But he whom Anger stings, drops, if he dies,
At once, and rushes apoplectic down;
Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell.
For, as the body through unnumber'd strings
Reverberates each vibration of the soul;
As is the passion, such is still the pain
The body feels: or chronic, or acute.
And oft a sudden storm at once o'erpowers
The life, or gives your reason to the winds.
Such fates attend the rash alarm of Fear,
And sudden Grief and Rage and sudden Joy.
There are, meantime, to whom the boisterous
Is health, and only fills the sails of life.
For where the mind a torpid winter leads,
Wrapp'd in a body corpulent and cold,
And each clogg'd function lazily moves on;
A generous sally spurns the' incumbent load,
Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow.
But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,
Or are your nerves too irritably strung,
Wave all dispute; be cautious, if you joke;
Keep Lent for ever; and forswear the bowl:
For one rash moment sends you to the shades,
Or shatters every hopeful scheme of life,
And gives to horror all your days to come.
Fate, arm'd with thunder, fire, and every plague
That ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,
And makes the happy wretched in an hour,
O'erwhelms you not with woes so horrible
As your own wrath, nor gives more sudden blows.
While choler works, good friend, you may be
Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight.
'Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave;
If honour bids, to-morrow kill or die.
But calm advice against a raging fit
Avails too little; and it braves the
power
Of all that ever taught in prose or song,
To tame the fiend that sleeps a gentle lamb,
And wakes a lion. Unprovoked and calm,
You reason well; see as you ought to see,
And wonder at the madness of mankind:
Seized with the common rage, you soon forget
The speculations of your wiser hours.
Beset with furies of all deadly shapes,
Fierce and insidious, violent and slow,
With all that urge or lure us on to fate:
What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare?
Where Reason proves too weak, or void of wiles
To cope with subtle or impetuous powers,
I would invoke new Passions to your aid:
With Indignation would extinguish Fear,
With Fear or generous Pity vanquish Rage,
And Love with Pride; and force to force oppose.
There is a charm, a power, that sways the
breast;
Bids every Passion revel or be still:
Inspires with rage, or all your cares dissolves;
Can sooth distraction, and almost despair.
That power is Music: far beyond the stretch
Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage;
Those clumsy heroes, those fat-headed gods,
Who move no passion justly but contempt:
Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!)
Do wondrous feats, but never heard of grace.
The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts;
Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest
peals,
Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;
And, with insipid show of rapture, die
Of idiot notes impertinently long.
But he the Muse's laurel justly shares,
A poet he, and touch'd with Heaven's own fire,
Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds,
Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;
Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain,
In love dissolves you; now, in sprightly strains
Breathes a gay rapture through your thrilling
breast;
Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad;
Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings.
Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old
Appeased the fiend of melancholy Saul.
Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,
The man who bade the Theban domes ascend,
And tamed the savage nations with his song;
And such the Thracian, whose melodious lyre,
Tuned to soft woe, made all the mountains weep;
Sooth'd e'en the' inexorable
powers
of hell,
And half redeem'd his lost Eurydice.
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens every pain,
Subdues the rage of poison and the plague;
And hence the wise of ancient days adored
One power of Physic, Melody, and Song.
[This little piece was addressed to a worthy Gentleman, as an expression of gratitude for his kind endeavours to do the Author a great piece of service.]
KIND to my frailties still, Eumenes, hear;
Once more I try the patience of your ear.
Not oft I sing: the happier for the town,
So stunn'd already, they're quite stupid grown
With monthly, daily-charming things, I own.
Happy for them, I seldom court the Nine;
Another art, a serious art is mine.
Of nauseous verses offer'd once a week,
'You cannot say I did it', if you're sick;
'Twas ne'er my pride to shine, by flashy fits,
Amongst the daily, weekly, monthly wits.
Content, if some few friends indulge my name,
So slightly am I stung with love of fame,
I would not scrawl one hundred idle lines-
Not for the praise of all the Magazines.
Yet once a moon, perhaps, I steal a night;
And (if our sire Apollo pleases) write.
You smile; but all the train the Muse that follow, Christians and dunces, still we quote Apollo. Unhappy still our poets will rehearse
To Goths, that stare astonish'd at their verse;
To the rank tribes submit their virgin lays:
So gross, so bestial is the lust of praise!
I to sound judges from the mob appeal, And write to those who most my subject feel. Eumenes, these dry moral lines I trust With you, whom nought that's moral can disgust. With you I venture, in plain homespun sense, What I imagine of Benevolence.
Of all the monsters of the humankind, What strikes you most, is the low selfish mind. You wonder how, without one liberal joy, The steady miser can his years employ; Without one friend, howe'er his fortunes thrive, Despised and hated, how he bears to live. With honest warmth of heart, with some degree Of pity, that such wretched things should be, You scorn the sordid knave-He grins at you, And deems himself the wiser of the two.'Tis all but taste, howe'er we sift the case; He has his joy, as every creature has. 'Tis true, he cannot boast an angel's share, Yet has what happiness his organs bear. Thou likewise madest' the high seraphic soul, • Maker Omnipotent!' and thou the owl. [use; Heaven form'd him too, and doubtless for some But Crane Court knows not yet all nature's views. 'Tis chiefly taste, or blunt or gross or fine, Makes life insipid, bestial, or divine. Better be born with taste to little rent, Than the dull monarch of a continent. Without this bounty which the gods bestow, Can fortune make one favourite happy?—No. As well might fortune, in her frolic vein, Proclaim an oyster sovereign of the main,
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