He hangs between in doubt to act or rest,
In doubt to deem himself a god or beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little or too much :
Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd,
Still by himself abus'd or disabus'd;
Created half to rise, and half to fall:
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
MAN. Why formed as he is.
The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws
Finds in a sober moment time to pause,
To prees
th' important question on his heart,
'Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?'
If man be what he seems, this hour a slave,
The next mere dust and ashes in the grave:
Endu'd with reason only to discry
His crimes and follies with an aching eye:
With passions, just that he may prove, with pain,
The force he spends against their fury vain :
And if soon after having burnt by turns,
With ev'ry lust, with which frail nature burns,
His being end, where death dissolves the bond,
The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond;
Then he, of all that nature has brought forth,
Stands self impeach'd the creature of least worth,
And useless while he lives and when he dies
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.
Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground,
Ne earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould!
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the muse's tales seem truly told,
Til the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon :
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone :
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
The sun-the soil-but not the slave the same,
Unchang'd in all except his foreign lord,
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame,
The battle-field-where Persia's victim horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hella's sword,
As on the morn to distant glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word-
Which utter'd-to the hero's eye appear
The camp-the host-the fight-the conqueror's career!
The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow,
The fiery Greek-his red pursuing spear,
Mountains above-earth's-ocean's plain below,
Death in the front-destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground
Recording freedom's smile and Asia's tear?—
The rifled urn-the violated mound-
The dust-thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past,
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ;
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely hither let him roam,
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth;
But he whom sadness soothes may abide,
And scarce regret the region of his birth,
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side,
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.
MARLBOROUGH. Character of
'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was prov d
That in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war:
In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
Yes you despise the man to books confin'd, Who from his study rails at human kind;
Though what he learns he speaks, and may advance
Some gen'ral maxims, or be right by chance.
The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,
That from his cage, cries cuckold, whore, and knave,
Though many a passenger he rightly call,
You hold him no philosopher at all.
MEDIUM. Not easily hit.
And first, let no man charge me, that I mean
To close in sable ev'ry social scene,
And give good company a face severe,
As if they met around a father's bier;
For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent,
And laughter all their work, is life mispent,
Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply,-
Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry.
To find the medium asks some share of wit,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.
MELANCHOLY.
Hail divinest melancholy!
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight;
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue.
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cyprus lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm peace and quiet,
Spare fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Ay round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to these retired leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.-
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chantress, oft the woods among
I woo, to hear thy even song,
And, missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud,
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound
Over some wide water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.-
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt,
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