That he will judge the earth, and call the fool' To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain ; And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well And prove it in the infallible result So hollow and so false, I feel my heart Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd, If this be learning, most of all deceived.
Great crimes alarm the conscience, but she sleeps 185 While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. Defend me therefore common sense, say I,
From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells 10, And growing old in drawing nothing up! / 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose, And overbuilt with most impending brows, 'Twere well could you permit the world to live
As the world pleases. What's the world to you?
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk As sweet as charity from human breasts. I think, articulate, I laugh and weep And exercise all functions of a man. How then should I and any man that lives Be strangers to each other"? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meandering there
9 Go, teach eternal Wisdom how to rule, Then drop into thyself, and be a fool.
Pope. Essay on Man, ii. 29.
10 Nor vainly buys what Gildon sells, Poetic buckets for dry wells.
11 Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.
And catechise it well. Apply your glass, Search it, and prove now if it be not blood Congenial with thine own. And if it be, What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, To cut the link of brotherhood, by which One common Maker bound me to the kind? True; I am no proficient, I confess,
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,
And bid them hide themselves in the earth beneath; I cannot analyse the air, nor catch
The parallax of yonder luminous point
That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss:
I boast not;-neither can I rest
A silent witness of the headlong rage
Or heedless folly by which thousands die,
Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine.
God never meant that man should scale the heavens
By strides of human wisdom. In his works
Though wonderous, He commands us in his word To seek him rather, where his mercy shines. The mind indeed enlighten'd from above Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause The grand effect; acknowledges with joy His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. But never yet did philosophic tube That brings the planets home into the eye Of observation, and discovers, else Not visible, his family of worlds,
Discover Him that rules them; such a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth
And dark in things divine. Full often too Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her Author more, From instrumental causes proud to draw Conclusions retrograde and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undiscern'd but by that. holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy baptized In the pure fountain of eternal love Has eyes indeed; and viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man,
Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days
On all her branches. Piety has found
Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer 250 Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God,
And in his word sagacious.
Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, And fed on manna. And such thine in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised And sound integrity not more, than famed For sanctity of manners undefiled.
All flesh is grass 12, and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevel'd in the wind; Riches have wings 13, and grandeur is a dream; The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
Nothing is proof against the general curse Of vanity, that seizes all below.
The only amaranthine flower on earth
Is virtue, the only lasting treasure, truth.
But what is truth 14? 'twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. And wherefore? will not God impart his light To them that ask it ?-Freely ;-'tis his joy, His glory, and his nature to impart : But to the proud, uncandid, insincere Or negligent enquirer, not a spark.
What's that which brings contempt upon a book And him that writes it, though the style be neat, The method clear, and argument exact? That makes a minister in holy things The joy of many and the dread of more,
His name a theme for praise and for reproach? That while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own? What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, That learning is too proud to gather up, But which the poor and the despised of all Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? Tell me, and I will tell thee, what is truth.
Oh friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural leisure pass'd 15! Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets,
14 Bacon otherwise-"What is truth? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer."— Essay i.
15 O knew he but his happiness, of men
The happiest he! who far from public rage
Though many boast thy favours, and affect To understand and chuse thee for their own. But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss Even as his first progenitor, and quits, Though placed in paradise, (for earth has still Some traces of her youthful beauty left,) Substantial happiness for transient joy. Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest By every pleasing image they present Reflections such as meliorate the heart, Compose the passions and exalt the mind, Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delight To fill with riot and defile with blood. Should some contagion kind to the poor brutes We persecute, annihilate the tribes
That draw the sportsman over hill and dale Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again,
Deep in the vale with a choice few retired, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. Thomson.
O sacred solitude! divine retreat! Choice of the prudent, envy of the great, By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid; The genuine offspring of her loved embrace, Strangers on earth! are innocence and peace. There from the ways of men laid safe ashore, We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; There bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd, This life we relish, and ensure the next.
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