WISDOM. (Address to)

O wisdom! if thy soft control
Can soothe the sickness of the soul,
Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the calm of tender peace;
Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway,
And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'st with frown austere
To nurse the brood of care and fear:
To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh:
Or if thine aspect stern have pow'r
To wither each poor transient flow'r
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,
And dry the springs whence hope should flow;
Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name:
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,
But never haunt my cheerful cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train!
Hail to fancy's golden reign!
Festive mirth and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child!
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith and fond surprise!
Let these, in fairy colours drest,
For ever share my careless breast:
Then, tho' wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

BARBAULD.

WISDOM. (Grief, Best School of)

If wisdom is our lesson, (and what else Ennobles man? what else have angels learnt ?) Grief, more proficients in thy school are made,

Than genius, or proud learning, ere could boast;
Voracious learning, often over-fed,
Digests not into sense her motley meal.
This forager on others' wisdom leaves
Her native farm, her reason quite untill'd:
With mixt manure she surfeits the rank soil,
Dung'd, but not drest; and rich to beggary :
A pomp untameable of weed prevails.

YOUNG.

How to live happiest; how avoid the pains,
The disappointments, and disgusts of those
Who would in pleasure all their hours employ ;
The precepts here of a divine old man

I could recite. Tho' old, he still retain'd
His manly sense, and energy of mind.
Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;
He still remember'd that he once was young;
His easy presence check'd no decent joy.
Him ev'n the dissolute admir'd; for he
A graceful looseness when he pleas'd put on,
And laughing could instruct. Much had he read,
Much more had seen; he studied from the life,
And in th' original perus'd mankind.

Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life,
He pitied man: and much he pitied those
Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means

To dissipate their days in quest of joy.

Our aim is happiness: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,
He said, 'tis the pursuit of all that live;
Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd.
But they the widest wander from the mark,
Who thro' the flow'ry paths of saunt'ring joy
Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage
Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.

For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings

To counterpoise itself, relentless fate

Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds

Should ever roam: and were the fates more kind,
Our narrow luxuries would soon be stale.

Were these exhaustless, nature would grow sick,
And, cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature rest: be busy for yourself,
And for your friend; be busy ev'n in vain,
Rather than tease her sated appetites:
Who never fasts, no banquet e'er enjoys;
Who never toils or watches, never sleeps.
Let nature rest: and when the taste of joy
Grows keen, indulge; but shun satiety.

'Tis not for mortals always to be blest,
But him the least the dull or painful hours
Of life oppress, whom sober sense conducts,
And virtue, thro' this labyrinth we tread.
Virtue and Sense I mean not to disjoin;
Virtue and sense are one: and, trust me, he
Who has not virtue, is not truly wise.
Virtue (for mere good-nature is a fool)
Is sense and spirit, with humanity:

"Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds;
'Tis ev'n vindictive, but in vengeance just.
Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones
dare;

But at his heart the most undaunted son

Of fortune dreads its name and awful charms.

To noblest uses this determines wealth:

This is the solid pomp of prosperous days,

The peace and shelter of adversity.
And if you pant for glory, build your fame
On this foundation, which the secret shock
Defies of envy and all-sapping time.
The gaudy gloss of fortune only strikes
The vulgar eye: the suffrage of the wise,

The praise that's worth ambition, is attain'd
By sense alone, and dignity of mind.

Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul,
Is the best gift of heaven: a happiness
that ev'n above the smiles and frowns of fate
Exalts great nature's favourites: a wealth
That ne'er encumbers, nor to baser hands
Can be transferr'd: it is the only good
Man justly boasts of, or can call his own.

WIT.

(Polished)

ARMSTRONG.

Parts may be prais'd, good nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword,
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set.

Their want of edge from their offence is seen;
Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

WIT. (Fashions in)

YOUNG.

Some praise at morning what they blame at night; But always think the last opinion right.

A muse by these is like a mistress us'd:
This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
Ask them the cause; they're wiser still they say;
And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day.

We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow ;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
Who knew most sentences was deepest read :
Faith, gospel, all seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:

Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn,

What wonder modes in wit should take their turn!

WIT.

(Unhappiness of)

POPE.

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praise we boast; But soon the short-lived vanity is lost; Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy ;

Then most our trouble still when most admir'd; And still the more we give, the more required; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with

ease,

Sure some to vex, but never all to please:

'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun; By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!

WIT. (True Defined)

POPE.

Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glitt❜ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line; Pleas'd with work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dress'd; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind.