EPISTLES TO LORENZO.
Nec tardum operior, nec praecedentibus insto.
LONDON,
M.DCC.LVI.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE following sheets contain part of several epistolary Rhimes, written on different occasions & in different parts of
Europe.
The object of the whole would be,
to reconcile, within the bounds of moderation, the Zealots & Philosophers of the present age.
The author is sensible the latter, or, as they are call'd, the advocates for natural religion, are the greater bigots of the two; & that a superstitious attachment to
infidelity
is the master-piece of Enthusiasm: the rapsodies of
Jacob Boehmen
being much more intelligible than the
plain demonstrations,
of some modern
If the truth of this observation be call'd in question, the reader may turn, for conviction, to a late pamphlet, call'd
the Light of nature the light of the gospel;
written by an author, who, for twenty years past has occasionally oblig'd the public with works of the same stamp.
freethinkers.
To the end propos'd, therefore, the means would be to establish, on undisputed principles, the certainty of those maxims, which most affect the present & future happiness of mankind.
With this view it is necessary the author should wear an assum'd character & propose nothing but what
Reason,
common to all, may allow. In doing this, then, he would endeavour to shew the principal defects & point out the limits of the
Understanding;
to prove,
a priori,
the source of
good & evil;
the universal propriety of
original sin
& the moral necessity of that inseparable connection between
Happiness & misery, Virtue
&
Vice;
the
immortality
of the soul being, at the same time, pointed out, from arguments universally acknowledg'd & felt.
Such is the general design of the author: that of the present
publication
is, to inform himself how far this specimen may give the
publick
room to think him capable of the whole; or whether any part may be worth a finishing hand.
By the
publick,
also, he would be understood to mean the philosophical part of the world only; for, as to the gentlemen of the
Belles Lettres,
he does not willinigly subject himself to their Censure; having chosen a poetical stile for no worse reason than an incapacity to express the same sentiments better in any other: Confiding, therefore, in the well-bred humanity of such Critics, he hopes they will not put his verses to the
Horatian torture,
by pulling them to pieces, to examine the
disjecta membra Poëtae.
EPISTLE THE FIRST.
to LORENZO.
While zeal pursues, beyond the Grave,
Whom Priest nor Patriot could save,
Lost
St. John,
sav'd and damn'd by Fame,
An honour'd & a blasted Name;
Lorenzo
asks, ingenuous Youth,
What is, & who beleives, the
truth.
Lorenzo,
wouldst thou learn of me?
Truth
is where all the world agree.
Is there no point where all unite?
I answer, none are in the right.
Yet wouldst thou know, so Skepticks err,
To whom enquiry may refer;
Where trembling doubt & error blind
At once a guard & guide may find,
At once successfully apply,
And give to Falsehood's face the Lye?
Alass! denied the perfect rule,
That serves alike the Knave & Fool,
Alike the Ignorant & the Wise;
Adoring these what those despise.
Whether we judge, from Nature's Law
That
Truth
infallibly we draw,
Or think the just Criterion given
In Revelation pure from Heaven,
It differs not, unless we find
Some active index in the mind,
Some Ray of Heaven's unerring light,
To guide in this or that aright.
Let
Christianity
display
It's wond'rous Volume to the day;
The sacred lines, however true,
Alike affect not me & you;
Th' accepted sense of holy writ
Still resting on th' accepting wit.
For who that read but comprehend
As taught by Father, Priest, or Friend:
Or tenets new, more nice than wise,
Peculiar to themselves devise.
How then prevails the sacred text,
If by the comment thus perplex'd,
If Hereticks, of ev'ry kind,
Still in the
word
their
Gospel
find;
Still if the
spirit
hides the flaw
That marrs the
letter
of the
Law!
Let
Nature
's striking scenes engage
The letter'd & unletter'd Age,
No fix'd Ideas yet we find
Convey'd from hence to Humankind.
When meteors shine or Comets blaze,
Behold the wond'ring
Crito
gaze,
Prognosticate, in error wise,
The Judgments gathering in the skies:
Th'
Aurora
streaming from the Pole,
What mighty fears his Heart controul!
See him confess his angry God,
And dread his mercies as his rod:
Whilst thou, Blasphemer!
Crito
cries,
Liftst up thine hand against the skies;
Fearless, in Scientific pride,
On the wild whirlwind's wings wouldst ride:
When Thunder splits the Clouds in twain,
Or Lightnings melt them into Rain,
'Gainst Heaven itself so mad to arm,
In magick steel, you brave the storm;
With
Franklin,
impiously defie
The Thunderers red right arm on high;
Bold Titan! take your mounted stand,
To wrest the Light'nings from his hand.
Thus, by no certain instinct led,
We comprehend what's seen or read;
But, from unlike experience taught,
Peculiar are our modes of thought.
Dost pause when Pleas of
right
or
wrong
To captious opponents belong;
While
this
affirm'd or
that
denied
With equal force on either side?
Avoid
Lorenzo
vain dispute:
'Tis empty triumph to confute.
No Honour whets the
Champion's
Blade:
Truth
warms no Casuist by Trade.
See the wing'd Cork from side to side
Rebound, the truant school boy's pride!
With equal warmth, with equal noise,
So
Disputants,
like truant Boys,
Between what
Saint
or
Father
saith
Bang the light
Shittlecock
of
Faith.
Our first mistake,
Lorenzo,
this.
All on their
faith
wou'd found their bliss;
And, here while flattering hope depends,
To
truth
presumptuous
faith
pretends.
Thus
contradictions
are profess'd,
Yet
truth
must be to all the test.
But tell me what connection ties
So close the Happy and the Wise.
Ah! what avails the
Truth
to know,
When
Truth
the frequent source of woe;
While gilded
Fiction's
flattering rays
With sunshine beautifie our days;
Or, mildly shed, it's silver beams,
Reflected, light our nightly dreams;
While
Pleasure
& it's laughing train
Dance by the Moonshine of the brain.
From hence doth bliss or misery flow,
The truth to know or not to know?
For bliss in vain the Learn'd explore;
Swift as their search it flies before,
Thro' ev'ry Clime, on ev'ry wind,
And leaves their panting wish behind.
O say what truth doth science reach,
The Infant's peace of mind to teach!
O say what truth shall faith receive
Exclusive happiness to give!
In
Pope
or
Mufti
what is given
But fear of Hell & hope of Heaven;
A view of future bliss or woe,
The guiding prospect here below;
If promis'd, then, Seraphick skies,
Or
Osman's
sensual Paradise,
Or, with the
Indian,
taught t'ascend
To converse with a former friend;
Still if the tenet moves to act,
Words & Opinions bow to Fact;
To
truth
or
Knowledge
unconfin'd
The
Bliss
or
Woe
of Humankind:
As happy those who blindly trust
In Pope, or Mufti, if as just;
No more requir'd by gracious Heaven
Than to requiring Man is given.
Let
Calvin,
then, selecting, rave,
Or
Luther
souls unsorted save,
Or
Peter's heir
deny the Keys
Of Heav'n to Hereticks like these;
Rejecting thou the vain abuse,
Know ev'ry System hath it's use,
Or new or old, or yours or mine,
Subservient all to Heav'ns design:
Tho'
truth
from each be distant far
As
Good hope
from the
Polar
star.
As parts to complex Engines prove,
Inspir'd, by Mechanism, to move,
This
retrogade &
that
direct,
In diff'rent modes to one effect;
So these, or moral or divine,
In
nature's
grand machine combine.
Machine how vast! how lost is man
In
nature's
wonder-working plan!
The reason this,—we ever drew
Of
Nature
a perspective view;
Fix'd to
one Station,
Time & place,
In power no just
survey
to trace.
So individuals also draw;
Their eye their rule, their will their law.
No wonder then that
wrong
&
right
Perplex, from various points of Sight;
That widely diff'rent both appear
If view'd from thence or seen from here.
Place
lights,
with art, the
shades
between;
And black & white the varying scene:
At points oppos'd each strikes the eyes,
And
this
affirms what
that
denies.
The demonstration of his Sight
Who doubts? who knows not black from white
The proofs of both exactly suit,
And evidence supports dispute.
How madly then the world agree
To rave at alien Heresy!
Heirs to Religion's brighter sphere,
How strangely damn'd & damning here!
Halfwitted Zeal, of all the test,
Itself condemning with the rest:
By Sampson's rage, so thousands lost
Fell but at
blinded Sampson's
cost.
Lorenzo,
is't thyself to please?
Dost covet
truth
in hopes of
ease?
Woulds't thou of future bliss or woe
Secure thy hopes and fears below?
Be
truth
no more thy ardent search;
Behold thy
nostrum
in the Church;
Faith,
by indulgent Heaven, design'd,
To help the weak, to lead the blind,
To check the rash, to warn the bold,
T'affright the young, t'amuse the old,
From our ownselves ourselves to save,
And bring us smiling to the Grave.
Ask'st thou what
Church?
by each confest
His own superior to the rest.
Enquire of all—of all enquir'd,
Their
medium
is the term desir'd.
Dost thou require this term of me?
Go, seek it in
Conformity:
At
London, Pekin,
or
Peru,
A constant rule for ever true.
From hence deduce that
golden mean
Each dagger-drawing Church between;
Nor doubt if here thou fixest right:
In
half their difference
all unite.
Their half of difference, if unknown,
Will
Moderation
make thine own.
Hard is the task, advent'rous Youth,
And bold thy enterprize for
truth.
Yet canst thou
bliss
or
ease
forego,
And burns thy bosom but to
know?
Hast, in thine earlier hours, been taught
The gen'rous fortitude of thought,
To set blind prejudice apart,
To rend
th'old Woman
from the Heart,
To damn tradition's idle rules,
The Mother & the Nurse of Fools?
Th' ingenuous muse shall lead the way
Safe in the theme, tho' rude the lay,
Truth
hopes not for poetic praise:
To
Fiction
sacred are the Bays.
EPISTLE THE SECOND.
to LORENZO.
Rul'd by no giant hopes or fears,
Whose stature grows with length of years,
In search of
Truth,
expect to find
The labour suited to the mind;
With genius
Nature
bearing part,
The strict, yet gentle, nurse of
art:
For aim not thou a point to hit,
Beyond the reach of human wit;
Or join,
Lorenzo,
blindly, those,
Who first would
Nature's God
disclose.
For, say the voice of
reason
true;
Be ours a just abstracted view:
Be it the priviledge of man
To trace, exactly,
Nature's
plan;
The scale of Beings in his hands,
To know the point at which he stands,
Compar'd with all he boasts to know,
As well above him as below:
Yet, if, of human logick vain,
He links to Heav'n a kindred chain
Man his conclusions idly draws;
And
Heav'n
prescribes by
human
laws.
Imagine thou in what degree
A
Seraph
stands 'tween
God & thee:
Conceive thyself a
mite
unseen
And
Being infinite
between:
In this Comparison, says Pride,
A
Seraph
thou, to
God
allied.
Thy Pride,
Lorenzo,
disbeleive;
Let
Locke
nor
Addison
deceive:
For tho'
Creation's
varied plan
Assigns degrees respecting
man;
Yet
Skeptick
know, & learn to fear,
God
is beyond thy proper Sphere.
Created
Beings,
all, his care,
Doth he with them Creation
share?
Ah no! the System all our own,
God,
the Creator, stands alone:
At equal distance all his plan,
The mite, the Seraph or the Man.
Is it not so, the passive clay
Of yon Corinthian Column gay,
That gilt entablature or base,
Or marble of yon shining vase
Resemble more the artist's mind
Than if to meaner use consign'd.
Absurd! is
Jones's
genius known.
By the great model or the stone?
The Pile erect to
Trajan's
name,
Affected not by empty fame,
The Cross rever'd, the honour'd Bust
And trodden floor are kindred dust:
For all, in one degree, respect
Their sov'reign Lord, the
Architect.
How justly then so e'er we plead
That Reason nature's book doth read,
As by it's known & written laws
Of each
effect
we trace the
cause,
Those laws can ne'er themselves confine
The legislative Pow'r divine;
Whose will that order first decreed
And bade th' effect the cause succeed;
Agent, by some
superior scheme,
Of which, in this, we can but dream.
Bear
Atticus
the Critick's rod.
In vain we, then, define a
God,
In vain we attributes bestow;
Or reason, here, from what we know.
Tho' Science teach, religion warm,
What wild Ideas still we form?
Incongruous embrios of the brain,
That strive to scale the Heav'ns in vain.
Too short to reach beyond the sky
The focus of the mental eye;
Too cold our most transporting Zeal
To paint what Heav'ns & light conceal.
Yet will the skeptick ask me why?
Go, rise & to the dog-star fly
Thou canst not: nor the cause unknown.
Central
attraction
holds thee down;
A pow'r occult, which, e'er thy birth,
Fast bound thee to thy native Earth,
From which thou ne'er canst hope to rise
To Lunar plains or solar skies.
Nor less, within it's sphere, confin'd
The subtle essence of the mind.
Tho' Heav'n has giv'n it pow'r to rove
In Freedom thro' the plains above;
Hath wing'd it's active feet to run,
With
Merc'ry,
round the central sun;
Has giv'n it distant Worlds t'explore;
And seas of space without a shore:
Yet, still, within Creation's round,
Within our narrow system bound;
Of what's above or what without
We harbour universal doubt.
Say light prevails, no contrast shade
Outlines the void we would pervade:
If darkness reigns, no chearing ray
Delineates blind
Enquiry's
way.
Hence, mortal man, must ever be
Thy Author, here, unknown to thee;
Destin'd thy erring way to trace
Thro'
Nature's
parti-colour'd space.
Let
Ignorance,
then, her
Idol
dress
In
Justice, Love & Happiness;
Adorn with
Mercy
's golden chain,
With all the virtues grace it's train;
And then adore, in humble plight,
And call those fopperies
infinite.
The
pagan
thus, despis'd as blind,
Creates his Idol to his mind;
Thinking his deity express'd
By
bird
or
beast
he likes the best;
Then bows before it's painted shrine;
And calls his wooden God divine.
Cast the presumptuous thought aside:
'Tis not
humility
but
pride;
Unless that truly humble we,
T'adore the God
Humanity.
And such it is: for whence arise
Our virtues but from moral ties,
Whose known relations thus define.
That
Essence
mortals call
divine.
Lorenzo,
ready for reply,
Lay not thy prompt objection by,
Thou sayst "thy friend himself deceives,
"Nor God adores, nor God beleives:
"For tho' the mind the pow'r descries,
"If left it's
By Essence is meant, here, those attributes or qualities, by which we define any known
EXISTENCE
or distinguish it from any other.
essence in the skies,
"If none beleiv'd, or none display'd,
"To what is adoration paid?
"In me no certain Faith is found;
"My deity an empty sound.
Not so: for, granting, Iconfess,
Thy attributes a God express;
Ev'n thou'lt assert "still undefin'd
"The
perfect,
by
th' imperfect,
mind;
But to thy attributes must join
Thy
infinite,
or thy
divine.
As
jugglers,
who t'enhance deceit,
To sacred science give their Cheat,
While, with the curtain, still they hide
The
slight of hand,
too closely eye'd:
So here sly
theologues
impart
The
Hocus pocus
of their art,
And hold
religion
's sacred veil,
Where
slights of Understanding
fail:
For know, alass, their wisest plan
Displays but a SUPERIOR MAN,
Whom
Infinite,
the Conjurer's rod,
Presto,
converts into a God:
For till they solve our problem right,
And tell us what is
infinite,
They still must be reduc'd to own
Their
compound
deity unknown:
To all, or reasoning or inspir'd,
This
infinite
a term requir'd.
Differs
Lorenzo,
then, with me?
In terms alone we disagree:
Perfection infinite
is thine,
Indefinite Perfection
mine.
Condemn not, then, half-understood.
I not deny that perfect,
good,
All-gracious, merciful
and
wise,
God reigns, supreme, beyond the skies.
Neither, 'tis true, my terms imply;
But, granting none, I none deny:
Requiring but to acquiesce
That thou thy
infinite
express.
Idly doth
Bolingbroke
refine;
Granting that
wisdom
is divine,
While, full as idly, he denies
Justice & Goodness
to the skies.
Ideas, equally our own,
Our
Goodness
as our
wisdom
's known:
To both as hard to reconcile
Or Nature's frown or Nature's smile.
Alass! no attributes of thine
Can e'er the
deity
define;
Impossible to judge, or know,
Of God above from Man below:
Reserv'd the prospect of the skies
To gratifie immortal eyes.
Lorenzo,
let us reason right.
No finite spans an infinite;
Unless, with
Matho,
vers'd in Arts,
We hold th' infinity of parts:
But none th' absurdity will plan,
That God can be contain'd in man;
Tho', as absurdly, they suppose
Our qualities the
God
disclose.
Join'st thou, with
Florio,
the dispute,
T'enhance each moral attribute;
Pretending these, however crude,
Divine perfection doth include;
As Species in a Genus they,
Or parts, which do the whole display.
So, with the grandeur all t'inspire
Of the gay mansion of his sire,
An Idiot Heir, his mother's fool,
Taught his synecdoché, at school,
Conceiv'd by part the whole was shown,
And took a sample of the
stone.
Convinc'd, doth
Polydore,
with me,
That
God's
indefinite, agree;
Yet argue that our partial view
May still be relatively
true:
For, if no abstract lights we gain,
'Tis
just
our best to entertain;
Our
God
to call that wond'rous
cause,
In Nature trac'd, by nature's laws.
Mistake not here, nor
God
dethrone:
Be the first Cause in Nature known;
'Tis but a consequent
Effect;
Whose
Cause
no similars respect.
The
God
we, then, by this define
Nor self existent nor divine.
Be known Creation's various ties;
Whence Physical relations rise;
Explain'd, distinct, to mortal sense,
The wond'rous scheme of
Providence:
Say'st thou the Knowledge hence deriv'd
Of him those systems hath contriv'd?
Alass! from hence we only trace
The Features of Creation's face;
The front it bears to human-kind:
But not it's self-existing mind.
Should we, presuming to display
The spirit of the golden day,
Thus, call it's essence it's result,
Attraction, Fire, alike occult;
Or say 'tis Vegetation green;
Who'd think it is the
Sun
we mean?
So here t'absurdity we fall
Nor thus define a
God
at all.
Yet while, to thee I freely own,
I reverence a God unknown;
Think not, through Ignorance or Pride
A God was ever yet denied.
No
The word
ATHEIST
is here us'd to signifie, simply, one who denies the being of a God.
Atheist e'er was known on Earth
'Till fiery Zealots gave him birth,
For controversy's sake, their trade,
And damn'd the Heretic they made.
Doth
Clody,
impudent & vain,
Deny a God, in skeptick strain,
And yet, in ignorance, advance,
That Natures works were made by
Chance?
Warm
Theologues,
absurdly wife,
With their anathemas despise;
For well may
Clody
these inflame,
Whose
God
exists but in a
name,
A technic term, devis'd at School:
I pity
Clody,
as a Fool.
To
Epicurus'
strains belong
The censures of an Idle song.
For, say "united worlds might join,
"By accident, & not design;
"
Atoms
might
luckily
contrive,
"And
Strangely
find themselves
alive,
"Or, by some other scheme as wild,
"The world be
Fortune's
fav'rite Child.
Explain the terms— say what is meant
By
atoms, fortune, accident.
What mean'st thou but th'efficient cause
Of Nature's works & Nature's laws?
O think not, then, th'
eternal mind
To
term
or
epithet
confin'd;
But take away or change the name;
And
Clody
's God &
mine
's the
same.
Say'st thou in
Chance
a pow'r defin'd,
Fortuitous, absurd & blind,
Unworthy that stupendous plan,
Which Nature's scenes display to man:
Where grace, with harmony allied,
And wisdom strike, on ev'ry side.
Alass! to
Clody
these unknown:
For wond'rous
Wisdom
's all his own.
In Nature nothing he surveys
That actuates his soul to praise:
In vain the Planets run their course,
Obedient to
Attraction
's force;
Th'eccentric Comets, far & wide
Pursue the same unerring guide;
In vain describes their varied race,
In equal times, an equal space:
In vain, thro' microscopic eyes,
Innumerable wonders rise,
On the green leaf whole nations crawl,
And myriads perish in it's fall.
Alass! what bears the barren mind!
What beauty can affect the blind!
Should
Clody
then his
chance
disclaim,
And own a
deity,
by name,
The blundering deist must advance
A
God,
no wiser than his
Chance.
How obvious is the truth! & yet,
What learned volumes have been writ,
How Scholiasts labour to confute
What none do actually dispute!
Of the first cause, or fools or wise,
The pure
existence
none denies;
But in it's
The word
ESSENCE
is here us'd in the sense above mention'd.
page 28.
essence
disagree:
For who defines
infinity!
Blush not,
Lorenzo,
then, to own,
Th'eternal God a God unknown;
Whose face, to mortal eye denied,
Can never gratifie thy Pride.
To him your votive altars raise,
As
Athens
did, in antient days;
Nor dare pollute his sacred shrine
With human sacrifice divine;
But humble adoration bring,
And silent praise, fit offering!
So the
Peruvian,
pure in heart,
Strange to the guile or guilt of
art,
Unaw'd by tenet, text or tale,
Erects his temple, in the vale,
Sacred to th'
universal mind,
The God & guide of Human-kind.
No firstlings here affront the skies,
Nor clouds of smoking incense rise:
No Hypocrite, with acid face,
No Convert, tortur'd into grace,
No solid skull, in wisdom's cowl,
No hooded hawk, nor solemn owl,
Nor blind, nor ominous invade
This spotless consecrated shade:
But, as the native of the spray,
Man hails his maker, with the day,
By Nature taught, Heav'n asks no more,
In
spirit
& in
truth
t'adore.
EPISTLE THE THIRD.
to LORENZO.
Nor to the fount of
Hippocrene,
Nor groves of laurel, ever green,
Nor where the wanton Graces stray,
With flowers is strew'd the muse's way.
Lorenzo,
no, I more rejoice
At Reason's rough & manly voice
Than at the sprightliest, softest airs
That ever tickled
Fancy
's cars;
Tho' senseless Echo found them sweet,
And bade the
public voice
repeat.
Lorenzo,
systems throw'n aside,
Be
Reason,
then, our honest guide;
The guide, not only to the mind
In Science deep or sense refin'd;
But to the
plain
and
honest
giv'n
The first, best, artless gift of Heav'n
Reason,
that sees not but the sense
Of
Ciceronian
Eloquence.
The limits of our Reason known,
To Heav'n resign it's honour'd throne:
On humbler wings, but rise to know
Thy
Heav'n
on Earth, thy God below:
Content to trace, from Nature's laws,
Th' effects of an abstracted cause;
The Cause of all th' effects we see;
The all we mean by
deity.
Adapted thus
Enquiry's
plan
To truths as relative to Man;
Know Nature's law no less extends
To
Physical
than
moral
ends.
What moves the fix'd mechanic pow'r,
To shed the soft refreshing show'r,
That, in the womb of teeming Earth,
It's atoms quickens into birth,
Doth in the moral scene connect
The cause & consequent effect.
Hence vice the source of human woe,
As springs of streams that from them flow,
On virtue happiness depends,
As matter to the centre tends.
Nor less capricious, to the
sense,
Physicks,
indeed, than
Providence.
Conceive not then, as skepticks dream,
That nature's an imperfect scheme:
Because, perplex'd with grief & pain,
Man covets perfect bliss in vain.
Say'st thou that
Man
the work of Heav'n,
To him if
imperfection
's giv'n,
Imperfect must that system be
Whose
Lord
a being weak as he.
Lorenzo,
let not words deceive,
All
imperfection
's relative:
For of
perfection absolute
All Nature is, beyond dispute:
For all from God itself derives;
And all is perfect God contrives.
Man, surely, perfect, then,
you'll cry.
As Man, most perfect, I reply:
The Creature of his maker's will,
But form'd his pleasure to fulfill,
Design'd, in wide Creation's plan
To fill the place & act as
Man.
For, doth capacity t'improve
Perfection positive remove?
As well imperfect might'st thou say
The rising sun, at dawn of day,
Since with superior heat & light
It blazes in meridian height.
Form'd with progressive powers to rise,
In
this
ev'n man's perfection lies:
Perfect, as such,
humanity,
Howe'er degraded in degree.
Yet wilt thou say "is man consin'd
"To fill the place by Heav'n assign'd,
"Impossible to rise or fall;
"Why feels he misery at all?
Another question answers this.
What title have mankind to Bliss?
Correct Ideas let us gain:
Say, what the misery of pain?
In vain,
Lorenzo,
dost thou here
Affected
Stoicism
fear.
None feels more tenderly than I:
Mine the soft heart & wat'ry eye,
The sanguine hopes, the needless fears,
Yet unsubdued by sense or years.
Yet Ah! how little understood
Mankind's imaginary good.
To Heav'n my grateful vows be paid
That Man in human Frailty made;
That grief & ignorance my lot;
In joy & Literature forgot;
Or best remember'd, in the taste
They give t'
improvement
's rich repast.
No transport e'er had fir'd my breast,
If born of Sciences possess'd,
As when, by native genius fir'd,
To early knowledge I aspir'd;
By slow degrees instructed grew,
As Nature open'd to my view;
To the weak eye as Hope was giv'n,
Hope! that directs the soul to Heav'n.
Hence, tho' no
Stoick,
I conceive
All joy and pain comparative.
The glow of Health the bliss of ease
Had never boasted charms to please,
Nor cordial draught nor downy bed
Had e'er reviv'd the drooping head,
Had sickness pale & trembling grief
Ne'er wish'd for wearied eyes, relief.
See
Belmont,
on the sof;a laid:
What racking Pains his limbs invade!
Take half his
Gout;
the respite giv'n
He calls a blissful taste of
Heav'n.
Give but a Youth, dispersing Wealth,
Who riots on the bloom of Health,
That
blissful part
which yet remains;
And
his
were
Hell's distracting
pains;
Pains which no aggravation know!
And yet, so relative our woe,
Inflict them when, by
Chloe's
kiss,
The am'rous Youth dissolves in bliss,
Ev'n these distracting pains were worse,
A mortal's most embitter'd curse.
In
By
mental sorrows
are here meant those reflexions, or uneasy sensations, which are vulgarly suppos'd, sometimes, to attend the perfect health of the body.
mental sorrows, thus our grief
Seeks but comparative releif:
The trifling cares that
you
despise
To
some
momentous miseries.
Ah me! what threat'ning danger nigh?
Why swells the tear from
Delia's
eye?
Ah whence proceeds this sad distress?
From th' insignificance of dress.
Thus ev'n to
circumstance
we owe
The difference of bliss & woe;
Pleasure & pain, as light & shade,
By one the other still display'd.
O what capricious joy & strife
Attend the various scenes of Life!
To wield the Scythe, with sweaty brow,
To turn the soil, beneath the plough,
To sow in hope & reap in joy
Thine
Labour!
is the sweet employ:
Stranger to hope, from want secure,
Life's easy burthen to endure,
To eat the grape nor prune the vine,
Laborious
Idleness!
is thine.
Yet
Idleness
of Care complains,
And
Labour
quarrels with it's
pains.
How sunk & terrible to
thee
The hollow eye of
Poverty,
While
Villius
meets her with a smile,
And sings or whistles all the while;
Tho' worn his hands, perplex'd his head,
He relishes the sweets of bread,
And many a time, in pleasant rue,
Dances for joy, without a shoe.
Nor less thy woes, nor more thy joy;
Since equal cares thy peace destroy;
Since wanting ne'er, thou ne'er hast tried
Th' effects of being satisfied;
In Plenty little more enjoy'd
Than the dull bliss of being cloy'd:
The child of Penury but
Ease,
As of satiety
disease:
Disease, that takes our lives by Stealth
And makes a beggary of Wealth.
When Fortune made thee rich & gay;
It gave th' anxiety for
play;
Bade, with thy
Hawk,
thine
acres
fly;
Thy
freehold
totter with the
die.
Not greater care poor
Villius
knows;
As Blest in
nothing he can lose.
Thus Plenty, giving bread more white,
But steals the whet of Appetite:
A Blessing, plainly, half-accurst,
That gives me wine but steals my thirst!
Lorenzo
farther might we go,
And prove still nearer bliss & woe,
To each inseparably join'd;
Alternate regents in the mind:
Yet so precarious in their reign;
Bliss
tyrannizes into
pain;
And when to cruel pain we bow,
It's rod grows light, we know not how.
The tension of th' extended nerve,
Say
Physiologists,
may serve
This seeming paradox t'explain;
Th'
affinity
of Joy & pain.
As strung the
Harp
with trembling Wire,
With Nerves so strung the
human lyre,
In healthful
concord
tun'd, they say,
Pleasures
harmonious Concert play.
But, if their tension more or less,
From Passion, sickness or distress,
Most
tremblingly alive all o'er,
The strings, in
discord,
charm no more;
But, jarring, plays th' ungrateful strain,
With harpy-singers, deaf'ning
Pain.
Deduce we, then,
Lorenzo,
hence
That joys & pains are modes of sense,
As tunes in musick, where each note
The simple
Gamut
has by rote,
And, adventitiously combin'd,
Please or displease but as they're
join'd.
Should also passion, sense or art
Wind up too high the nervous part,
The tuneful notes in noise expire,
Or breaking strings unman the Lyre.
For as, excess of Joy or Grief
Finds in a tear the
same
releif;
The rapture of
Cleora's
kiss
Inflicts the
racking pain
of
bliss:
Th' effect the same, while both destroy,
Exquisite pain extatic joy!
Theme of continual dispute!
No
relative
is
absolute:
No Error, such conceiv'd by Man,
A blunder is in
Nature's
plan;
Nor dare we impiously pretend
Ills absolute from
God
descend.
The Question old unanswer'd lies.
From whence did
moral evil
rise?
Thou say'st, if pow'r to stand was giv'n,
Man had not fell, the care of Heav'n,
No tempter known to lead to vice,
Serpent nor Eve in Paradise.
Lorenzo,
in the pride of sense,
Instruction
is impertinence:
She therefore, daughter of the wife,
Hath long been shelter'd in disguise;
Ent'ring, beneath the mask of Sport,
The
presence,
tho forbid the Court;
So fond with young
delight
to stray,
And moralize the wanton's play,
That ev'n her precepts still prevail
In ev'ry sav'rite Gossip's tale.
Yet so that those, her arts would learn,
May th' allegory's face discern:
The moral, then, from Tales deduct,
And let Philosophy instruct.
Here the grand Error that we make,
Morals for Physicals we take;
Like those half mad, amphibious wits,
Who jumble, in their learned fits,
Effects & causes, each for either,
God, man, Heav'n, Earth & all together
Fire, spirit, virtue, mixture rare!
With darkness
soluble
in
air.
To
Hutchinsonian
Idiots leave,
What none but Idiots can conceïve:
Nor think thou
moral ill
exists,
And battles in Creation's lists,
A formal Enemy to man,
Since Nature's monarchy began;
A
Being
Physical or
Pow'r,
Active poor mortals to devour.
For 'tis impossible a cause
Should counter-act Creation's Laws;
As one or other must prevail,
And one, or both together, fail.
Beleive me, then, what
Ill
we call
Is no abstracted cause at all:
For, stript Creation of mankind,
No
moral ill
were left behind:
Owing to th' human breast it's rise
For man's first moral action
vice.
Lorenzo,
state the matter clear.
Be pain & pleasure strangers here:
Strangers to pleasure & to pain,
Induce what motives to complain!
For had we ne'er been griev'd or pain'd
Of
vice
we never had complain'd.
Suppose we, then, in Nature's plan
T'exist the
microcosm
of
man;
Asleep in senseless matter's arms,
Which
perfect rest
nor grieves nor charms:
Should Heav'n a conscious mind inspire,
Where reason checks & passions sire,
Nor pain inflict nor pleasure give,
But wake the
form
alone to
live.
Unnerv'd by
Hope,
unaw'd by
fear,
Alike from all reflections clear,
Suppose to action, then, consign'd
This naked, unaffected mind.
Lorenzo,
with precision, hence
Let us infer the consequence.
Behold the source of
moral ill,
The prior agent was the
will;
Reason
without the pow'r to act
To censure or advise a fact,
As by Experience nought it knew
Of
good
or
bad,
or
false
or
true:
For Reason it's conclusions draws
From similar effect & cause:
No instinct, faculty or sense
That promptly dictates innocence;
That bids us Virtue's steps pursue,
Or points to bliss it never knew.
For, giving
reason,
then had Heav'n
No less than actual
pleasure
giv'n.
This not suppos'd— hence Reason's use
Some known effect must introduce.
Now if as
We admit of few
receiv'd principles,
nor would this have been admitted so easily had it not been what those Philosophers, who doubt of almost ev'ry thing else, will readily agree to.
innate
we maintain
A love of bliss & hate of Pain,
Directed as the passions fir'd,
The
will
to
pleasure
first aspir'd:
If
Pleasure
was the point attain'd
Of
Pain
an equal sense was gain'd:
As the first
tree of Knowledge
bore
Of
good & evil
equal store:
For, when the mind one pleasure knew,
It's state of
perfect rest
withdrew:
No
Neutral
sense it might retain,
As
less than pleasure,
now, was
pain.
Thus, felt th'
initiated mind
The sting which pleasure left behind,
And
Reason
did to
act
commence
On th' information of the sense.
If justly then we're taught to know
Vice as the precedent of woe,
What deeds from Passion take their rise
Must, needs, in consequence, be vice.
In
guilt original
involv'd,
Here, see the Mystery resolv'd.
To the first man, no more confin'd
Than passions found in ev'ry mind
Is the first cause of grief & pain,
And Vice's hatred, horrid train.
As Man's the
source,
so Man's the
end.
Ourselves our Crimes alone offend.
Is Heav'n's
premeditated woe?
Heav'n needs no friend nor fears a foe;
Has no vindictive rage in store,
For it's own sake, on man to pour;
Blest in himself th' almighty Cause,
Or kept or broken human laws.
For know, vain man, no act of thine
Renders defective God's design:
No pow'r to human frailty giv'n
To controvert the will of Heav'n.
Presume not at so high a price
To rate th' iniquity of
Vice:
Nor let the vainly-virtuous fool,
Projecting Heav'n by line & rule,
Sore-lash'd & wasting to the bone,
The crime of healthier days t'atone,
Conceive, by want of rest or meat,
Th' eternal purpose to defeat.
Presume not at so low a rate
To value the decrees of Fate.
Ev'n such, in Physics, are the Fools,
Puzzled
beyond the maze of schools,
Who boast a pow'r, or, pow'r to form,
Would Nature's fortress take, by storm;
With martial engines, stranger, far,
Than those of
Archimedes
were;
Madmen
Monro
could never cure
Of
Circles
& their
quadrature,
Of thinking drunk
Creation
reels,
Like a slung Coach, on
springs
&
wheels.
Yet say not, therefore,
Guilt
is free;
Or promise Crimes impunity:
Since 'tis ordain'd the sting of woe
To bliss inordinate shall grow;
That each false pleasure bring it's pain,
And ev'ry Vice it's kindred train.
Lorenzo,
evil understood,
How near the source of
moral good!
'Twas
Reason
taught us
this
to prize:
For Reason
virtue
did devise.
Know
pleasures, which the passions taste,
In haste are won, are lost in haste,
While their equivalent of pains,
Long, the tenacious mind retains.
Hence, did not
Reason
check below,
The
will
would work continual woe.
Reason! bestow'd a common friend,
Not to keep faultless, but amend;
To lead self-love, a glutton blind,
Which, else, nor hopes nor fears could bind;
To give it's scene of action light,
And check each sensual appetite:
The bliss of
social love
to share,
And
passion's
blunders to repair.
Caelestial Guide! O give my Youth
T'enjoy thy lovelier sister
Truth;
For whose Embrace my vows I pay,
In ardent sighs, th' enquiring day:
Nor, when enquiring day is o'er,
Cease by the midnight lamp to pore
O'er the dull tale or tedious page
Of saint, or more laborious sage;
Happy if saint or sage could tell
Where I with her might ever dwell.
With thee, bright
Truth!
for whom alone
My Genius for the verse be known;
Content for thee to change the bays,
The
Poet's
for thy
Lover's
praise.