery fault,And her dread diarj with horror fills :Not the gross act alone employs her pen ;She reconnoitres fancy's air^' band,A watchful foe ! the Ibrmidable spy,List'ning, o'erhears the whispers of our camp ;Our dawning purposes of heart explores,And steals our embryos of iniquity.As all-rapacious usurers concealTheir doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs.Thus, with indulgence most severe she treatsUs spendthrifts of inestimable time ;Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied ;In leaves more durable than leaves of brass.Writes our whole history ; which death shall readIn every pale delinquent's private ear.And judgment publishpublish to more worldsThan this ; and endless age in groans resound.Lorenzo, such that sleeper in thy breastSuch is her slumber ; and her vengeance suchFor slighted counsel ;such thy future peace !And think'st thou still thou canst be wise too soon ?

But why on time so lavish is my song ?On this great theme kind nature keeps a school.To teach her sons herself: each night we die,Each morn are born anew : each daya life

!


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29And shall we kill each day ? If trifling kills.Sure vice must butcher : O what heaps of slainCry out for vengeance on us ! time destroj'dIs suicide, where more than blood is spilt:Time flies, death urges, knells call, heaven invites;Hell threatens : all exerts ; in effort, allMore than creation labours !labours more ?And is there in creation, what, amidstThis tumult universal, wing'd dispatch.And ardent energy, supinely yawns ?Man sleepsand man alone ; and man, whose fateFate irreversible, entire, extreme.Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulphA moment tremblesdrops ! and man, for whomAll else is in alarm ; man, the sole causeOf this surrounding storm ! and yet he sleeps.As the storm rock'd to rest. Throw years awayThrow empiresand be blameless ?moments seize ;Heaven 's on their wing : a moment we may wish.When worlds want wealth to buy :bid day stand still.Bid him drive back his car, and reimportThe period past, regive the given hour.Lorenzo, more than miracles we want

;

LorenzoO for yesterdays to comeSuch is the language of the man awake ;

His ardour such, for what oppresses thee

:

And is his ardour vain, Lorenzo ? no,That more than miracle the gods indulge ;To-day is yesterday return'd ; return'dFull-power'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn^


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30And reinstate us on the rock of peace.Let it not share its predecessor s fate ;Nor, like its elder sisters, die a fool

:

Shall it evaporate in fumeflj offFuliginous, and stain us deeper still ?Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd ?More wretched for the clemencies of heaven ?

Where shall I find him ? angels ! tell me where-You know him : he is near joupoint him out

:

Shall I see glories beaming from his brow ?Or trace his footsteps hy the rising flowers ? ^Your golden wings, now hov'ring o'er him, shedProtection ; now, are waving in applauseTo that blest son of foresightlord of fateThat aweful independent on to-morrow !Whose work is done ; who triumphs in the past

;

Whose yesterdays look backward with a smile.Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly ;That common, but opprobrious lot ! past hours.If not by guilt, yet wbund us by their flight.If folly bounds our prospect by the grave.All feeling of futurity benumb'd ;All god-like passion for eternals quench'd

;

All relish of realities expired ;Renounced all correspondence with th6 skies ;Our freedom chain'd ; quite wingless our desire

;

In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar

;

Prone to the centre ; crawling in the dust

;

Dismounted every great and glorious aim

;

Embruted every faculty divine

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131

I Heart-buried in the rubbish of the worldI The world, that gulph of souls, immortal souls,ISouls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fireTo reach the distant skies, and triumph thereOn thrones, which shall not mourn their masters changed.Though we from earth ; ethereal, they that fell.Such veneration due, O man ! to man.Who venerate themselves, the world despise.For what, gaj friend, is this escutcheon'd world,

; Which hangs out death in one etemal night ?' A night, that glooms us in the noon-tide raj.And wraps our thoiight, at banquets, in the shroud.Life's little stage is a small eminence.Inch-high the grave above ; that home of man.Where dwells the multitude ; we gaze around ;We read their monuments ; we sigh ; and whileWe sigh, we sink ; and are what we deplored

:

Lamenting, or lamented, all our lotIs death at distance ? no : he has been on thee ;And given sure earnest of his final blow.Those hours, which lately smiled, where are they now ?Pallid to thought, and ghastly ! drown'd, all drown'd

IIn that great deep, which nothing disembogues ;

I And, dying, they bequeath'd thee small renown :I

The rest are on the wing ; how fleet their flightIAlready has the fatal train took fire ;A moment, and the world 's blown up to thee ;The sun is darkness, and the stars are dust.

* 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours.And ask them, what report they bore to heaven

;

^:J

"*^^-^;*S-;.^ V. - _?


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32And how they might have borne more welcome news

;

Their answers form what men experience callIf wisdom's friend, her best ; if not, worst foe.O reconcile them ! kind experience cries," There 's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs

;

" The more our joy, the more we know it vain" And by success are tutor'd to despair."Nor is it only thus, but must be so

:

Who knows not this, though graj, is still a child

:

Loose then from earth the grasp of fond desire.Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore.

Art thou so moor'd thou canst not disengage,Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes ?Since, hy life's passing breath, blown up from earth.Light, as the summer's dust, we take in airA moment's giddj flight, and fall again

;

Join the dull mass, increase the trodden soil.And sleep 'till earth herself shall be no moreSince then, as emmets, their small world o'erthrown.We, sore amazed, fi^om out earth's ruins crawl,And rise to fate extreme of foul or fair.As man's own choice, controller of the skies !As man's despotic will, perhaps one hourO how omnipotent is time ! decreesShould not each warning give a strong alarm-Warning, far less than that of bosom tornFrom bosom, bleeding o'er the sacred dead ?Should not each dial strike us as we pass.Portentous, as the written wall which struck.O'er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian pale.


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fî 3:iErewhile high-flush'd ^\ itli insolence and wine ?* Like tliat, the dial speaks ; and points to thee,Lorenzo ! loth to break thy banquet up." O man, thj- kingdom is departing from thee

;

" And, while it lasts, is emptier than my shade."Its silent language such ; nor need'st thou callThj magi, to decypher what it means :Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls :Dost ask, how ? whence ? Belsha/^zar-like, amazedMan's make encloses the sure seeds of death ;Life feeds the murderer : ingrate ! he thrivesOn her o-wn meal, and then his nui"se devours.

But here, Lorenzo, the delusion lies ;That solar shadow, as it measures life.It life resembles too : life speeds awayFrom point to point, though seeming to stand still

:

The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth.Too subtle is the movement to be seen ;Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone.Warnings point out our danger ; gnomons, time :As these are useless when the sun is set

;

So those, but when more glorious reason shines :Reason should judge in all ; in reason s eye.That sedentary shadow travels hard :But such our gravitation to the wrong.So prone our hearts to whisper what wê wish,'Tis later with the wise, than he's aware ;A "Wilmington goes slower than the sun

;

Aiid all mankind mistake their time of day ;E\en age itself: fresh hopes are hourly sown

ooso


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34In furrow'd brows : so gentle life's descent.We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain."We take fair days in winter for the springAnd turn our blessings into bane : since oftMan must compute that age he cannot feel.He scarce believes he 's older for his years

:

Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in storeOne disappointment sure, to crown the restThe disappointment of a promised hour.On this, or similar. Philander! thou.Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongueAnd strong to wield all science, worth the name

;

How often we talk'd down the summer's sun.And cool'd our passions by the breezy streamHow often thaw'd and shorten'd winter's eve.By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth.Best found, so sought ; to the recluse more coy !Thoughts disentangle passing o'er the lip ;Clean runs the thread ; if not, 'tis thrown away.Or kept to tie up nonsense for a songSong, fashionably fruitless ! such as stainsThe fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires ;Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane.

Know'st thou, Lorenzo ! what a friend contains ?As bees mix'd nectar draw from fragrant flowers.So men from friendship, wisdom and delight

;

Twins tied by nature ; if they part, they die.Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach ?Good sense will stagnate : thoughts shut up, want air.And spoil, like bales imopen'd to the sun.


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r35

Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deniedSpeech, thought's canal ! speech, thought's criterion tooThought in the mine may come forth gold or dross ;When coin'd in words, we know its real worth

:

If sterling, store it for thy future use'Twill buy thee benefit, perhaps reno\vn

:

Thought too, deliver'd, is the more possess'd* Teaching, we learn ; and giving, we retainThe births of intellect ; when dumb, forgot.Speech ventilates our intellectual fire ;Speech burnishes our mental magazineBrightens for ornament, and whets for use.What numbers, sheatli'd in erudition, liePlunged to the hilts in venerable tomes.And rusted ; who might have boi*ne an edge.And plaj'd a sprightly beam, if born to speechIf bom blest heirs to half their mother's tongue'Tis thought's exchange, which, like th' alternate pushOf waves conflicting, breaks the learned scum.And defecates the student's standing pool.

In contemplation is his proud resource ?'Tis poor as proud : bj converse unsustain'dRude thought runs wild in contemplation's field :Converse, the menage, breaks it to the bitOf due restraint ; and emulation's spurGives graceful energy, by rivals awed

:

Tis converse qualifies for solitude.As exercise for salutary rest

:

By that untutor'd, contemplation raves ;And nature's fool, by wisdom's is outdone.


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36Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines.And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive.What is she but the means of happiness ?That unobtain'd, than folly more a foolA melancholy fool, without her bells.Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly givesThe precious end, which makes our wisdom wise.Nature, in zeal for human amitj.Denies, or damps an undivided joj :Joy is an import-joy is an exchangeJoj flies monopolists ; it calls for two :Rich fruit ! heaven-planted ! never pluck'd by one.Needful auxiliars are our friends, to giveTo social man true relish of himself.Full on ourselves descending in a line.Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight

:

Delight intense is taken by reboundReverberated pleasures fire the breast.

Celestial happiness, whene'er she stoopsTo visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds,And one alone, to make her sweet amendsFor absent heaventhe bosom of a friend ;Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft.Each other's pillow to repose divine.Beware the counterfeit: in passion's flameHearts melt ; but melt like ice, soon harder froze :True love strikes root in reason, passion's foe :Virtue alone entenders us for lifeI wrong her muchentenders us for ever

:

Of friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fair


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Is virtue kindling at a rival fire.And, emulouslj rapid in her race.O the soft enmity ! endearing strife !This carries friendship to her noon-tide point.And gives the rivet of eternity.

From friendship, which outlives my former themes.Glorious surviver of old time, and death !From friendship thus, that flower of heavenly seed.The wise extract earth's most hyblean bliss,Superior wisdom crown'd with smiling joy.

But for whom blossoms this elysian flower ?Abroad they find, who cherish it at home.Lorenzo ! pardon what my love extorts.An honest love, and not afraid to frown.Though choice of follies fasten on the great.None clings more obstinate than fancy fondThat sacred friendship is their easy prey

;

Caught by the wafture of a golden lure.Or fascination of a high-born smile.Their smiles, the great, and the coquet throw outFor other hearts, tenacious of their own

;

And we no less of ours, when such the bait.Ye fortune's cofferers ! ye powers of wealth !You do your rent-rolls most felonious wrong.By taking our attachment to yourselves

:

Can gold gain friendship ? impudence of hope IAs well mere man an angel might beget

:

* Love, and love onh', is the loan lor love.Lorenzo ! pride repress ; nor hope to findA friend, but what has found a friend in thee.

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38All like the purchasefew the price will payAnd this makes friends such miracles below.

What if, since daring on so nice a theme,I shew thee friendship delicate as dear.Of tender violations apt to die ?Reserve will wound it, and distrust destroy

:

Deliberate on all things with thy friend

:

But since friends grow not thick on every bough,Nor every friend unrotten at the core.First on thy friend deliberate with thyself;Pause, ponder, sift ; not eager in the choice.Nor jealous of the chosen, fixing fix

:

Judge before friendship, then confide till death :

.

Well for thy friend ; but nobler far for thee

;

How gallant danger for earth's highest prize !A friend is worth all hazard we can run

:

" Poor is the friendless master of a world ;" A world in purchase for a friend is gain."

So sung he, angels hear that angel singAngels from friendship gather half their joy

;

So sung Philander, as his friend went roundIn the rich ichor, in the generous bloodOf Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit,A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye :He drank long health, and virtue to his friend ;His friend, who warm'd him more, who more inspired.Friendship's the wine of life ; but friendship ne^\',Not such was his, is neither strong nor pure.O ! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,And elevating spirit of a friend.


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For iwoiiU' sumnKTs ri]>cniiig Uv my sale

;

All fcculeiuc oi ialsehood long tliroAvn tlownAll social \ irtiics rising in his .soulAs crystal cicur, and smiling as thej riseHere nectar fiows ; it sparkles in our sight ;Rich to the ta.stc, and gcniuno iVom the heart

:

High-flavoiii"'cl bliss for gods ! on earth how rai'e !On earth how lost !Pini-ANDER is no more.

Think'st thou the theme intoxicates m_y ov^ng ?And I too warm ?too wann I cannot beI loved him much ; but mv; I love him more.Like birds whose beauties languish, half conceal'd,Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumesExpanded shine with azure, green and gold ;How blessings brighten as they take their flightHis flight Phii.ander tookhis upward flight,ir ever soul ascended had he dropt.That eagle genius 1 O had he let failOne feather as he flew ! I then had wroteWhat friends might flatter : prudent foes forbear

;

Rivals scarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve:Yet what I can, I must : it were profaneTo quench a glory lighted at the skies.And cast in shadows his illustrious close.Sti-ange ! the theme most affecting, tnost sublin\e,Momentous most to man, shouki sleep unsung !And yet it sleeps by genius unawakedPainim or christian, to the blush of wit.Man's highest triumph ! man's profoundcst fail !The death-bed of the just is yet undrawn


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40By mortal handit merits a divine :* Angels should paint it, angels ever there ;There on a post of honour, and of joy.

Dare I presume then ? buf Philander bids.And glory tempts, and inclination calls :Yet am I struck ; as struck the soul beneathAerial groves' impenetrable gloom ;Or in some mighty ruin's solemn shadeOr gazing by pale lamps on high-born dustIn vaults ; thin courts ol" poor unflatter'd kings !Or at the midnight altar's hallo\v'c flame :It is religion to proceed : I pauseAnd enter, awed, the temple of my theme :Is it his death-bed ? noit is his shrine :Behold him, there, just rising to a god.

The chamber, where the good man meets his fate.Is privileged beyond the common walkOf virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.Fly, ye profane ! if not, di-aw near ^\'ith awe,Recei^e the blessing, and adore the chanceThat threw in this Bethesda your diseaseIf unrestored by this, despaii*your cure :For here resistless demonstration dwells ;A death-bed 's a detecter of the heart

;

Here tired dissimulation drops her mask.Through life's grimace that mistress of the scene !Here real and apparent are t}"' sameYou see the man ; you see his hold on heaven ;If sound his virtue, as Philanders sound.T 7 . . .^jg Qt ^g jagt moment; owns her triends

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41On this side death ; and points them out to men :A lecture sclent, but of sovereign po%vcr ITo vice, confusion ; and to virtue, peace.

Whatever farce the boastful hero plajs.Virtue alone has n-iajestj in death ;And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns :Philaxdeu! he severe!)" frown'd on thee:* No warning given'.incereinonious fate !** A sudden rush frora life's menc'ian joys !" A wrench from all we lovefrom all we are I*' A restless bed of pain I a pluncê opaque'* Bejond conjecture' feeble nature's dread I" Strong reason's shudder at the dark utikjiov, n !" A sun extinguish'd ! a just opening grave !" And oh ! the lastlastv.'hat ? can words express ?" Thought reach ? the last, lastsilence of a friend 'Where are those horrors, that amazcnient w^herc.This hideous group of ills, '.vhich singly shock rDemand from manI thotigh? lîni man till novv'.Through nature's ^v3eck. through ^'anquish'd agonies.Like the stars strugg1ir>g through this midnight gloom.What gleams cf jc^' ? what more than human peace !Where, the frail mortal ? the poor abject worm ?No, not in death, the mortal to be found.His conduct is a legacy for all.Richer than Mammon's. for his single heir;His con'dbrters he comforrs; great in iiiin.With unreuic'iant grandeur gives, not jieldsH!v ôr\ -'tblime and closes vZ-^h y-.-. T-t

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42How our hearts burnt within us at the scene !Whence this bra\c bound o'er limits fix'd to man ?

His GOD sustains him in his final hourHis final hour brings glory to his, GOD !Man's glorj HEAVEN \ouchsafps to call her own.We gaze ; we weepmix'd tears of grief and joyAmazement strikes ; devotion bursts to flame ;Christians adoreand infidels believe.

As some tall tower, or lofty mountain's browDetains the sun, illustrious from its height

,

While rising vapours and descending shadesWith damps and darkness drown the spacious vale ;Undamp'd by doubt, undarken'd by despairPhilander, thus, augustly rears his headAt that black hour, whicii general horror shedsOn the low level of the inglorious throng

:

Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joyDi%inely beam on his exalted soul,Destruction gild, and rvowii him for ihe skies.With inconimunicable lustre bright.

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William Blake, Mystic

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