Should be forgot, if you the truths retain; And bold blasphemer of his friend,—the world; "Are all, then, fools?" Lorenzo cries.-Yes, all, But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee); "The mother of true wisdom is the will;" The noblest intellect, a fool without it. World-wisdom much has done, and more may do, In arts and sciences, in wars, and peace; But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee. And make thee twice a beggar at thy death. This is the most indulgence can afford ;— Thy wisdom all can do, but-make thee wise." Nor think this censure is severe on thee; Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce. 225 NIGHT IX. AND LAST. THE CONSOLATION. CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, I. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS. II. A NIGHT ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO HIS GRACE the duke OF NEWCASTLE, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE. Fatis contraria fata rependens.-virg. As when a traveller, a long day past Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, Song soothes our pains; and age has pains to soothe. heart, [shade, Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire; Canst thou, O night! indulge one labour more? One labour more indulge! then sleep, my strain! VOL. I. Till, haply, wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre, Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow, To bear a part in everlasting lays ; [cease; Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust, Symphonious to this humble prelude here. Has not the muse asserted pleasures pure, Like those above; exploding other joys? Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh; And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still? I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold. But if, beneath the favour of mistake, Thy smile's sincere; not more sincere can be Lorenzo's smile, than my compassion for him. The sick in body call for aid; the sick In mind are covetous of more disease; And when at worst, they dream themselves quite To know ourselves diseas'd, is half our cure. When nature's blush by custom is wip'd off, And conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes; The curse of curses is, our curse to love; To triumph in the blackness of our guilt (As Indians glory in the deepest jet), And throw aside our senses with our peace. [well. But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy; And that in sorrow buried; this, in shame; Where the prime actors of the last year's scene; Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume ? How many sleep, who kept the world awake With lustre, and with noise! has death proclaim'd A truce, and hung his sated lance on high? 'Tis brandish'd still; nor shall the present year Be more tenacious of her human leaf, Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall. But needless monuments to wake the thought; Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality; Though in a style more florid, full as plain, As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs. What are our noblest ornaments, but deaths Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint, or marble, The well stain'd canvass, or the featur'd stone? Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene. Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead. "Profest diversions! cannot these escape ?"- Shed gen'rous tears on wretches born to die ; What all the pomps and triumphs of our lives, Lorenzo! such the glories of the world! What is the world itself? Thy world—a grave, Where is the dust that has not been alive? The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors; From human mould we reap our daily bread. The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. O'er devastation we blind revels keep; Whole buried towns support the dancer's heel. Nor man alone; his breathing bust expires, In unsubstantial images of air! The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, All point at earth, and hiss at human pride, |