And calm, could meet his unborn destiny,
In all its charming or its frightful shapes.
He that unshrinking, and without a groan,
Bears the first wound, may finish all the war
With mere courageous silence, and come off
Conqueror: for the man that well conceals
The heavy strokes of fate, he bears them well.
He, though the' Atlantic and the Midland seas
With adverse surges meet, and rise on high
Suspended 'twixt the winds, then rush amain
Mingled with flames, upon his single head,
And clouds, and stars, and thunder; firm he stands,
Secure of his best life; unhurt, unmov'd;
And drops his lower nature, born for death.
Then from the lofty castle of his mind
Sublime looks down, exulting, and surveys
The ruins of creation; (souls alone
Are heirs of dying worlds;) a piercing glance
Shoots upward from between his closing lids,
To reach his birth place, and without a sigh
He bids his batter'd flesh lie gently down
Amongst his native rubbish; whilst the spirit
Breathes and flies upward, an undoubted guest
Of the third Heaven, the' unruinable sky.
Thither, when fate has brought our willing souls,
No matter whether 'twas a sharp disease,
Or a sharp sword that help'd the travellers on,
And push'd us to our home. Bear up, my friend,
Serenely, and break through the stormy brine
With steady prow; know, we shall once arrive
At the fair haven of eternal bliss.
To which we ever steer; whether as kings
Of wide command we've spread the spacious sea
With a broad painted fleet, or row'd alɔng
In a thin cock-boat with a little oar.
There let my native plank shift me to land And I'll be happy: Thus I'll leap ashore Joyful and fearless on the' immortal coast, Since all I leave is mortal, and it must be lost.
FREE PHILOSOPHY.
CUSTOM, that tyranness of fools,
That leads the learned round the schools,
In magic chains of forms and rules!
My genius storms her throne:
No more, ye slaves, with awe profound
Beat the dull track, nor dance the round:
Loose hands, and quit the' enchanted ground:
Knowledge invites us each alone.
I hate these shackles of the mind,
Forg'd by the haughty wise;
Souls were not born to be confin'd,
And led, like Sampson, blind and bound;
Though when his native strength he found
He well aveng'd his eyes.
I love thy gentle influence, Rowe;
Thy gentle influence, like the sun,
Only dissolves the frozen snow,
Then bids our thoughts like rivers flow,
And choose the channels where they run.
Thoughts should be free as fire or wind;
The pinions of a single mind
Will through all nature fly:
But who can drag up to the poles
Long fetter'd ranks of leaden souls?
A genius, which no chain controls,
Roves with delight; or deep, or high :
Swift I survey the globe around,
Dive to the centre through the solid ground,
Or travel o'er the sky.
THE WAY OF THE MULTITUDE.
Rowe, if we make the crowd our guide
Through life's uncertain road,
Mean is the chase; and wandering wide
We miss the' immortal good;
Yet if my thoughts could be confin'd
To follow any leader-mind,
I'd mark thy steps, and tread the same :
Dress'd in thy notions I'd appear
Not like a soul of mortal frame,
Nor with a vulgar air.
Men live at random and by chance,
Bright Reason never leads the dance;
Whilst in the broad and beaten way
O'er dales and hills from Truth we stray.
To ruin we descend, to ruin we advance.
Wisdom retires; she hates the crowd,
And with a decent scorn
Aloof she climbs her steepy seat,
Where nor the grave nor giddy feet,
Of the learn'd vulgar or the rude,
Have e'er a passage worn.
Mere hazard first began the track,
Where custom leads her thousands blind
In willing chains and strong;
There's scarce one bold, one noble mind,
Dares tread the fatal error back;
But hand in hand ourselves we bind,
And drag the age along.
Mortals, a savage herd, and loud
As billows on a noisy flood,
In rapid order roll;
Example makes the mischief good:
With jocund heel we beat the road,
Ünheedful of the goal.
Me let Ithuriel's friendly wing
Snatch from the crowd, and bear sublime
To Wisdom's lofty tower,
Thence to survey that wretched thing,
Mankind; and in exalted rhyme
Bless the delivering power.
1 The name of an angel in Milton's Paradise Lost.
GREAT man, permit the Muse to climb
And seat her at thy feet,
Bid her attempt a thought sublime,
And consecrate her wit.
I feel, I feel the' attractive force
Of thy superior soul:
My chariot flies her upward course,
The wheels divinely roll.
Now let me chide the mean affairs
And mighty toil of men :
How they grow grey in trifling cares,
Or waste the motions of the spheres
Upon delights as vain!
A puff of honour fills the mind,
And yellow dust is solid good; Thus like the ass of savage kind, We snuff the breezes of the wind, Or steal the serpent's food. Could all the choirs
That charm the poles,
But strike one doleful sound;
'Twould be employ'd to mourn our souls,
Souls that were fram'd of sprightly fires,
In floods of folly drown'd.
Souls made of glory, seek a brutal joy;
How they disclaim their heavenly birth,
Melt their bright substance down with drossy earth,
And hate to be refin'd from that impure alloy.
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