Postscript

Thus have I written, when to writeNo mortal should presume;Or only write, what none can blame,Hic jacet--for his tomb:

The public frowns, and censures loudMy puerile employ;Though just the censure, if you smile,The scandal I enjoy;

But sing no more--no more I singOr reassume the lyre,Unless vouchsaf'd an humble partWhere Raphael leads the choir:

What myriads swell the concert loud!Their golden harps resoundHigh as the footstool of the throne,And deep as hell profound:

Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and songOf raptur'd angels drownsIn self-will's peal of blasphemies,And hideous burst of groans;

But drowns them not to me; I hearHarmonious thunders roll(In language low of men to speak)From echoing pole to pole!

Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies--"Above, beneath the sun,Through boundless age, by men, by gods,Jehovah's will be done!"

'Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurl'dSelf-will with Satan fell;And must from earth be banish'd too,Or earth's another hell;

Madam! self-will inflicts your pains:Self-will's the deadly foeWhich deepens all the dismal shades,And points the shafts of woe:

Your debt to nature fully paid,Now virtue claims her due:But virtue's cause I need not plead,'Tis safe; I write to you:

You know, that virtue's basis liesIn ever judging right;And wiping error's clouds away,Which dim the mental sight:

Why mourn the dead? you wrong the grave,From storm that safe resort;We still are tossing out at sea,Our admiral in port.

Was death denied, this world, a sceneHow dismal and forlorn!To death we owe, that 'tis to manA blessing to be born;

When every other blessing fails,Or sapp'd by slow decay,Or, storm'd by sudden blasts of fate,Is swiftly whirl'd away;

How happy! that no storm, or time,Of death can rob the just!None pluck from their unaching headsSoft pillows in the dust!

Well pleas'd to bear heaven's darkest frown,Your utmost power employ;'Tis noble chemistry to turnNecessity to joy.

Whate'er the colour of my fate,My fate shall be my choice:Determin'd am I, whilst I breathe,To praise and to rejoice;

What ample cause! triumphant hope!O rich eternity!I start not at a world in flames,Charm'd with one glimpse of thee:

And thou! its great inhabitant!How glorious dost thou shine!And dart through sorrow, danger, death,A beam of joy divine!

The void of joy (with some concernThe truth severe I tell)Is an impenitent in guilt,A fool or infidel!

Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire!From joyless murmur free;Or, let us know, which characterShall crown you of the three.

Resign, resign: this lesson noneToo deeply can instill;A crown has been resign'd by more,Than have resign'd the will;

Though will resign'd the meanest makesSuperior in renown,And richer in celestial eyes,Than he who wears a crown;

Hence, in the bosom cold of age,It kindled a strange aimTo shine in song; and bid me boastThe grandeur of my theme:

But oh! how far presumption fallsIts lofty theme below!Our thoughts in life's December freeze,And numbers cease to flow.

First! greatest! best! grant what I wroteFor others, ne'er may riseTo brand the writer! thou aloneCanst make our wisdom wise;

And how unwise! how deep in guilt!How infamous the fault!"A teacher thron'd in pomp of words,Indeed, beneath the taught!"

Means most infallible to makeThe world an infidel;And, with instructions most divine,To pave a path to hell;

O! for a clean and ardent heart,O! for a soul on fire,Thy praise, begun on earth, to soundWhere angels string the lyre;

How cold is man! to him how hard(Hard, what most easy seems)"To set a just esteem on that,Which yet he--most esteems!"

What shall we say, when boundless blissIs offer'd to mankind,And to that offer when a raceOf rationals is blind?

Of human nature ne'er too highAre our ideas wrought;Of human merit ne'er too lowDepress'd the daring thought.