Poems upon Several Occasions/46
in the Second Act of Seneca's
Thyestes.
WHEN will the Gods, propitious to our Pray'rs,
Compose our Factions, and conclude our Wars!
Ye Sons of Inachus, repent the Guilt
Of Crowns usurp'd, and Blood of Parents spilt,
For impious Greatness Vengeance is in Store,
Short is the Date of all ill-gotten Pow'r.
Give Ear, ambitious Princes, and be wise,
Listen and learn wherein true Greatness lyes:
Place not your Pride in Roofs that shine with Gems,
In Purple Robes, not sparkling Diadems,
Nor in Dominion, nor Extent of Land:
He's only Great, who can himself command,
Whose Guard is peaceful Innocence, whose Guide
Is faithful Reason, who is void of Pride,
Checking Ambition, nor is idly rain
Of the false Incense of a Popular Train:
Who without Strife, or Envy, can behold
His Neighbour's Plenty, and his Heaps of Gold,
Nor covets other Wealth but what we find
In the Possessions of a virtuous Mind.
Fearless he sees, who is with Virtue crown'd,
The Tempest rage, and hears the Thunder sound,
Ever the same, let Fortune smile or frown,
Whether upon the Scaffold, or the Throne;
Serenely as he liv'd, resigns his Breath,
Meets Destiny half way, nor shrinks at Death.
Ye Sovereign Lords, who sit like Gods in State,
Awing the World, and bustling to be great,
Lords but in Title, Vassals in Effect,
Whom Lust controuls, and wild Desires direct,
The Reins of Empire but such Hands disgrace,
Where Passion, a blind Driver, guides the Race.
What is this Fame, thus crowded round with Slaves?
The Breath of Fools, the Bait of flatt'ring Knaves.
An honest Heart, a Conscience free from Blame,
Not of great Acts, but good, give me the Name.
In vain we plant, we build, our Stores encrease,
If Conscience roots up all our inward Peace.
What need of Arms, or Instruments of War,
Or battering Engines, that destroy from far?
The greatest King and Conqueror is he
Who Lord of his own Appetites can be,
Blest with a Power that nothing can destroy,
And all have equal Freedom to enjoy.
Whom worldly Luxury and Pomps allure,
They tread on Ice, and find no Footing sure.
Place me, ye Pow'rs! in some obscure Retreat,
O keep me Innocent, make others Great;
In quiet Shades, content with rural Sports,
Give me a Life, remote from guilty Courts,
Where free from Hopes, or Fears, in humble Ease
Unheard of I may live and die in Peace.
Happy the Man who thus retir'd from Sight,
Studies himself, and seeks no other Light;
But most unhappy he, who sits on high,
Expos'd to ev'ry Tongue, and ev'ry Eye,
Whose Follies, blaz'd about, to all are known,
And are a Secret to himself alone:
Worse is an evil Fame, much worse than none.
