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How much of other east is sure COFI
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How inconsistent greater good west
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Thick, and if stil the things my may cal
Say, wouldst thor be the man whom te m
To sig for ribbands if ther art at s
Mark how they gract Lord Imbra or St Bir
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life:
Look but on Gripus, or on Gapus wire
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon st
The wisest, brightest, meanest of manicnc.
Or ravish & with the whistling of a name
See Cromwell, dam'd to everlasting fame
If 21. maited for ambition call,

From ancient story learn to scom them al
There, in the rich, the honour'd, fant and grea
See the false scale of happiness complete
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens whit lav
How happy those to ruin, these betray.
Mark by what wretched steps their glory UTOWS,
From dirt and sea-wreed as prond Venice rose:
In cash bow guilt and greatness equal ran,
And at that rais'd the bero, suck the mar:
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behdid.
But stained with blood, or ill exchang'ċ for poiċ:

Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease,
Or infamous for plunder'd provinces.

Oh wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame
'er taught to shine, or santify'd from shame!
What greater bliss attends their close of life?
Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
The trophy'd arches, story'd halls invade,
And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade.
Alas! not dazzled with their noon-tide ray,
Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day;
The whole amount of that enormous fame,
A tale, that blends their glory with their shame!
Know then this truth, enough for man to know,
Virtue alone is happiness below.

The only point where human bliss stands still,
And tastes the good without the fall to ill;
Where only merit constant pay receives,
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequal'd, if its end it gain,
And if it lose, attended with no pain:
Without satiety, tho' e'er so bless'd,

And but more relish'd as the more distress'd:
The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears,
Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears;
Good, from each object, from each place acquir'd,
For ever exercis'd, yet never tir'd;

Never elated, while one man's oppress'd;
Never dejected, while another's bless'd;
And where no wants, no wishes can remain,
Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.

See the sole bliss heav'n could on all bestow! Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know: Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, The bad must miss, the good, untaught, will find; Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through nature up to nature's God: Pursues that chain which links th' immense design, Joins heav'n and earth, and mortal and divine; Sees, that no being any bliss can know, But touches some above, and some below; (0) HC-Vol. 40

Learns, from this union of the rising whole,
The first, last purpose of the human soul;
And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
All end, in love of God, and love of man.
For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal,
And opens still, and opens on his soul;
'Till lengthen'd on to faith, and unconfin'd,
It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind.
He sees, why nature plants in man alone

Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown:
(Nature, whose dictates to no other kind
Are giv'n in vain, but what they seek they find)
Wise is her present; she connects in this
His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss;
At once his own bright prospect to be blest,
And strongest motive to assist the rest.

Self-love thus push'd to social, to divine,
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine.
Is this too little for the boundless heart?
Extend it, let thy enemies have part:

Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense, In one close system of benevolence:

Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree,

And height of bliss but height of charity.

God loves from whole to parts: but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; The centre mov'd, a circle strait succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; His country next; and next all human race; Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind Take ev'ry creature in, of ev'ry kind;

Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, And heav'n beholds its image in his breast.

Come then, my friend, my genius, come along; Oh master of the poet, and the song!

And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends, To man's low passions, or their glorious ends,

Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
To fall with dignity, with temper rise;
Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe;
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
Intent to reason, or polite to please.
Oh! while along the stream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame;
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose,
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
Shall then this verse to future age pretend
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend?
That, urg'd by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart;
For wit's false mirror held up nature's light;
Shew'd erring pride, whatever is, is right;
That reason, passion, answer one great aim;
That true self-love and social are the same;
That virtue only makes our bliss below;
And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know.

281

AMBROSE PHILIPS
[1675 (?)-1749]

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue;
Simple maiden, void of art,

Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat;
Chirping forth thy pretty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May
Flitting to each bloomy spray;
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest:—
This thy present happy lot
This, in time will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy Time prepares;

And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.

282

COLLEY CIBBER

[1671-1757]

THE BLIND BOY

O SAY what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.