The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 26

Beneath that banner, what exploit Can mount our glory higher, Than to sustain the dreadful blow, When those we love expire?

Go forth a moral Amazon; Arm'd with undaunted thought; The battle won, though costing dear, You'll think it cheaply bought:

The pa.s.sive hero, who sits down Unactive, and can smile Beneath affliction's galling load, Out-acts a Caesar's toil:

The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes Inferior praise afford; Reason's a bloodless conqueror, More glorious than the sword.

Nor can the thunders of huzzas, From shouting nations, cause Such sweet delight, as from your heart Soft whispers of applause:

The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms, With what delight he'll view His triumphs on the main outdone, Thus conquer'd, twice, by you.

Share his delight; take heed to shun Of bosoms most diseas'd That odd distemper, an absurd Reluctance to be pleas'd:

Some seem in love with sorrow's charms, And that foul fiend embrace: This temper let me justly brand, And stamp it with disgrace:

Sorrow! of horrid parentage!

Thou second-born of h.e.l.l!

Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd How dar'st thou to rebel?

From black and noxious vapours bred, And nurs'd by want of thought, And to the door of phrensy's self By perseverance brought,

Thy most inglorious, coward tears From brutal eyes have ran: Smiles, incommunicable smiles!

Are radiant marks of man;

They cast a sudden glory round Th' illumin'd human face; And light in sons of honest joy Some beams of Moses' face:

Is resignation's lesson hard?

Examine, we shall find That duty gives up little more Than anguish of the mind;

Resign; and all the load of life That moment you remove, Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares Devolve on one above;

Who bids us lay our burthen down On his almighty hand, Softens our duty to relief, To blessing a command.

For joy what cause! how every sense Is courted from above The year around, with presents rich, The growth of endless love!

But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd, Forget the wonders done, And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense, Their prospect at the sun;

From that, their final point of view, From that their radiant goal, On travel infinite of thought, Sets out the n.o.bler soul,

Broke loose from time's tenacious ties, And earth's involving gloom, To range at last its vast domain, And talk with worlds to come:

They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd, Life's idle moments run; And doing nothing for themselves, Imagine nothing done;

Fatal mistake! their fate goes on, Their dread account proceeds, And their not doing is set down Amongst their darkest deeds;

Though man sits still, and takes his ease; G.o.d is at work on man; No means, no moment unemployed, To bless him, if he can.

But man consents not, boldly bent To fas.h.i.+on his own fate; Man, a mere bungler in the trade, Repents his crime too late;

Hence loud laments: let me thy cause, Indulgent father! plead; Of all the wretches we deplore, Not one by thee was made.

What is thy whole creation fair?

Of love divine the child; Love brought it forth; and, from its birth, Has o'er it fondly smil'd:

Now, and through periods distant far, Long ere the world began, Heaven is, and has in travail been, Its birth the good of man;

Man holds in constant service bound The bl.u.s.tering winds and seas; Nor suns disdain to travel hard Their master, man, to please:

To final good the worst events Through secret channels run; Finish for man their destin'd course, As 'twas for man begun.

One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few) Has often smote, and smites My mind, as demonstration strong; That heaven in man delights:

What's known to man of things unseen, Of future worlds, or fates?

So much, nor more, than what to man's Sublime affairs relates;

What's revelation then? a list, An inventory just Of that poor insect's goods, so late Call'd out of night and dust.

What various motives to rejoice!

To render joy sincere, Has this no weight? our joy is felt Beyond this narrow sphere:

Would we in heaven new heaven create, And double its delight?

A smiling world, when heaven looks down, How pleasing in its sight!

Angels stoop forward from their thrones To hear its joyful lays; As incense sweet enjoy, and join, Its aromatic praise:

Have we no cause to fear the stroke Of heaven's avenging rod, When we presume to counteract A sympathetic G.o.d?

If we resign, our patience makes His rod an armless wand; If not, it darts a serpent's sting, Like that in Moses' hand;

Like that, it swallows up whate'er Earth's vain magicians bring, Whose baffled arts would boast below Of joys a rival spring.

Consummate love! the list how large Of blessings from thy hand!

To banish sorrow, and be blest, Is thy supreme command.

Are such commands but ill obey'd?

Of bliss, shall we complain?

The man, who dares to be a wretch, Deserves still greater pain.

Joy is our duty, glory, health; The suns.h.i.+ne of the soul; Our best encomium on the power Who sweetly plans the whole:

Joy is our Eden still possess'd: Begone, ign.o.ble grief!

'Tis joy makes G.o.ds, and men exalts, Their nature, our relief;

Relief, for man to that must stoop, And his due distance know; Transport's the language of the sides, Content the style below.

Content is joy, and joy in pain Is joy and virtue too; Thus, whilst good present we possess, More precious we pursue:

Of joy the more we have in hand, The more have we to come; Joy, like our money, interest bears, Which daily swells the sum.