The Works of Henry Fielding/Of Good Nature. To His Grace The Duke of Richmond.

by Henry Fielding

   WHAT is good-nature? Gen'rous Richmond, tell;
He can declare it best, who best can feel.
Is it a foolish weakness in the breast,
As some who know, or have it not, contest?
Or is it rather not the mighty whole,
Full composition of a virtuous soul?
Is it not virtue's self? A flower so fine,
It only grows in soils almost divine.

   Some virtues flourish, like some plants, less nice,
And in one nature blossom out with vice.
Knaves may be valiant, villains may be friends;
And love in minds deprav'd effect its ends.
Good-nature, like the delicatest seeds.
Or dies itself, or else extirpates weeds.

   Yet in itself howe'er unmix'd and pure,
No virtue from mistakes is less secure.
Good-nature often we those actions name,
Which flow from friendship, or a softer flame.
Pride may the friend to noblest efforts thrust,
Or savages grow gentle out of lust.
The meanest passion may the best appear,
And men may seem good-natur'd from their fear.

   What by this name, then, shall be understood?
What? but the glorious lust of doing good?
The heart that finds its happiness to please
Can feel another's pain, and taste his ease;
The cheek that with another's joy can glow,
Turn pale and sicken with another's woe;
Free from contempt and envy, he who deems
Justly of life's two opposite extremes.
Who to make all and each man truly bless'd
Doth all he can and wishes all the rest?

   Tho' few have pow'r their wishes to fulfil,
Yet all men may do good, at least in will.
Tho' few, with you or Marlborough, can save
From poverty, from prisons, and the grave;
Yet to each individual heav'n affords
The pow'r to bless in wishes, and in words.

   Happy the man with passions bless'd like you,
Who to be ill, his nature must subdue;
Whom fortune fav'ring, was no longer blind,
Whose riches are the treasures of mankind.
O! nobler in thy virtues than thy blood,
Above thy highest titles place THE GOOD.

   High on life's summit rais'd, you little know
The ills which blacken all the vales below;
Wliere industry toils for support in vain,
And virtue to distress still joins disdain.
Swelt'ring with wealth, where men unmov'd can hear
The orphan's sigh, and see the widow's tear;
Where griping av'rice slights the debtor's pray'r,
And wretches wanting bread deprives of air.

   Must it not wond'rous seem to hearts like thine,
That God, to other animals benign,
Should unprovided man alone create,
And send him hither but to curse his fate!
Is this the being for whose use the earth
Sprung out of nought, and animals had birth?
This he, whose bold imagination dares
Converse with heav'n, and soar beyond the stars?
Poor reptile! wretched in an angel's form,
And wanting that which Nature gives the worm.

   Far other views our kind Creator knew,
When man the image of himself he drew.

   So full the stream of Nature's bounty flows,
Man feels no ill, but what to man he owes.
The earth abundant furnishes a store,
To sate the rich, and satisfy the poor.
These would not want, if those did never hoard;
Enough for Irus falls from Dives' board.

   And dost thou, common son of Nature, dare
From thy own brother to withhold his share?
To vanity, pale idol, offer up
The shining dish, and empty golden cup!
Or else in caverns hide thy precious ore,
And to the bowels of the earth restore
What for our use she yielded up before?
Behold, and take example, how the steed
Attempts not, selfish, to engross the mead.
See how the lowing herd, and bleating flock,
Promiscuous graze the valley, or the rock;
Each tastes his share of Nature's gen'ral good,
Nor strives from others to withhold their food.
But say, O man! would it not strange appear
To see some beast (perhaps the meanest there)
To his repast the sweetest pastures choose,
And ev'n the sourest to the rest refuse.
Would'st thou not view, with scornful wond'ring eye,
The poor, contented, starving herd stand by?
All to one beast a servile homage pay,
And boasting, think it honour to obey.

   Who wonders that good-nature in so few,
Can anger, lust, or avarice subdue?
When the cheap gift of fame our tongues deny,
And risk our own, to poison with a lie.

   Dwells there a base malignity in men,
That 'scapes the tiger's cave, or lion's den?
Does our fear dread, or does our envy hate,
To see another happy, good, or great?
Or does the gift of fame, like money, seem?
Think we we lose, whene'er we give, esteem?

   Oh! great humanity, whose beams benign,
Like the sun's rays, on just and unjust shine;
Who turning the perspective friendly still,
Dost magnify all good, and lessen ill;
Whose eye, while small perfections it commends,
Not to what's better, but what's worse attends:
Who, when at court it spies some well-shaped fair,
Searches not through the rooms for Shaftsb'ry's air;
Nor when Clarinda's lilies are confess'd,
Looks for the snow that whitens Richmond's breast.
Another's sense and goodness when I name,
Why wouldst thou lessen them with Mountford's fame?
Content, what Nature lavishes admire,
Nor what is wanting in each piece require.
Where much is right some blemishes afford,
Nor look for Ch—d in every lord.