5 Has thy new post betray'd thee into pride? The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise. Makes more than monarchs, makes an honest màn ; Nature proclaims it most absurd in man, 15 Milk, and a swathe, at first his whole demand; 9. Nothing can make it less than mad in man To put forth all his ardour all his art, 20 And give his soul her full unbounded flight, But reaching Him, who gave her wings to fly. When blind ambition quite mistakes her road, And downward pores, for that which shines above, Substantial happiness, and true renown; 25 Then, like an ideot, gazing on the brook, We leap at stars, and fasten in the mud; At glory grasp, and sink in infamy. Ambition! pow'rful source of good and ill! Thy strength in man, like length of wing in birds, 30 When disengag'd from earth, with greater ease And swifter flight transports us to the skìes; It turns a curse; it is our chain, and scourge, And, but for execution, ne'er set free. In spite of all the truths the muse has sung, Till, stumbling at a straw, in their career, song. 15 Are there on earth,-(let me not call them men,) Who lodge a soul immortal in their breasts; Unconscious as the mountain of its ore; Or rock, of its inestimable gem? When rocks shall melt, and mountains vanish, these 20 Shall know their treasure; treasure, then, no more. Are there, (still more amazing!) who resist The rising thought? Who smother, in its birth, The glorious truth? Who struggle to be brutes? Who through this bosom-barrier burst their way, 25 And, with revers'd ambition, strive to sink? Who labour downwards through th' opposing pow'r Of instinct, reason, and the world against them, To dismal hopes, and shelter in the shock Of endless night? night darker than the grave's! 30 Who fight the proofs of immortality? With horrid zeal, and execrable arts, (Than vital blood far dearer to the wise) Young. 10. Look nature through, 'tis revolution all: All change; no death. Day follows night; and night The dying day; stars rise, and set, and rise; Earth takes th' example. See, the Summer gay, 10 With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flowers, Droops into pallid Autumn: Winter grey, Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm, Blows Autumn, and his golden fruits, away;Then melts into the Spring: Soft Spring, with breath 15 Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, Recalls the first. All, to re-flourish, fades; As in a wheel, all sínks, to re-ascend. Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. Look down on earth.-What seest thou? Wondrous things! 20 Terrestrial wonders, that eclipse the skies. What lengths of labour'd lands! what loaded seas! What levell'd mountains! and what lifted vales! And Neptune holds a mirror to their charms. See, wide dominions ravished from the deep! The narrow'd deep with indignation foams. How the tall temples, as to meet their gods, 5 Ascend the skies! the proud triumphal arch Shews us half heav'n beneath its ample bend. High thro' mid air, here strèams are taught to flow: Whole rivers, there, laid by in bàsons, sleep. Here, pláins turn oceans; there, vast oceans joìn 10 Thro' kingdoms channel'd deep from shore to shore : And changed creation takes its face from man. Earth's disembowel'd! measured are the skies! Stars are detected in their deep recess ! Creation widens ! vanquish'd nature yields ! 15 Her secrets are extorted! art prevails! What monument of genius, spirit, power! Young. 11. The world's a prophecy of worlds to come; And who, what God foretels, (who speaks in things, Still louder than in words,) shall dare deny? 20 If nature's arguments appear too weak, Turn a new leaf, and stronger read in man. Why discontent for ever harbour'd there? Who steals his whole dominion from the waste, In fate so distant, in complaint so near? Should set ere noon, in eastern oceans drown'd; Nor reach, what reach he might, why die in dread? 20 Why curst with foresight? wise to mìsery? Why of his proud prerogative the prey? Why less pre-eminent in ránk, than pain? His immortality alone can solve The darkest of enigmas, human hope; 25 Of all the darkest, if at death we dìe. Hope, eager hope, th' assassin of our joy, All present blessings treading under foot, Is scarce a milder tyrant than despair. With no past toils content, still planning new, 30 Hope turns us o'er to death alone for ease. Possession, why more tasteless than pursuit? |