Young's Night Thoughts Part 10

Wear I the blessed cross, by fortune stamp'd On pa.s.sive nature, before thought was born?

My birth's blind bigot! fired with local zeal!

No; reason re-baptized me when adult; Weigh'd true, and false, in her impartial scale; My heart became the convert of my head; 740 And made that choice, which once was but my fate.

"On argument alone my faith is built:"

Reason pursued is faith; and, unpursued Where proof invites, 'tis reason, then, no more: And such our proof, that, or our faith is right, Or reason lies, and Heaven design'd it wrong: Absolve we this? What, then, is blasphemy?

Fond as we are, and justly fond, of faith, Reason, we grant, demands our first regard; The mother honour'd, as the daughter dear. 750 Reason the root, fair faith is but the flower; The fading flower shall die; but reason lives Immortal, as her Father in the skies.

When faith is virtue, reason makes it so.

Wrong not the Christian; think not reason yours: 'Tis reason our great Master holds so dear; 'Tis reason's injured rights his wrath resents; 'Tis reason's voice obey'd his glories crown; To give lost reason life, he pour'd his own: Believe, and show the reason of a man; 760 Believe, and taste the pleasure of a G.o.d; Believe, and look with triumph on the tomb: Through reason's wounds alone thy faith can die; Which dying, tenfold terror gives to death, And dips in venom his twice-mortal sting.

Learn hence what honours, what loud paeans[16], due 766 To those, who push our antidote aside; Those boasted friends to reason, and to man, Whose fatal love stabs every joy, and leaves Death's terror heighten'd, gnawing on his heart.

Those pompous sons of reason idolized And vilified at once; of reason dead, Then deified, as monarchs were of old; 773 What conduct plants proud laurels on their brow?

While love of truth through all their camp resounds, They draw pride's curtain o'er the noontide ray, Spike up their inch of reason, on the point Of philosophic wit, call'd argument; And then, exulting in their taper, cry, "Behold the sun!" and, Indian-like, adore. 780 Talk they of morals? O thou bleeding Love!

Thou maker of new morals to mankind!

The grand morality is love of thee.

As wise as Socrates, if such they were (Nor will they bate of that sublime renown), As wise as Socrates, might justly stand The definition of a modern fool.

A Christian is the highest style of man: And is there, who the blessed cross wipes off, As a foul blot from his dishonour'd brow? 790 If angels tremble, 'tis at such a sight: The wretch they quit, desponding of their charge, More struck with grief or wonder, who can tell?

Ye sold to sense! ye citizens of earth!

(For such alone the Christian banner fly) Know ye how wise your choice, how great your gain?

Behold the picture of earth's happiest man: "He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back, And says, he call'd another; that arrives, Meets the same welcome; yet he still calls on; 800 Till one calls him, who varies not his call, But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound, Till nature dies, and judgment sets him free; A freedom far less welcome than his chain."

But grant man happy; grant him happy long; Add to life's highest prize her latest hour; That hour, so late, is nimble in approach, That, like a post, comes on in full career: How swift the shuttle flies that weaves thy shroud!

Where is the fable of thy former years? 810 Thrown down the gulf of time; as far from thee As they had ne'er been thine; the day in hand, Like a bird struggling to get loose, is going; Scarce now possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone; And each swift moment fled, is death advanced By strides as swift. Eternity is all; And whose eternity? Who triumphs there?

Bathing for ever in the font of bliss!

For ever basking in the Deity!

Lorenzo! who?--Thy conscience shall reply. 820 O give it leave to speak! 'twill speak ere long, Thy leave unask'd; Lorenzo! hear it now, While useful its advice, its accents mild.

By the great edict, the divine decree, Truth is deposited with man's last hour; An honest hour, and faithful to her trust; Truth, eldest daughter of the Deity; Truth, of his council, when he made the worlds; Nor less, when he shall judge the worlds he made; Though silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound, 830 Smother'd with errors, and oppress'd with toys, That heaven-commission'd hour no sooner calls, But from her cavern in the soul's abyss, Like him they fable under aetna whelm'd, 834 The G.o.ddess bursts in thunder, and in flame; Loudly convinces, and severely pains.

Dark demons I discharge, and hydra-stings; The keen vibration of bright truth--is h.e.l.l: Just definition! though by schools untaught.

Ye deaf to truth! peruse this parson'd page, 840 And trust, for once, a prophet, and a priest; "Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die."

THE RELAPSE.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF LICHFIELD.

NIGHT FIFTH.

THE RELAPSE.

Lorenzo! to recriminate is just.

Fondness for fame is avarice of air.

I grant the man is vain who writes for praise.

Praise no man e'er deserved, who sought no more.

As just thy second charge. I grant the Muse Has often blush'd at her degenerate sons, Retain'd by sense to plead her filthy cause; To raise the low, to magnify the mean, And subtilize the gross into refined: As if to magic numbers' powerful charm 10 'Twas given, to make a civet of their song Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.

Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute, And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.

The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.

We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride.

These share the man; and these distract him too; Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.

Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars; But pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground. 20 Joys shared by brute creation, pride resents; 21 Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy, And both at once: a point so hard, how gain!

But, what can't wit, when stung by strong desire?

Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise.

Since joys of sense can't rise to reason's taste; In subtle sophistry's laborious forge, Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause.

Wit calls the graces the chaste zone to loose; 30 Nor less than a plump G.o.d to fill the bowl: A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells, A thousand opiates scatters, to delude, To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep, And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.

Thus that which shock'd the judgment, shocks no more; That which gave Pride offence, no more offends.

Pleasure and Pride, by nature mortal foes, At war eternal, which in man shall reign, By Wit's address, patch up a fatal peace, 40 And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch, From rank refined to delicate and gay.

Art, cursed Art! wipes off th' indebted blush From Nature's cheek, and bronzes every shame.

Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt, And infamy stands candidate for praise.

All writ by man in favour of the soul, These sensual ethics far, in bulk, transcend.

The flowers of eloquence, profusely pour'd O'er spotted vice, fill half the letter'd world. 50 Can powers of genius exorcise their page, And consecrate enormities with song?

But let not these inexpiable strains Condemn the Muse that knows her dignity; Nor meanly stops at time, but holds the world 55 As 'tis, in nature's ample field, a point, A point in her esteem; from whence to start, And run the round of universal s.p.a.ce, To visit being universal there, And being's source, that utmost flight of mind!

Yet, spite of this so vast circ.u.mference, Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great. 62 Sing syrens only? Do not angels sing?

There is in Poesy a decent pride, Which well becomes her when she speaks to Prose, Her younger sister; haply, not more wise.

Think'st thou, Lorenzo! to find pastimes here?

No guilty pa.s.sion blown into a flame, No foible flatter'd, dignity disgraced, No fairy field of fiction, all on flower, 70 No rainbow colours here, or silken tale: But solemn counsels, images of awe, Truths, which eternity lets fall on man With double weight, through these revolving spheres, This death-deep silence, and inc.u.mbent shade: Thoughts, such as shall revisit your last hour; Visit uncall'd, and live when life expires; And thy dark pencil, Midnight! darker still In melancholy dipp'd, embrowns the whole.

Yet this, even this, my laughter-loving friends! 80 Lorenzo! and thy brothers of the smile!

If, what imports you most, can most engage, Shall steal your ear, and chain you to my song.

Or if you fail me, know, the wise shall taste The truths I sing; the truths I sing shall feel; And, feeling, give a.s.sent; and their a.s.sent Is ample recompence; is more than praise.

But chiefly thine, O Lichfield! nor mistake; Think not unintroduced I force my way; 89 Narcissa, not unknown, not unallied, By virtue, or by blood, ill.u.s.trious youth!

To thee, from blooming amaranthine bowers, Where all the language harmony, descends Uncall'd, and asks admittance for the Muse: A Muse that will not pain thee with thy praise; Thy praise she drops, by n.o.bler still inspired.

O Thou! Blest Spirit! whether the supreme, Great antemundane Father! in whose breast Embryo creation, unborn being, dwelt, And all its various revolutions roll'd 100 Present, though future; prior to themselves; Whose breath can blow it into nought again; Or, from his throne some delegated power, Who, studious of our peace, dost turn the thought From vain and vile, to solid and sublime!

Unseen thou lead'st me to delicious draughts Of inspiration, from a purer stream, And fuller of the G.o.d, than that which burst From famed Castalia: nor is yet allay'd My sacred thirst; though long my soul has ranged 110 Through pleasing paths of moral, and divine, By Thee sustain'd, and lighted by the stars.

By them best lighted are the paths of thought: Nights are their days, their most illumined hours.

By day, the soul, o'erborne by life's career, Stunn'd by the din, and giddy with the glare, Reels far from reason, jostled by the throng.

By day the soul is pa.s.sive, all her thoughts Imposed, precarious, broken ere mature.

By night, from objects free, from pa.s.sion cool, 120 Thoughts uncontroll'd, and unimpress'd, the births Of pure election, arbitrary range, Not to the limits of one world confined; 123 But from ethereal travels light on earth, As voyagers drop anchor, for repose.

Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians, fond Of feather'd fopperies, the sun adore: Darkness has more divinity for me; It strikes thought inward; it drives back the soul To settle on herself, our point supreme! 130 There lies our theatre; there sits our judge.

Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull scene; 'Tis the kind hand of Providence stretch'd out 'Twixt man and vanity; 'tis reason's reign, And virtue's too; these tutelary shades Are man's asylum from the tainted throng.

Night is the good man's friend, and guardian too; It no less rescues virtue, than inspires.

Virtue, for ever frail, as fair, below, Her tender nature suffers in the crowd, 140 Nor touches on the world, without a stain: The world's infectious; few bring back at eve.

Immaculate, the manners of the morn.

Something we thought, is blotted; we resolved, Is shaken; we renounced, returns again.

Each salutation may slide in a sin Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.

Nor is it strange: light, motion, concourse, noise, All, scatter us abroad; thought outward-bound, Neglectful of our home affairs, flies off 150 In fume and dissipation, quits her charge, And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe.

Present example gets within our guard, And acts with double force, by few repell'd.

Ambition fires ambition; love of gain Strikes, like a pestilence, from breast to breast; Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapours breathe; 157 And inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man. A slight, a single glance, And shot at random, often has brought home A sudden fever, to the throbbing heart, Of envy, rancour, or impure desire.

We see, we hear, with peril; safety dwells 163 Remote from mult.i.tude; the world's a school Of wrong, and what proficients swarm around!

We must, or imitate, or disapprove; Must list as their accomplices, or foes; That stains our innocence; this wounds our peace.

From nature's birth, hence, wisdom has been smit With sweet recess, and languish'd for the shade. 170 This sacred shade, and solitude, what is it?

'Tis the felt presence of the Deity.

Few are the faults we flatter when alone.

Vice sinks in her allurements, is ungilt, And looks, like other objects, black by night.

By night an atheist half believes a G.o.d.

Night is fair virtue's immemorial friend; The conscious moon, through every distant age, Has held a lamp to wisdom, and let fall, On contemplation's eye, her purging ray. 180 The famed Athenian,[17] he who woo'd from heaven Philosophy the fair, to dwell with men, And form their manners, not inflame their pride, While o'er his head, as fearful to molest His labouring mind, the stars in silence slide, And seem all gazing on their future guest, See him soliciting his ardent suit In private audience: all the live-long night, Rigid in thought, and motionless, he stands; Nor quits his theme, or posture, till the sun 190 (Rude drunkard rising rosy from the main!) Disturbs his n.o.bler intellectual beam, And gives him to the tumult of the world.

Hail, precious moments! stolen from the black waste Of murder'd time! Auspicious midnight! hail!

The world excluded, every pa.s.sion hush'd, And open'd a calm intercourse with Heaven, Here the soul sits in council; ponders past, Predestines future, action; sees, not feels, Tumultuous life, and reasons with the storm; 200 All her lies answers, and thinks down her charms.

What awful joy! what mental liberty!