The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 23

THE STATEMAN'S CREED.

"Ye states! and empires! nor of empires least, Though least in size, hear, Britain! thou whose lot, Whose final lot, is in the balance laid, Irresolutely play the doubtful scales, Nor know'st thou which will win.-Know then from me, As govern'd well or ill, states sink or rise: State ministers, as upright or corrupt, Are balm or poison in a nation's veins!

Health or distemper, hasten or r.e.t.a.r.d The period of her pride, her day of doom: And though, for reasons obvious to the wise, Just Providence deals otherwise with men, Yet believe, Britons! nor too late believe, 'Tis fix'd! by fate irrevocably fix'd!

Virtue and vice are empire's life and death."

Thus it is written-Heard you not a groan?

Is Britain on her death-bed?-No, that groan Was utter'd by her foes-but soon the scale, If this divine monition is despis'd, May turn against us. Read it, ye who rule!

With reverence read; with steadfastness believe; With courage act as such belief inspires; Then shall your glory stand like fate's decree; Then shall your name in adamant be writ, In records that defy the tooth of time, By nations sav'd, resounding your applause.

While deep beyond your monument's proud base, In black oblivion's kennel, shall be trod Their execrable names, who, high in power, And deep in guilt, most ominously s.h.i.+ne, (The meteors of the state!) give vice her head, To license lewd let loose the public rein; Quench every spark of conscience in the land, And triumph in the profligate's applause: Or who to the first bidder sell their souls, Their country sell, sell all their fathers bought With funds exhausted and exhausted veins, To demons, by his holiness ordain'd To propagate the gospel-penn'd at Rome; Hawk'd through the world by consecrated bulls; And how ill.u.s.trated?-by Smithfleld flames: Who plunge (but not like Curtius) down the gulf, Down narrow-minded self's voracious gulf, Which gapes and swallows all they swore to save: Hate all that lifted heroes into G.o.ds, And hug the horrors of a victor's chain: Of bodies politic that destin'd h.e.l.l, Inflicted here, since here their beings end; And fall from foes detested and despis'd, On disbelievers-of the statesman's creed.

Note, here, my lord, (unnoted yet it lies By most, or all,) these truths political Serve more than public ends: this creed of states Seconds, and irresistibly supports, The Christian creed. Are you surpris'd?-Attend And on the statesman's build a n.o.bler name.

This punctual justice exercis'd on states, With which authentic chronicle abounds, As all men know, and therefore must believe; This vengeance pour'd on nations ripe in guilt, Pour'd on them here, where only they exist, What is it but an argument of sense, Or rather demonstration, to support Our feeble faith-"That they who states compose, That men who stand not bounded by the grave, Shall meet like measure at their proper hour?"

For G.o.d is equal, similarly deals With states and persons, or he were not G.o.d!

What means a rect.i.tude immutable?

A pattern here of universal right.

What, then, shall rescue an abandon'd man?

Nothing, it is replied. Replied, by whom?

Replied by politicians well as priests: Writ sacred set aside, mankind's own writ, The whole world's annals; these p.r.o.nounce his doom.

Thus (what might seem a daring paradox) E'en politics advance divinity: True masters there are better scholars here, Who travel history in quest of schemes To govern nations, or perhaps oppress, May there start truths that other aims inspire, And, like Candace's eunuch, as they read, By Providence turn Christians on their road: Digging for silver, they may strike on gold; May be surpris'd with better than they sought, And entertain an angel unawares.

Nor is divinity ungrateful found.

As politics advance divinity, Thus, in return, divinity promotes True politics, and crowns the statesman's praise.

All wisdoms are but branches of the chief, And statesmen found but shoots of honest men.

Are this world's witchcrafts pleaded in excuse For deviations in our moral line?

This, and the next world, view'd with such an eye As suits a statesman, such as keeps in view His own exalted science, both conspire To recommend and fix us in the right.

If we reward the politics of Heaven, The grand administration of the whole, What's the next world? A supplement of this: Without it, justice is defective here; Just as to states, defective as to men: If so, what is this world? As sure as right Sits in Heaven's throne, a prophet of the next.

Prize you the prophet? then believe him too: His prophecy more precious than his smile.

How comes it then to pa.s.s, with most on earth, That this should charm us, that should discompose?

Long as the statesman finds this case his own, So long his politics are uncomplete; In danger he; nor is the nation safe, But soon must rue his inauspicious power.

What hence results? a truth that should resound For ever awful in Britannia's ear: "Religion crowns the statesman and the man, Sole source of public and of private peace."

This truth all men must own, and therefore will, And praise and preach it too:-and when that's done, Their compliment is paid, and 'tis forgot.

What highland pole-axe half so deep can wound?

But how dare I, so mean, presume so far?

a.s.sume my seat in the dictator's chair?

p.r.o.nounce, predict (as if indeed inspir'd), Promulge my censures, lay out all my throat, Till hoa.r.s.e in clamour on enormous crimes?

Two mighty columns rise in my support; In their more awful and authentic voice, Record profane and sacred, drown the muse, Tho' loud, and far out-thread her threatening song.

Still further, Holles! suffer me to plead That I speak freely, as I speak to thee: Guilt only startles at the name of guilt; And truth, plain truth, is welcome to the wise.

Thus what seem'd my presumption is thy praise.

Praise, and immortal praise, is virtue's claim; And virtue's sphere is action: yet we grant Some merit to the trumpet's loud alarm, Whose clangour kindles cowards into men.

Nor shall the verse, perhaps, be quite forgot, Which talks of immortality, and bids, In every British breast, true glory rise, As now the warbling lark awakes the morn.

To close, my lord! with that which all should close And all begin, and strike us every hour, Though no war wak'd us, no black tempest frown'd.

The morning rises gay; yet gayest morn Less glorious after night's inc.u.mbent shades; Less glorious far bright nature, rich array'd With golden robes, in all the pomp of noon, Than the first feeble dawn of moral day?

Sole day, (let those whom statesmen serve attend,) Though the sun ripens diamonds for their crowns; Sole day worth his regard whom Heaven ordains, Undarken'd, to behold noon dark, and date, From the sun's death, and every planet's fall, His all-ill.u.s.trious and eternal year; Where statesmen and their monarchs, (names of awe And distance here,) shall rank with common men, Yet own their glory never dawn'd before.

RESIGNATION.

In Two Parts.

My soul shall be satisfied even as it were with marrow and fatness, when my mouth praiseth thee with joyful lips.

PSALM lxiii. 6.

Advertis.e.m.e.nt.

This was not intended for the public; there were many and strong reasons against it, and are so still; but some extracts of it, from the few copies which were given away, being got into the printed papers, it was thought necessary to publish something, lest a copy still more imperfect than this should fall into the press: and it is hoped, that this unwelcome occasion of publication may be some excuse for it.

As for the following stanzas, G.o.d Almighty's infinite power, and marvellous goodness to man, is dwelt on, as the most just and cogent reason for our cheerful and absolute resignation to his will; nor are any of those topics declined, which have a just tendency to promote that supreme virtue: such as the vanity of this life, the value of the next, the approach of death, &c.

Part I.

The days how few, how short the years Of man's too rapid race!

Each leaving, as it swiftly flies, A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy, Have told us with a sigh, That to be born seems little more Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth With fears alarm'd; and yet, In life's delusions lull'd asleep, This weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin?

Age slumbers o'er the quill; Its honour blots, whate'er it writes, And am I writing still?

Conscious of nature in decline, And languor in my thoughts; To soften censure, and abate Its rigour on my faults

Permit me, madam! ere to you The promis'd verse I pay, To touch on felt infirmity, Sad sister of decay.

One world deceas'd, another born, Like Noah they behold, O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows, Too many suns have roll'd:

Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd His second world to see: My second world, though gay the scene, Can boast no charms for me.

To me this brilliant age appears With desolation spread; Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd, Whilst life was life, are dead;

And with them died my joys; the grave Has broken nature's laws; And clos'd, against this feeble frame, Its partial cruel jaws;

Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life!

A cloud impairs my sight; My weak hand disobeys my will, And trembles as I write.