Part 24 (2/2)

What sad experience say?

Through truths austere, to peace we work Our rugged, gloomy way:

What are we? whence? for what? and whither?

Who know not, needs must mourn; But thought, bright daughter of the skies!

Can tears to triumph turn.

Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's Impenetrable s.h.i.+eld, When, sent by fate, we meet our foes, In sore affliction's field;

It plucks the frightful mask from ills, Forbids pale fear to hide, Beneath that dark disguise, a friend, Which turns affection's tide.

Affection frail! train'd up by sense, From reason's channel strays: And whilst it blindly points at peace, Our peace to pain betrays.

Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream From daily dying flowers, To nourish rich immortal blooms, In amaranthine bowers;

Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down On what once shock'd their sight; And thank the terrors of the past For ages of delight.

All withers here; who most possess Are losers by their gain, Stung by full proof, that, bad at best, Life's idle all is vain:

Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream; Did not its course offend, But murmur cease; life, then, would seem Still vainer, from its end.

How wretched! who, through cruel fate, Have nothing to lament!

With the poor alms this world affords Deplorably content!

Had not the Greek his world mistook, His wish had been most wise; To be content with but one world, Like him, we should despise.

Of earth's revenue would you state A full account and fair?

We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast The total up---- _Despair._

Since vain all here, all future, vast, Embrace the lot a.s.sign'd; Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends; Its stroke severe, most kind.

But in laps'd nature rooted deep, Blind error domineers; And on fools' errands, in the dark, Sends out our hopes and fears;

Bids us for ever pains deplore, Our pleasures overprize; These oft persuade us to be weak; Those urge us to be wise.

From virtue's rugged path to right By pleasure are we brought, To flowery fields of wrong, and there Pain chides us for our fault:

Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace If folly is withstood; And says, time pays an easy price, For our eternal good.

In earth's dark cot, and in an hour, And in delusion great, What an economist is man To spend his whole estate,

And beggar an eternity!

For which as he was born, More worlds than one against it weigh'd, As feathers he should scorn.

Say not, your loss in triumph leads Religion's feeble strife; Joys future amply reimburse Joys bankrupts of this life.

But not deferr'd your joy so long, It bears an early date; Affliction's ready pay in hand, Befriends our present state;

What are the tears, which trickle down Her melancholy face, Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price, They purchase lasting peace.

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