The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry: I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 't is not hard to find; 175 But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight Pride adds to emptiness, This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-acrown, 180 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year; He who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; And he who now to sense, now nonsense, leaning, 185 Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 190 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And hate for arts that caused himself to rise: 200 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering teach the rest to sneer; 210 And wonder with a foolish face of praise Who but must laugh if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, 215 345 That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, The distant threats of vengeance on his head, The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; The libelled person, and the pictured shape; 355 No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. Unlearned, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, No language but the language of the heart. His death was instant and without a groan. 405 O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: Me, let the tender office long engage To rock the cradle of reposing Age, With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath, 410 Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death; Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, Thou Great First Cause, least understood, 5 To know but this, that thou art good, Yet gave me, in this dark estate, And binding Nature fast in Fate, What Conscience dictates to be done, This teach me more than Hell to shun, What blessings thy free bounty gives For God is paid when man receives; Yet not to earth's contracted span 10 15 20 That mercy I to others show, Through this day's life or death! This day be bread and peace my lot: To Thee, whose temple is all Space, One chorus let all Being raise, Matthew Prior (1664-1721) A SIMILE DEAR Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man's shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see ('T is but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage In jumping round a rolling cage? 1738 40 45 50 5 The cage, as either side turned up, Striking a ring of bells a-top? Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: 10 But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades. In noble songs and lofty odes, 15 They tread on stars and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. 20 1707 A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT LOVELY, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human-kind! Heavenly-born, and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky With more of happiness below, Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, O whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek, contented head: What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calms and ease! Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. Encreasing Avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart, which grief assails, 5 10 15 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 20 Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks, as I have vainly done, Amusing thought; but learns to know Pleased and blessed with God alone: 60 To please my ear, and court my song; Should be sung, and sung by me: Go search among your idle dreams, Or own the next begun in this. 1714 70 75 That solitude's the nurse of woe. No real happiness is found 25 A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH By the blue taper's trembling light, No more I waste the wakeful night, Intent with endless view to pore The schoolmen and the sages o'er: Their books from wisdom widely stray, Or point at best the longest way. I'll seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom's surely taught below. How deep yon azure dyes the sky, Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide! The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, 10 15 |