The Relapse.
79
But let not these inexpiable Strains
Condemn the Muse that knows her Dignity;
Nor meanly stops at Time, but holds the World
As 'tis, in Nature's ample Field, a Point,
A Point in her Esteem; from whence to start,
And run the Round of universal Space,
To visit Being universal there,
And Being's Source, that utmost Flight of Mind!
Yet, spite of this so vast Circumference,
Well knows, but what is Moral, nought is Great:
Sing Syrens only? Do not Angels sing?
There is in Poesy a decent Pride,
Which well becomes her when the speaks to Prose,
Her younger Sister; haply, not more wise.
Think'st thou, Lorenzo! to find Pastimes here?
No guilty Passion blown into a Flame,
No Foible flatter'd, Dignity disgrac'd,
No Fairy Field of Fiction, all on Flow'r,
No Rainbow Colours, here, or silken Tale:
But solemn Counsels, Images of Awe,
Truths, which Eternity lets fall on Man
With double Weight, thro' these revolving Spheres,
This Death-deep Silence, and incumbent Shade:
Thoughts, such as shall revisit your last Hour;
Visit uncall'd, and live when Life expires;
And thy dark Pencil, Midnight! darker still
In Melancholy dipt, embrowns the Whole.
Yet this, ev'n This, my Laughter-loving Friends
Lorenzo! and thy Brothers of the Smile!
If, what imports you most, can most engage,
Shall steal your Ear, and chain you to my Song.
Or if you fail me, know, the Wise shall taste
The Truths I sing; the Truths I sing shall feel;
And, feeling, give Assent; and their Assent
Is ample Recompence; is more than Praise.
Condemn the Muse that knows her Dignity;
Nor meanly stops at Time, but holds the World
As 'tis, in Nature's ample Field, a Point,
A Point in her Esteem; from whence to start,
And run the Round of universal Space,
To visit Being universal there,
And Being's Source, that utmost Flight of Mind!
Yet, spite of this so vast Circumference,
Well knows, but what is Moral, nought is Great:
Sing Syrens only? Do not Angels sing?
There is in Poesy a decent Pride,
Which well becomes her when the speaks to Prose,
Her younger Sister; haply, not more wise.
Think'st thou, Lorenzo! to find Pastimes here?
No guilty Passion blown into a Flame,
No Foible flatter'd, Dignity disgrac'd,
No Fairy Field of Fiction, all on Flow'r,
No Rainbow Colours, here, or silken Tale:
But solemn Counsels, Images of Awe,
Truths, which Eternity lets fall on Man
With double Weight, thro' these revolving Spheres,
This Death-deep Silence, and incumbent Shade:
Thoughts, such as shall revisit your last Hour;
Visit uncall'd, and live when Life expires;
And thy dark Pencil, Midnight! darker still
In Melancholy dipt, embrowns the Whole.
Yet this, ev'n This, my Laughter-loving Friends
Lorenzo! and thy Brothers of the Smile!
If, what imports you most, can most engage,
Shall steal your Ear, and chain you to my Song.
Or if you fail me, know, the Wise shall taste
The Truths I sing; the Truths I sing shall feel;
And, feeling, give Assent; and their Assent
Is ample Recompence; is more than Praise.
But
