1

Ah in what perils is vain life engag'd!
What flight neglects, what trivial faults, deftroy
The hardieft frame! Of indolence, of toil,
We, die; of want, of fuperfluity :
The all-furrounding heaven, the vital air,
Is big with death. And, tho' the putrid South
Be fhut; tho' no convulfive agony

Shake, from the deep foundation of the world,
Th' imprifon'd plagues; a fecret venom oft
Corrupts the air, the water, and the land.
What livid deaths has fad Byzantium feen!
How oft has Cairo, with a mother's woe,
Wept o'er her flaughter'd fons and lonely streets!
Even Albion, girt with less malignant fkies,
Albion the poifon of the gods has drank,
And felt the fting of moniters all her own.

Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had fpent
Their ancient rage at Bofworth's purple field;
While, for which tyrant England fhould receive,
Her legions in incestuous murders mix'd,
And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk
With kindred blood by kindred hands profus'd:
Another plague of more gigantic arm
Arofe, a monfter never known before
Rear'd from Cocytus its portentous head.
This rapid fury not, like other pefts,
Purfued a gradual courfe, but in a day
Rufh'd as a form o'er half th' aftonith'd ifle,
And ftrew'd with fudden carcafes the land.

First thro' the fhoulders, or whatever part Was feiz'd the first, a fervid vapour sprung. With rafh combuftion thence the quivring ipark Shot to the heart, and kindied all within: And foon the surface caught the fpreading fires. Thro' all the yielding pores the melted blood S

Gufh'd out in fmoky fweats; but nought affuag'd
The torrid heat within, nor aught reliev'd
The ftomach's anguifh. With inceffant toil,
Defperate of cafe, impatient of their pain,
They tofs'd from fide to fide. In vain the stream
Ran full and clear, they burnt and thirited still;
The reftlefs arteries with rapid blood
Beat ftrong and frequent. Thick and pantingly
The breath was fetch'd, and with huge lab'rings
At laft a heavy pain opprefs'd the head, [heav'd:
A wild delirium came; their weeping friends
Were ftrangers now, and this no home of theirs.
Harafs'd with toil on toil, the finking pow'rs
Lay proftrate and o'erthrown; a pond 'rous fleep
Wrapt all the fenfes up: they flept and died.

In fome, a gentle horror crept at first
O'er all the limbs; the fluices of the skin
Withheld their moisture, till by art provok'd
The fweats o'erflow'd, but in a clammy tide:
Now free and copious, now restrain'd and flow;
Of tinctures various, as the temp'rature

Had mix'd the blood, and rank with fetid ftcams:
As if the pent-up humours by delay
Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign,
Here lay their hopes (tho' little hope remain'd),
With full effufion of perpetual fweats

To drive the venom out. And here the fates
Were kind, that long they linger'd not in pain.
For who furviv'd the fun's diurnal race,
Rofe from the dreary gates of hell redeem'd:
Some the fixth hour opprefs'd, and fome the third.

Of many thoufands few untainted 'fcap'd;
Of thofe infected fewer 'feap'd alive;
Of those who liv'd fome felt a fecond blow;
And whom the second spar'd a third deftroy'd.
Frantic with fear, they fought by flight to hun
The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land
Th'infected city pour'd her hurrying fwarms:
Rous'd by the flames that fir'd her feats around,
Th'infected country rufh'd into the town.
Some, fad at home, and in the defart fome,
Abjur'd the fatal commerce of mankind;
In vain where'er they fled the fates purfued.
Others, with hopes more fpecious, cross'd the main,
To feek protection in far diftant skies;
But none they found. It feem'd the general air,
From pole to pole, from Atlas to the Eaft,
Was then at enmity with English blood.
For, but the race of England, all were fafe
In foreign climes; nor did this fury tafte
The foreign blood which England then contain❜d.
Where fhould they fly? The circumambient
heaven

Involv'd them ftill; and ev'ry breeze was bane.
Where find relief? The falutary art
Was mute; and, ftartled at the new difeafe,
In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.
ToHeavenwithfuppliantrites they fenttheirpray'rs;
Heaven heard thein not. Of ev'ry hope depriv'd;
Fatigued with vain refources; and fubdued
With woes refiftlefs and enfeebling fear;
Paffive they funk beneath the weighty blow.
Nothing but lamentable founds were heard,
Nor aught was feen but ghaftly views of death.

Infectious

Infectious horror ran from face to face,
And pale defpair. 'Twas all the bus'nefs then
To tend the fick, and in their turns to die.
In heaps they fell: and oft one bed, they fay,
The fick'ning, dying, and the dead contain'd!
Ye guardian gods, on whom the fates depend
Of tott'ring Albion! ye eternal fires [pow'rs
That lead thro' heaven the wand'ring year! ye
That o'er th' encircling elements prefide!
May nothing worse than what this age has feen
Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home,
Has Albion bled. Here a distemper'd heaven
Has thinn'd her cities; from thofe lofty cliffs
That awe picud Gaul, to Thule's wintry reign:
While in the west, beyond th' Atlantic foam,
Her bravest fons, keen for the fight, have died
The death of cowards and of common men :
Sunk void of wounds, and fail'n without renown.
But from these views the weeping Muses turn,
And other themes invite iny wand'ring fong.

Book IV. THE PASSIONS.
THE choice of aliment, the choice of air,
The ufe of toil, and all external things,
Already fung; it now remains to trace
What good, what evil, from ourselves proceeds,
And how the fubtle principle within
Infpires with health, or mines with ftrange decay
The paffive body. Ye poetic fhades,
That know the fecrets of the world unfeen,
Affift my fong! for, in a doubtful theme
Engag'd, I wander thro' myfterious ways.

There is, they fay (and I believe there is),
A fpark within us of th' immortal fire,
That animates and moulds the groffer frame;
And, when the body finks, efcapes to heaven,
Its native feat, and mixes with the Gods.
Meanwhile this heavenly particle pervades
The mortal elements; in ev'ry nerve

It thrills with pleafure, or grows mad with pain.
And, in its fecret conclave, as it feels
The body's woes and joys, this ruling pow'r
Wields at its will the dull material world,
And is the body's health or malady.

By its own toil the grofs corporeal frame
Fatigues, extenuates, or deftroys itself.
Nor lefs the labours of the mind corrode
The folid fabric: for by fubtle parts,
And viewlefs atoms, fecret Nature moves
The mighty wheels of this ftupendous world.
By fubtle fluids pour'd thro' fubtle tubes
The nat'ral, vital, functions are perform'd.
By these the stubborn aliments are tam'd;
The toiling heart diftributes life and strength;
These the still-crumbling frame rebuild, and these
Are loft in thinking, and diffolve in air.

But 'tis not Thought (for ftill the foul's em-
ploy'd),

'Tis painful thinking, that corrodes our clay.
All day the vacant eye without fatigue
Strays o'er the heaven and earth; but long intent
On microfcopic arts its vigour fails.

Juft fo the mind, with various thought amus'd,
Nor aches itfulf, nor gives the body pain.

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But anxious Study, Difcontent, and Care,
Love without hope, and Hate without revenge,
And Fear, and Jealoufy, fatigue the foul,
Engrofs the fubtle minifters of life,
And fpoil the lab'ring functions of their fhare.
Hence the lean gloom that Melancholy wears,
The Lover's palenefs, and the fallow hue
Of Envy, Jealoufy, the meagre stare
Of fore Revenge; the canker'd body hence
Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.

[day

The ftrong-built pedant, who both night and Feeds on the coarfeft fare the fchools beftow, And crudely fattens at grofs Burman's stall; O'erwhelm'd with phlegm lies in a dropfydrown'd, Or finks in lethargy before his time. With youthful ftudies you, and arts that please, Employ your mind; amufe, but not fatigue. Peace to each drow fy metaphyfic fage! And ever may all heavy systems reft! Yet fome there are, ev'n of elastic parts, Whom ftrong and obftinate ambition leads Thro' all the rugged roads of barren lore, And gives to relith what their gen'rous taste Would elfe refufe. But may nor thirst of fame, Nor love of knowledge, urge you to fatigue With conftant drudgery the lib'ral soul. Toy with your books: and, as the various fits Of humour seize you, from Philosophy To Fable fhift, from ferious Antonine To Rabelais' ravings, and from profe to fong. While reading pleases, but no longer, read; And lead aloud refounding Homer's strain, And wield the thunder of Demosthenes. The cheft fo exercis'd improves its strength; And quick vibrations thro' the bowels drive The reftlefs blood, which in unactive days Would loiter elfe thro' unelaitic tubes. Deem it not trifling while I recommend What pofture fuits: to ftand and fit by turns, As nature prompts, is beft. But o'er your leaves To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts, And robs the fine machinery of its play.

'Tis the great art of life to manage well
The reftlefs mind. For ever on pursuit
Of knowledge bent, it ftarves the groffer pow'rs:
Quite unemploy'd, against its own repofe
It turns its fatal edge, and fharper pangs
Than what the body knows embitter life.
Chiefly where Solitude, fad nurfe of Care,
To fickly mufing gives the penfive mind,
There Madness enters; and the dim-eyed Fiend,
Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes
Her own eternal wound. The fun grows pale
A mournful vifionary light o'erfpreads

The cheerful face of nature; earth becomes
A dreary defart, and heaven frowns above.
Then various fhapes of curs'd illusion rife:
Whate'er the wretched fears, creating Fear
Forms out of nothing; and with monsters teems
Unknown in hell. The proftrate foul beneath
A load of huge imagination heaves;
And all the horrors that the murd'rer feels
With anxious flutt'rings wake the guiltlefs breaft.
Such phantoms Pride in folitary scenes,
Or Fear, on delicate Self-love creates.

From other cares abfolv'd, the busy mind
Finds in yourself a theme to pore upon;
It finds you miferable, or makes you fo.
For while yourself you anxiously explore,
Timorous Self-love, with fick'ning Fancy's aid,
Prefents the danger that you dread the most,
And ever galls you in your tender part.
Hence fome for love, and fome for jealousy,
For grim religion fome, and fome for pride,
Have loft their reafon : fome, for fear of want,
Want all their lives; and others, ev'ry day,
For fear of dying, fuffer worfe than death.
Ah! from your bofoms banifh, if you can,
Thofe fatal guests; and firft the Demon Fear,
That trembles at impoffible events,
Left aged Atlas fhould refign his load,
And heaven's eternal battlements rufh down.
Is there an evil worse than Fear itself?
And what avails it that indulgent Heaven
From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,
If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,
Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?
Enjoy the prefent; nor with needlefs cares
Of what may fpring from blind Misfortune'swomb,
Appal the fureft hour that life bestows.
Serene, and mafter of yourself, prepare
For what may come, and leave the reft to Heaven.
Oft from the body, by long ails miftun'd,
Thefe evils fprung, the moft important health,
That of the mind, destroy; and when the mind
They firft invade, the confcious body foon
In fympathetic languifhment declines.
Thefe chronic Paffions, while from real woes
They rife, and yet without the body's fault
Infeft the foul, admit one only cure;
Diverfion, hurry, and a reftlefs life.
Vain are the confolations of the wife;

In vain your friends would reafon down your pain,
O ye, whofe fouls relentlefs love has tam`d
To foft diftrefs, or friends untimely flain!
Court not the luxury of tender thought!
Nor deem it impious to forget thofe pains
That hurt the living, nought avail the dead.
Go, foft enthufiaft! quit the cypress groves,
Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tune
Your fad complaint. Go, feek the cheerful haunts
Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd;
Lay fchemes for wealth, or pow'r, or fame, the

wifh

Of nobler minds, and push them night and day,
Or join the caravan in queft of fcenes
New to your eyes, and fhifting ev'ry hour,
Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.
Or, more advent'rous, rufh into the field
Where war grows hot; and, raging thro' the fky,
The lofty trumpet fwells the madd'ning foul;
And in the hardy camp and toilfome march
Forget all fofter and lefs manly cares.

But moft too paffive, when the blood runs low,
Too weakly indolent to ftrive with pain,
And bravely by refifting conquer Fate,
Try Circe's arts, and in the tempting bowl
Of poifon'd nectar fweet oblivion drink:
Struck by the pow'rful charm, the gloom diffolves
In empty air, Elyfium opens round.
4

A pleafing phrenzy buoys the lighten'd foul,
And fanguine hopes difpel your fleeting care;
And what was difficult, and what was dire,
Yields to your prowess and superior stars:
The happieft you of all that e'er were mad,
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last.
But foon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloom
Shuts o'er your head: and, as the thund'ring
ftream,

Swoln o'er its banks with fudden mountain rain,
Sinks from its tumult to a filent brook;
So, when the frantic raptures in your breast
Subfide, you languifh into mortal man:
You fleep, and waking find yourself undone.
For, prodigal of life, in one rafh night
You lavish'd more than might support three days.
A heavy morning comes; your cares return
With tenfold rage. An anxious ftomach well
May be endur'd; fo may the throbbing heart:
But fuch a dim delirium, fuch a dream,
Involves you; fuch a daftardly defpair
Unmans your foul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt
When, baited round Citharon's cruel fides,
He faw two funs, and double Thebes, afcend.
You curfe the fluggish Port; you curse the wretch,
The felon, with unnat'ral mixture first
Who dar'd to violate the virgin wine.
Or on the fugitive Champaign you pour
A thoufand curfes; for to heaven it rapt
Your foul, to plunge you deeper in despair.
Perhaps you rue ev'n that divineft gift,
The gay, ferene, good-natur'd Burgundy,
Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine;
And with that Heaven from mortals had withheld
The grape, and all intoxicating bowls.

Befides, it wounds you fore to recollect
What follies in your loofe unguarded hour
Efcap'd. For one irrevocable word,
Perhaps that meant no harm, you lofe a friend;
Or in the rage of wine your hafty hand
Performs a deed to haunt you to your grave.
Add, that your means, your health, your parts
decay;

Your friends avoid you; brutishly transform'd,
They hardly know you; or, if one remains
To with you well, he wishes you in heaven.
Defpis'd, unwept, you fall; who might have left
A facred, cherifh'd, fadly-plcafing name;
A name still to be utter'd with a figh.
Your laft ungraceful fcene has quite effac'd
All fenfe and mem'ry of your former worth.

How to live happieft; how avoid the pains,
The disappointments, and difgufts of those
Who would in pleasure all their hours employ;
The precepts here of a divine old man

I could recite. Tho' old, he still retain'd
His manly fenfe and energy of mind.
Virtuous and wife he was, but not fevere;
He ftill remember'd that he once was young;
His eafy prefence check'd no decent joy.
Him ev'n the diffolute admir'd: for he
A graceful loofenefs, when he pleas'd, put on;
And laughing could inftruct. Much had he read,
Much more had feen; he studied from the life,
And in th' original perus'd mankind.

Vers'd

Adds bloom to health; o'er ev'ry virtue sheds
A gay, humane, and amiable grace,
And brightens all the ornaments of man.
But fruitlefs, hopeless, disappointed, rack'd
With jealoufy, fatigued with hope and fear,
Too ferious, or too languishingly fond,
Unnerves the body, and unmans the foul.
And fome have died for love, and fome run mad;
And fome with defp rate hand themfelves have flain.
Some to extinguifh, others to prevent,
A mad devotion to one dang'rous Fair,
Court all they meet; in hopes to diffipate
The cares of love amongft an hundred brides.
Th' event is doubtful: for there are who find ·
A cure in this; there are who find it not.
'Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls
The wound, to thofe who are fincerely fick.
For while from fev'rifh and tumultuous joys
The nerves grow languid, and the foul fubfides,
The tender fancy fmarts with ev'ry fting,
And what was love before is madness now.
Is health your care, or luxury your aim ?
Be temperate ftill: when Nature bids, obey;
Her wild impatient fallies bear no curb:
But when the prurient habit of delight,
Or loofe imagination, fpurs you on
To deeds above your ftrength, impute it not
To Nature; Nature all compulfion hates.
Ah! let nor luxury nor vain renown
Urge you to feats you well might fleep without;
To make what should be rapture a fatigue,
A tedious talk; nor in the wanton arms
Of twining Laïs melt your manhood down.
For from the colliquation of foft joys
How chang'd you life! the gheft of what you was!
Languid and melancholy, gaunt and wan,
Your veins exhaufted, and your nerves unftrung.
Spoil'd of its balm and sprightly zeft, the blood
Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves
(To each flight impulfe tremblingly awake)
A fubtle fiend that mimics all the plagues,
Rapid and restlefs, fprings from part to part.
The blooming honours of your youth are fallen;
Your vigour pines; your vital pow'rs decay; -
Difcafes haunt you; and untimely age
Creeps on, unfocial, impotent, and lewd.
Infatuate, impious epicure! to waste
The ftores of pleafure, cheerfulnefs, and health!
Infatuate all who make delight their trade,
And coy perdition ev'ry hour pursue.

Who pines with love, or in lafcivious flames Confumes, is with his own confent undone; He chufes to be wretched, to be mad, And warn'd proceeds and wilful to his fate. But there's a paffion, whofe tempeftuous way! Tears up each virtue planted in the breaft, And thakes to ruin proud Philofophy. For pale and trembling Anger rufhes in, With faultering fpeech, and eyes that wildly ftare; Fierce as the tiger, madder than the feas, Defperate, and arm'd with more than human ftrength.

How foon the calm, humane, and polish'd man Forgets compunction, and starts up a fiend! Who pines in love, or waltes with filent cares,

Envy, or ignominy, or tender grief,
Slowly defcends, and ling ring, to the fhades.
But he whom anger ftings, drops, if he dies,
At once, and rufhes apoplectic down;
Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell.
For, as the body thro' unnumber'd strings
Reverberates each vibration of the foul;
As is the paffion, fuch is still the pain
The body feels; or chronic, or acute.
And oft a fudden ftorm at once o'erpow'rs
The life, or gives your reafon to the winds.
Such fates attend the rafh alarm of fear,
And fudden grief, and rage, and fudden joy.
There are, meantime, to whom the boift'rous fit
Is health, and only fills the fails of life;
For where the mind a torpid winter leads,
Wrapt in a body corpulent and cold,
And each clogg'd function lazily moves on,
A generous fally fpurns th' incumbent load,
Unlocks the breaft, and gives a cordial glow.
But, if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,
Or are your nerves too irritably ftrung,
Wave all difpute; be cautious if you joke,
Keep Lent for ever, and forfwear the bowl;
For one rath moment fends you to the fhades,
Or flatters ev'ry hopeful fcheme of life,
And gives to horror all your days to come.
Fate, arm'd with thunder, fire, and ev'ry plague
That ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,
And makes the happy wretched, in an hour
O'erwhelms you not with woes fo horrible
As your own wrath, nor gives more fudden blows.
While choler works, good friend, you may be

wrong;

Diftruft yourself, and fleep before you fight.
'Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave;
If honour bids, to-morrow kill or die.
But calm advice againft a raging fit
Avails too little; and it braves the pow'r
Of all that ever taught in profe or fong,
To tame the fiend that fleeps a gentle lamb,
And wakes a lion. Unprovok'd and calm,
You reaton well, fee as you ought to fee,
And wonder at the madnets of mankind;
Seiz'd with the common rage, you foon forget
The fpeculation of your wifer hours.
Befet with furies of all deadly fhapes,
Fierce and infidious, violent and flow,
With all that urge or lure us on to fate,
What refuge thall we feek, what arms prepare
Where reafon proves too weak, or void of wiles,
To cope with 'ub:le or impetuous pow'rs,
I would invoke new pallions to your aid;
With indignation would extinguifh fear,
With fear or generous pity vanquish rage,
And love with pride; and force to force oppofe.

There is a charm, a pow'r that fways the breaft;
Bids every paffion revel or be ftill;
fufpires with rage, or all your cares diffolves;
Can footh diftraction, and almoft defpair.
That pow'r is mufic: far beyond the stretch
Of thofe unmeaning warblers on our stage;
Thefe clumfy heroes, thole fat-headed gods,
Who move no paflion juftly but contempt;
Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong,

Do