Complete Works of Edward Young, page 13
And find the soul unsated with her theme.
Its nature, proof, importance, fire my song. 70
O that my song could emulate my soul!
Like her, immortal. No! — the soul disdains
A mark so mean; far nobler hope inflames;
If endless ages can outweigh an hour,
Let not the laurel, but the palm, inspire.
Thy nature, Immortality! who knows?
And yet who knows it not? It is but life
In stronger thread of brighter colour spun,
And spun for ever; dipp’d by cruel Fate
In Stygian dye, how black, how brittle here! 80
How short our correspondence with the sun!
And while it lasts, inglorious! Our best deeds,
How wanting in their weight! our highest joys
Small cordials to support us in our pain,
And give us strength to suffer. But how great
To mingle interests, converse, amities, 86
With all the sons of Reason, scatter’d wide
Through habitable space, wherever born,
Howe’er endow’d! to live free citizens
Of universal nature! to lay hold
By more than feeble faith on the Supreme!
To call heaven’s rich unfathomable mines
(Mines, which support archangels in their state) 93
Our own! To rise in science, as in bliss,
Initiate in the secrets of the skies!
To read creation; read its mighty plan
In the bare bosom of the Deity!
The plan, and execution, to collate!
To see, before each glance of piercing thought,
All cloud, all shadow, blown remote; and leave 100
No mystery — but that of Love Divine,
Which lifts us on the seraph’s flaming wing,
From earth’s Aceldama, this field of blood,
Of inward anguish, and of outward ill,
From darkness, and from dust, to such a scene!
Love’s element! true joy’s illustrious home!
From earth’s sad contrast (now deplored) more fair!
What exquisite vicissitude of fate!
Bless’d absolution of our blackest hour!
Lorenzo, these are thoughts that make man Man, 110
The wise illumine, aggrandize the great.
How great (while yet we tread the kindred clod,
And every moment fear to sink beneath
The clod we tread; soon trodden by our sons);
How great, in the wild whirl of Time’s pursuits,
To stop, and pause, involved in high presage,
Through the long vista of a thousand years,
To stand contemplating our distant selves,
As in a magnifying mirror seen,
Enlarged, ennobled, elevate, divine! 120
To prophesy our own futurities;
To gaze in thought on what all thought transcends!
To talk, with fellow-candidates, of joys
As far beyond conception as desert,
Ourselves th’ astonish’d talkers, and the tale!
Lorenzo, swells thy bosom at the thought?
The swell becomes thee: ’tis an honest pride.
Revere thyself; — and yet thyself despise.
His nature no man can o’er-rate; and none
Can under-rate his merit. Take good heed, 130
Nor there be modest, where thou should’st be proud;
That almost universal error shun.
How just our pride, when we behold those heights!
Not those Ambition paints in air, but those
Reason points out, and ardent Virtue gains,
And angels emulate; our pride how just!
When mount we? when these shackles cast? when quit
This cell of the creation? this small nest,
Stuck in a corner of the universe,
Wrapt up in fleecy cloud, and fine-spun air? 140
Fine-spun to sense; but gross and feculent
To souls celestial; souls ordain’d to breathe
Ambrosial gales, and drink a purer sky;
Greatly triumphant on Time’s farther shore,
Where Virtue reigns, enrich’d with full arrears;
While Pomp imperial begs an alms of peace.
In empire high, or in proud science deep,
Ye born of earth! on what can you confer,
With half the dignity, with half the gain,
The gust, the glow of rational delight, 150
As on this theme, which angels praise and share?
Man’s fates and favours are a theme in heaven.
What wretched repetition cloys us here!
What periodic potions for the sick! 154
Distemper’d bodies! and distemper’d minds!
In an eternity, what scenes shall strike!
Adventures thicken! novelties surprise!
What webs of wonder shall unravel, there!
What full day pour on all the paths of heaven,
And light th’ Almighty’s footsteps in the deep!
How shall the blessed day of our discharge
Unwind, at once, the labyrinths of fate, 162
And straighten its inextricable maze!
If inextinguishable thirst in man
To know; how rich, how full, our banquet there!
There, not the moral world alone unfolds;
The world material, lately seen in shades,
And, in those shades, by fragments only seen,
And seen those fragments by the labouring eye,
Unbroken, then, illustrious, and entire, 170
Its ample sphere, its universal frame,
In full dimensions, swells to the survey;
And enters, at one glance, the ravish’d sight.
From some superior point (where, who can tell?
Suffice it, ’tis a point where gods reside)
How shall the stranger man’s illumined eye,
In the vast ocean of unbounded space,
Behold an infinite of floating worlds
Divide the crystal waves of ether pure,
In endless voyage, without port? The least 180
Of these disseminated orbs, how great!
Great as they are, what numbers these surpass,
Huge, as Leviathan, to that small race,
Those twinkling multitudes of little life,
He swallows unperceived! Stupendous these!
Yet what are these stupendous to the whole?
As particles, as atoms ill perceived;
As circulating globules in our veins; 188
So vast the plan. Fecundity divine!
Exuberant Source! perhaps, I wrong thee still.
If admiration is a source of joy,
What transport hence! Yet this the least in heaven.
What this to that illustrious robe He wears,
Who toss’d this mass of wonders from his hand,
A specimen, an earnest of his power?
’Tis to that glory, whence all glory flows,
As the mead’s meanest floweret to the sun,
Which gave it birth. But what, this sun of heaven?
This bliss supreme of the supremely blest?
Death, only death, the question can resolve. 200
By death, cheap bought th’ ideas of our joy;
The bare ideas! solid happiness
So distant from its shadow chased below.
And chase we still the phantom through the fire,
O’er bog, and brake, and precipice, till death?
And toil we still for sublunary pay?
Defy the dangers of the field and flood,
Or, spider-like, spin out our precious all,
Our more than vitals spin (if no regard
To great futurity) in curious webs 210
Of subtle thought, and exquisite design;
(Fine network of the brain!) to catch a fly!
The momentary buzz of vain renown!
A name! a mortal immortality!
Or (meaner still!) instead of grasping air,
For sordid lucre plunge we in the mire?
Drudge, sweat, through every shame, for every gain,
For vile contaminating trash; throw up
Our hope in heaven, our dignity with man?
And deify the dirt, matured to gold? 220
Ambition, Avarice; the two demons these,
Which goad through every slough our human herd, 222
Hard-travell’d from the cradle to the grave.
How low the wretches stoop! how steep they climb!
These demons burn mankind; but most possess
Lorenzo’s bosom, and turn out the skies.
Is it in time to hide eternity?
And why not in an atom on the shore
To cover ocean? or a mote, the sun?
Glory and wealth! have they this blinding power? 230
What if to them I prove Lorenzo blind?
Would it surprise thee? Be thou then surprised;
Thou neither know’st: their nature learn from me.
Mark well, as foreign as these subjects seem,
What close connexion ties them to my theme.
First, what is true ambition? The pursuit
Of glory, nothing less than man can share.
Were they as vain, as gaudy-minded man,
As flatulent with fumes of self-applause,
Their arts and conquests animals might boast, 240
And claim their laurel crowns, as well as we;
But not celestial. Here we stand alone;
As in our form, distinct, pre-eminent;
If prone in thought, our stature is our shame;
And man should blush, his forehead meets the skies.
The visible and present are for brutes,
A slender portion, and a narrow bound!
These Reason, with an energy divine,
O’erleaps; and claims the future and unseen;
The vast unseen! the future fathomless! 250
When the great soul buoys up to this high point,
Leaving gross nature’s sediments below,
Then, and then only, Adam’s offspring quits
The sage and hero of the fields and woods,
Asserts his rank, and rises into man. 255
This is ambition: this is human fire.
Can Parts or Place (two bold pretenders!) make
Lorenzo great, and pluck him from the throng?
Genius and Art, ambition’s boasted wings,
Our boast but ill deserve. A feeble aid!
Dedalian enginery! If these alone
Assist our flight, Fame’s flight is Glory’s fall.
Heart merit wanting, mount we ne’er so high, 263
Our height is but the gibbet of our name.
A celebrated wretch, when I behold,
When I behold a genius bright, and base,
Of towering talents, and terrestrial aims;
Methinks I see, as thrown from her high sphere,
The glorious fragments of a soul immortal,
With rubbish mix’d, and glittering in the dust. 270
Struck at the splendid, melancholy sight,
At once compassion soft, and envy, rise —
But wherefore envy? Talents angel-bright,
If wanting worth, are shining instruments
In false ambition’s hand, to finish faults
Illustrious, and give infamy renown.
Great ill is an achievement of great powers.
Plain sense but rarely leads us far astray.
Reason the means, affections choose our end;
Means have no merit, if our end amiss. 280
If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain:
What is a Pelham’s head, to Pelham’s heart?
Hearts are proprietors of all applause.
Right ends, and means, make wisdom: worldly-wise
Is but half-witted, at its highest praise.
Let Genius then despair to make thee great;
Nor flatter Station: what is station high?
’Tis a proud mendicant; it boasts, and begs;
It begs an alms of homage from the throng, 289
And oft the throng denies its charity.
Monarchs and ministers, are awful names;
Whoever wear them, challenge our devoir.
Religion, public order, both exact
External homage, and a supple knee,
To beings pompously set up, to serve
The meanest slave: all more is merit’s due,
Her sacred and inviolable right;
Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man.
Our hearts ne’er bow but to superior worth;
Nor ever fail of their allegiance there. 300
Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account,
And vote the mantle into majesty.
Let the small savage boast his silver fur;
His royal robe unborrow’d, and unbought,
His own, descending fairly from his sires.
Shall man be proud to wear his livery,
And souls in ermine scorn a soul without?
Can place or lessen us, or aggrandize?
Pigmies are pigmies still, though perch’d on Alps;
And pyramids are pyramids in vales. 310
Each man makes his own stature, builds himself:
Virtue alone outbuilds the pyramids:
Her monuments shall last, when Egypt’s fall.
Of these sure truths dost thou demand the cause?
The cause is lodged in immortality.
Hear, and assent. Thy bosom burns for power;
What station charms thee? I’ll install thee there;
’Tis thine. And art thou greater than before?
Then thou before wast something less than man.
Has thy new post betray’d thee into pride? 320
That treacherous pride betrays thy dignity;
That pride defames humanity, and calls
The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise. 323
That pride, like hooded hawks, in darkness soars,
From blindness bold, and towering to the skies.
’Tis born of ignorance, which knows not man:
An angel’s second; nor his second, long.
A Nero quitting his imperial throne,
And courting glory from the tinkling string,
But faintly shadows an immortal soul, 330
With empire’s self, to pride, or rapture, fired.
If nobler motives minister no cure,
Even vanity forbids thee to be vain.
High worth is elevated place: ’tis more;
It makes the post stand candidate for thee;
Makes more than monarchs, makes an honest man;
Though no exchequer it commands, ’tis wealth;
And though it wears no riband, ’tis renown;
Renown, that would not quit thee, though disgraced,
Nor leave thee pendent on a master’s smile. 340
Other ambition Nature interdicts;
Nature proclaims it most absurd in man,
By pointing at his origin, and end;
Milk, and a swathe, at first, his whole demand;
His whole domain, at last, a turf, or stone;
To whom, between, a world may seem too small.
Souls truly great dart forward on the wing
Of just ambition, to the grand result,
The curtain’s fall; there, see the buskin’d chief
Unshod behind this momentary scene; 350
Reduced to his own stature, low or high,
As vice, or virtue, sinks him, or sublimes;
And laugh at this fantastic mummery,
This antic prelude of grotesque events,
Where dwarfs are often stilted, and betray
A littleness of soul by worlds o’errun,
And nations laid in blood. Dread sacrifice 357
To Christian pride! which had with horror shock’d
The darkest Pagans, offer’d to their gods.
O thou most Christian29 enemy to peace!
Again in arms? Again provoking fate?
That prince, and that alone, is truly great,
Who draws the sword reluctant, gladly sheathes; 363
On empire builds what empire far outweighs,
And makes his throne a scaffold to the skies.
Why this so rare? Because forgot of all
The day of death; that venerable day,
Which sits as judge; that day, which shall pronounce
On all our days, absolve them, or condemn.
Lorenzo, never shut thy thought against it; 370
Be levees ne’er so full, afford it room,
And give it audience in the cabinet.
That friend consulted, flatteries apart,
Will tell thee fair, if thou art great, or mean.
To doat on aught may leave us, or be left,
Is that ambition? Then let flames descend,
Point to the centre their inverted spires,
And learn humiliation from a soul,
Which boasts her lineage from celestial fire.
Yet these are they, the world pronounces wise; 380
The world, which cancels nature’s right and wrong,
And casts new wisdom: even the grave man lends
His solemn face, to countenance the coin.
Wisdom for parts is madness for the whole.
This stamps the paradox, and gives us leave
To call the wisest weak, the richest poor,
The most ambitious, unambitious, mean;
In triumph, mean; and abject, on a throne.
Nothing can make it less than mad in man,
To put forth all his ardour, all his art, 390
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 downwards pores, for that which shines above,
Substantial happiness, and true renown;
Then, like an idiot, gazing on the brook,
We leap at stars, and fasten in the mud;
At glory grasp, and sink in infamy.
Ambition! powerful source of good and ill!
Thy strength in man, like length of wing in birds, 400
When disengaged from earth, with greater ease,
And swifter flight, transports us to the skies;
By toys entangled, or in guilt bemired,
It turns a curse; it is our chain, and scourge,
In this dark dungeon, where confined we lie,
Close grated by the sordid bars of Sense;
All prospect of eternity shut out;
And, but for execution, ne’er set free.
With error in ambition justly charged,
