For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
HONOUR. The word often abused.
Honours best thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our fore-goers: the mere word 's a slave,
Debauch'd on every tomb; on every grave,
A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb,
Where dust and damn'd oblivion is tne tomb
Of honour'd bones indeed.
HONOUR. Must be Active.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great sized monster of ingratitudes :
Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'd
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done: Perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honour bright: To have done, is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way,
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;
For emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue: If you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost.
Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well vour part, there all the honour lies.
Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made;
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
The cobler apron'd, and the parson gown'd,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd,
"What differ more," you cry, "than crown and cowl?"
I'll tell you, friend; a wise man and a fool;
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk;
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather, or prunella.
Hope humbly then with dreadful pinions soar :
Wait the great teacher death, and God adore:
What future bliss he gives not thee to know;
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now;
Hope springs eternal in the human breast
Man never Is, but always To be blest
The soul uneasy, and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates on a life to come.
HOPE. Deceitful, how recalled.
Oh! vainly wise, the moral muse hath sung
That suasive hope hath but a syren tongue!
True; she may sport with life's untutor❜d day,
Nor heed the solace of its last decay,
The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,
And part, like Ajut-never to return!
But yet, methinks, when wisdom shall assuage
The grief and passions of our greener age,
Though dull the close of life, and far away
Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day;
Yet o'er her lowly hopes, that once were dear,
The time-taught spirit, pensive, nor severe,
With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,
And weep their falsehood, though she love them still. Campbell.
HOPE. Effects of the Sceptical Philosophy on. Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark, idolater of chance,
Content to feed, with pleasure unrefin'd,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;
Who, mouldering earthward, reft of every trust,
In joyless union, wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren, world sufficient bliss ?-
There lives, alas! of heaven directed mien,
Of cultur'd soul, and sapient eye serene,
Who hail thee, man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,
Frail as the leaf in autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,
Light to the grave his chance created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm
And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er
To night, and, silence sink for evermore!
HOPE. The influence of, at the close of Life.
Unfading hope! when life's last embers burn,
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!
Heav'n to thy charge resigns the awful hour!
Oh! then thy kingdom comes! immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day-
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begins!
And all the phoenix spirit burns within!
Oh deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes:
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun;
Where Time's far wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.
'Tis heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears with terror mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!
Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er !—the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rupture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of heav'n, undazzled by the blaze,
On heav'nly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star born melody;
Wild as the hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy tow'rs of Zion hill.
Ask what is human life-the sage replies,
With disappointment low'ring in his eyes,
A painful passage o'er a restless flood,
A vain pursuit of fugitive false good,
A scene of fancied bliss and heart-felt care,
Closing at last in darkness and despair:
The poor, inur'd to drudgery and distress,
Act without aim, think little, and feel less,
And nowhere, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes,
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means.
Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand,
As fortune, vice, or folly, may command;
As in a dance the pair that take the lead
Turn downward and the lowest pair succeed.
So shifting and so various is the plan,
By which Heav'n rules the mixed affairs of man;
Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd,
The rich grow poor, the poor become purse-proud;
Bus'ness is labour, and man's weakness such,
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much,
The very sense of it foregoes its use,
By repetition pall'd, by age obtuse.
Youth lost in dissipation we deplore,
Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs restore;
Our years, a fruitless race without a prize,
Too many, yet too few to make us wise.
For neither man nor angel can discern Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks
Invisible, except to God alone,
By his permissive will, through heaven and earth;
And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps
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