Part 29 (1/2)

Nothing is great, of which more great, More glorious is the scorn.

Can fame your carca.s.s from the worm Which gnaws us in the grave, Or soul from that which never dies, Applauding Europe save?

But fame you lose; good sense alone Your idol, praise, can claim; When wild wit murders happiness, It puts to death our fame!

Nor boast your genius, talents bright; E'en dunces will despise, If in your western beams is miss'd A genius for the skies;

Your taste too fails; what most excels True taste must relish most!

And what, to rival palms above, Can proudest laurels boast?

Sound heads salvation's helmet seek,(56) Resplendent are its rays, Let that suffice; it needs no plume, Of sublunary praise.

May this enable couch'd Voltaire To see that-”All is right,”(57) His eye, by flash of wit struck blind, Restoring to its sight;

If so, all's well: who much have err'd, That much have been forgiven; I speak with joy, with joy he'll hear, ”Voltaires are, now, in heaven.”

Nay, such philanthropy divine, So boundless in degree, Its marvellous of love extends (Stoops most profound!) to me:

Let others cruel stars arraign, Or dwell on their distress; But let my page, for mercies pour'd, A grateful heart express:

Walking, the present G.o.d was seen, Of old, in Eden fair; The G.o.d as present, by plain steps Of providential care,

I behold pa.s.sing through my life; His awful voice I hear; And, conscious of my nakedness, Would hide myself for fear:

But where the trees, or where the clouds, Can cover from his sight?

Naked the centre to that eye, To which the sun is night.

As yonder glittering lamps on high Through night illumin'd roll; My thoughts of him, by whom they s.h.i.+ne, Chase darkness from my soul;

My soul, which reads his hand as clear In my minute affairs, As in his ample ma.n.u.script Of sun, and moon, and stars;

And knows him not more bent aright To wield that vast machine, Than to correct one erring thought In my small world within;

A world, that shall survive the fall Of all his wonders here; Survive, when suns ten thousand drop, And leave a darken'd sphere.

Yon matter gross, how bright it s.h.i.+nes!

For time how great his care!

Sure spirit and eternity Far richer glories share;

Let those our hearts impress, on those Our contemplation dwell; On those my thoughts how justly thrown, By what I now shall tell:

When backward with attentive mind Life's labyrinth I trace, I find him far myself beyond Propitious to my peace:

Through all the crooked paths I trod, My folly he pursued; My heart astray to quick return Importunately woo'd;

Due resignation home to press On my capricious will, How many rescues did I meet, Beneath the mask of ill!

How many foes in ambush laid Beneath my soul's desire!

The deepest penitents are made By what we most admire.