The house of laughter makes a house of woe.
A man triumphant is a monstrous sight;
A man dejected is a sight as mean.
What cause for triumph, where such ills abound?
What for, dejection, where presides a Power,
Who call'd us into being to be blest?
So grieve, as conscious, grief may rise to joy;
So joy as conscious, joy to grief may fall.
Most true, a wise man never will be sad;
But neither will sonorous, bubbling mirth,
A shallow stream of happiness betray:
Too happy to be sportive, he's serene.
Yet wouldst thou laugh (but at thy own expence), This counsel strange should I presume to give→→ Retire, and read thy Bible, to be gay." There truths abound of sov'reign aid to peace; Ah! do not prize them less, because inspir'd As thou, and thine, are apt and proud to do. If not inspir'd, that pregnant page had stood, Time's treasure! and the wonder of the wise! Thou think'st, perhaps, thy soul alone at stake; Alas!—should men mistake thee for a fool ;What man of taste for genius, wisdom, truth, Tho' tender of thy fame, could interpose? Believe me, sense, here, acts a double part, And the true critic is a Christian too.
But these, thou think'st, are gloomy paths to joy.True joy in sunshine ne'er was found at first; They, first, themselves offend, who greatly please; And travel only gives us sound repose.
Heav'n sells all pleasure; effort is the price;
The joys of conquest, are the joys of man :
And glory the victorious laurel spreads
O'er pleasure's pure, perpetual, placid stream.
There is a time, when toil must be preferr'd,
Or joy, my mis-tim'd fondness is undone.
A man of pleasure, is a man of pains.
Thou wilt not take the trouble to be blest.
False joys, indeed, are born from want of thought;
From thoughts full bent, and energy, the true;
And that demands a mind in equal poise,
Remote from gloomy grief, and glaring joy.
Much joy not only speaks small happiness,
But happiness that shortly must expire.
Can joy, unbottom'd in reflection, stand?
And, in a tempest, can reflection live?
Can joy, like thine, secure itself an hour?
Can joy, like thine, meet accident unshock'd?
the door to honest poverty?
Or talk with threat'ning death, and not turn pale?
In such a world, and such a nature, these
Are needful fundamentals of delight:
These fundamentals give delight indeed;
Delight, pure, delicate, and durable;
Delight, unshaken, masculine, divine;
A constant, and a sound, but serious joy.
Is joy the daughter of severity?
It is -Yet far my doctrine from severe.
Rejoice for ever:" It becomes a man ; Exalts, and sets him nearer to the gods.
Rejoice for ever!" Nature cries, "Rejoice;"
And drinks to man in her nectareous cup,
Mixt up of delicates for ev'ry sense;
To the great Founder of the bounteous feast,
Drinks glory, gratitude, eternal praise;
And he that will not pledge her, is churl.
Ill firmly to support, good fully taste,
Is the whole science of felicity:
Yet sparing pledge: Her bowl is not the best
Mankind can boast." A rational repast;
Exertion, vigilance, a mind in arms, "A military discipline of thought,
"To foil temptation in the doubtful field;
"And ever-waking ardor for the right."
'Tis these, first, give, then guard, a chearful heart.
Nought that is right, think little; well aware,
What reason bids, GoD bids; by His command
How aggrandiz'd, the smallest thing we do!
Thus, nothing is insipid to the wise;
To thee, insipid all but what is mad;
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
"Mad! (thou reply'st, with indignation fir'd)
"Of antient sages proud to tread the steps,
"I follow nature."-Follow nature still,
But look it be thine own: Is conscience, then,
No part of nature? Is she not supreme?
Thou regicide! O raise her from the dead!
Then, follow nature; and resemble God.
When, spite of conscience, pleasure is pursu❜d,
Man's nature is unnaturally pleas'd:
And what's unnatural, is painful too
At intervals, and must disgust ev'n Thee!
The fact thou know'st; but not, perhaps, the cause.
Virtue's foundations with the world's were laid;
Heav'n mixt her with our make, and twisted close
Her sacred int'rests with the strings of life.
Who breaks her awful mandate, shocks himself,
His better self: And is it greater pain,
Our soul should murmur, or our dust repine?
And one, in their eternal war, must bleed.
If one must suffer, which should least be spar'd?
The pains of mind surpass the pains of sense:
Ask, then, the gout, what torment is in guilt.
The joys of sense to mental joys are mean :
Sense on the present only feeds; the soul
On past, and future, forages for joy.
'Tis hers, by retrospect, thro' time to range;
And forward time's great sequel to survey.
Could human courts take vengeance on the mind,
Axes might rust, and racks, and gibbets, fall:
Guard, then, thy mind, and leave the rest to fate.
LORENZO wilt thou never be a man?
The man is dead, who for the body lives,
Lur'd by the beating of his pulse, to list
With ev'ry lust, that wars against his peace;
And sets him quite at variance with himself.
Thyself, first, know; then love: A self there is
Of virtue fond, that kindles at her charms.
A self there is, ás fond of ev'ry vice,
While ev'ry virtue wounds it to the heart:
Humility degrades it, justice robs,
Blest bounty beggars it, fair truth betrays,
And god-like magnanimity destroys.
This self, when rival to the former, scorn:
When not in competition, kindly treat,
Defend it, feed it :-But when virtue bids,
Toss it, or to the fowls, or to the flames.
And why? 'Tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed!
Comply, or own self-love extinct, or blind.
For what is vice? Self-love in a mistake:
poor blind merchant buying joys too dear. And virtue, what? 'Tis self-love in her wits, Quite skilful in the market of delight. Self-love's good sense is love of that dread Power, From whom herself, and all she can enjoy. Other self-love is but disguis'd self-hate;
More mortal than the malice of our foes;
A self-hate, now, scarce felt; then felt full-sore,
When being, curst: extinction, loud implor'd;
And ev'ry thing preferr'd to what we are.
Yet this self-love LORENZO makes his choice
And, in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy.
How is his want of happiness betray'd,
By disaffection to the present hour!
Imagination wanders far afield:
The future pleases: Why? The present pains.-
"But that's a secret." Yes, which all men know;
And know from Thee, discover'd unawares.
Thy ceaseless agitation, restless roll
From cheat to cheat, impatient, of a pause;
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