Resignation (Young)/Part 1

by Edward Young

 

PART I.

THE days how few, how short the years
 of man's too rapid race,
Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
 a shorter in its place?

They who the longest lease enjoy,
 have told us with a sigh,
That to be born seems little more
 than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth,
 with fears alarm'd; and yet
In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
 this weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin?
 age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes;
 and am I writing still?

Conscious of nature in decline,
 and languor in my thoughts,
To soften censure, and abate
 its rigour on my faults;

Permit me, madam! ere to you
 the promis'd verse I pay,
To touch on felt infirmity,
 sad sister of decay.

One world deceas'd, another born,
 like Noah they behold,
O'er whose white hairs and furrow'd brows,
 too many suns have roll'd:

Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd
 his second world to see;
My second world, tho' gay the scene,
 can boast no charms for me.

To me this brilliant age appears
 with desolation spread;
Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd,
 whilst life was life, are dead;

And with them dy'd my joys; the grave
 has broken nature's laws;
And clos'd, against this feeble frame,
 its partial, cruel jaws;

Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life!
 a cloud impairs my sight;
My weak hand disobeys my will,
 and trembles, as I write.

What shall I write? Thalia! tell;
 say, long-abandon'd muse!
What field of fancy shall I range?
 what subject shall I choose?

A choice of moment high inspire,
 and rescue me from shame,
For doating on thy charms so late,
 by grandeur in my theme.

Beyond the themes, which most admire,
 which dazzle, or amaze,
Beyond renown'd exploits of war,
 bright charms, or empire's blaze,

Are themes, which, in a world of woe,
 can best appease our pain;
And, in an age of gaudy guilt,
 gay folly's flood restrain;

Amidst the storms of life support
 a calm, unshaken mind;
And with unfading laurels crown
 the brow of the resign'd.

O RESIGNATION! yet unsung,
 untouch'd by former strains;
Tho' claiming every muse's smile,
 and every poet's pains,

Beneath life's evening, solemn shade,
 I dedicate my page
To thee, thou safest guard of youth!
 thou sole support of age!

All other duties crescents are
 of virtue faintly bright,
The glorious consummation, thou!
 which fills her orb with light,

How rarely fill'd? the love divine
 in evils to discern,
This the first lesson which we want,
 the latest, which we learn;

A melancholy truth? for know,
 could our proud hearts resign,
The distance greatly would decrease
 'Twixt human and divine.

But tho' full noble is my theme,
 full urgent is my call
To soften sorrow, and forbid
 the bursting tear to fall;

The task I dread; dare I to leave
 of humble prose the shore,
And put to sea? a dangerous sea!
 what throngs have sunk before?

How proud the poet's billow swells?
 the god! the god! his boast:
A boast how vain! What wrecks abound?
 dead bards stench every coast.

What then am I? shall I presume,
 on such a moulten wing,
Above the general wreck to rise,
 and in my winter, sing;

When nightingales, when sweetest bards
 confine their charming song
To summer's animating heats,
 content to warble young?

Yet, write I must; a ^[1]lady sues;
 how shameful her request?
My brain in labour for dull rhyme?
 hers teeming with the best!

But you a stranger will excuse,
 nor scorn his feeble strain;
To you a stranger, but, thro' fate,
 no stranger to your pain.

The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends,
 his old wound bleeds anew;
His sorrows are recall'd to life
 by those he sees in you;

Too well he knows the twisting strings
 of ardent hearts combin'd;
When rent asunder, how they bleed,
 how hard to be resign'd:

Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed;
 the pang you feel, he felt;
Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids
 his heart at yours to melt.

But what can heart, or head, suggest?
 what sad experience say?
Thro' truths austere, to peace we work
 our rugged, gloomy way:

What are we? whence? for what? and whither?
 who know not, needs must mourn;
But thought, bright daughter of the skies!
 can tears to triumph turn.

Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's
 impenetrable shield,
When, sent by fate, we meet our foes
 in sore affliction's field;

It plucks the frightful mask from ills,
 forbids pale fear to hide
Beneath that dark disguise, a friend,
 which turns affection's tide.

Affection frail! train'd up by sense,
 from reason's channel strays:
And whilst it blindly points at peace,
 our peace to pain betrays.

Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream
 from daily-dying flow'rs,
To nourish rich, immortal blooms,
 in amaranthine bow'rs;

Whence throngs, in extasy, look down
 on what once shock'd their sight;
And thank the terrors of the past
 for ages of delight.

All withers here; who most possess
 are losers by their gain,
Stung by full proof, that, bad at best,
 life's idle All is vain:

Vain, in its course, life's murm'ring stream;
 did not its course offend,
But murmur cease; life, then, would seem
 still vainer, from its end.

How wretched! who, thro' cruel fate,
 have nothing to lament?
With the poor alms this world affords,
 deplorably content?

Had not the Greek his world mistook,
 his wish had been most wise;
To be content with but one world,
 like him, we should despise.

Of earth's revenue would you state
 a full account, and fair?
We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast
 the total up——— despair.

Since vain all here, all future, vast,
 embrace the lot assign'd;
Heav'n wounds to heal; its frowns are friends;
 its stroke severe, most kind.

But in laps'd nature rooted deep,
 blind error domineers;
And on fools errands, in the dark,
 sends out our hopes, and fears;

Bids us for ever pains deplore,
 our pleasures overprize;
These oft persuade us to be weak;
 those urge us to be wise.

From virtue's rugged path to right
 by pleasure are we brought
To flow'ry fields of wrong, and there
 pain chides us for our fault:

Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace,
 if folly is withstood;
And says, time pays an easy price,
 for our eternal good.

In earth's dark cot, and in an hour,
 and in delusion great,
What an œconomist is man
 to spend his whole estate,

And beggar an eternity!
 for which, as he was born,
More worlds than one against it weigh'd,
 as feathers he should scorn.

Say not, your loss in triumph leads
 religion's feeble strife;
Joys future amply reimburse
 joys bankrupts of this life.

But not deferr'd your joy so long,
 it bears an early date;
Affliction's ready pay in hand,
 befriends our present state;

What are the tears, which trickle down
 her melancholy face,
Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price,
 they purchase lasting peace.

Grief softens hearts, and curbs the will,
 impetuous passion tames,
And keeps insatiate, keen desire
 from launching in extremes.

Thro' time's dark womb, our judgment right,
 if our dim eye was thrown,
Clear should we see, the will divine
 has but forestall'd our own;

At variance with our future wish,
 self-sever'd we complain;
If so, the wounded, not the wound,
 must answer for the pain.

The day shall come, and swift of wing,
 tho' you may think it slow,
When, in the list of fortune's smiles,
 you'll enter frowns of woe.

For mark the path of Providence;
 this course it has pursu'd,
"Pain is the parent, woe the womb
 "of sound, important good:"

Our hearts are fasten'd to this world
 by strong, and endless ties;
And ev'ry sorrow cuts a string,
 and urges us to rise:

'Twill sound severe———yet rest assur'd
 I'm studious of your peace;
Though I should dare to give you joy—
 yes, joy of his decease:

An hour shall come, (you question this)
 an hour, when you shall bless,
Beyond the brightest beams of life,
 dark days of your distress.

Hear then without surprize a truth,
 a daughter-truth to this,
Swift turns of fortune often tie
 a bleeding heart to bliss:

Esteem you this a paradox?
 my sacred motto read;
A glorious truth! divinely sung
 by one, whose heart had bled;

To resignation swift he flew,
 in her a friend he found,
A friend, which bless'd him with a smile,
 when gasping with his wound.

On earth nought precious is obtain'd
 but what is painful too;
By travel, and to travel born,
 our Sabbaths are but few:

To real joy we work our way,
 encountering many a shock,
Ere found what truly charms; as found
 a Venus in the block.

In some disaster, some severe
 appointment for our sins,
That mother blessing, (not so call'd)
 true happiness, begins.

No martyr e'er defy'd the flames,
 by stings of life unvext;
First rose some quarrel with this world,
 then passion for the next.

You see, then, pangs are parent pangs,
 the pangs of happy birth;
Pangs, by which only can be born
 true happiness on earth.

The peopled earth look all around,
 or thro' time's records run;
And say, what is a man unstruck?
 it is a man undone.

This moment, am I deeply stung———
 my bold pretence is try'd;
When vain man boasts, heav'n puts to proof
 the vauntings of his pride;

Now need I, madam! your support.—
 how exquisite the smart?
How critically tim'd the ^[2]news
 which strikes me to the heart?

The pangs, of which I spoke, I feel:
 if worth, like thine, is born,
O long-belov'd! I bless the blow,
 and triumph, whilst I mourn.

Nor mourn I long; by grief subdu'd
 by reason's empire shown;
Deep anguish comes by heaven's decree,
 continues, by our own;

And when continu'd past its point,
 indulg'd in length of time,
Grief is disgrace, and, what was fate,
 corrupts into a crime:

And shall I, criminally mean,
 myself, and subject wrong?
No: my example shall support
 the subject of my song.

Madam! I grant, your loss is great,
 nor little is your gain;
Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright,
 it richly pays your pain;

When heaven would kindly set us free,
 and earth's enchantment end;
It takes the most effectual means,
 and robs us of a FRIEND:

But such a friend!———and sigh no more?
 'tis prudent; but severe:
Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop
 all sorrow—with this tear.

Perhaps your settled grief to sooth
 I should not vainly strive,
But with soft balm your pain assuage,
 had he been still alive;

Whose frequent aid brought kind relief,
 in my distress of thought,
Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page,
 and beautify'd a fault.

To touch our passion's secret springs,
 was his peculiar care;
And deep his happy genius div'd
 in bosoms of the fair;

Nature, which favours to the Few,
 all art beyond imparts,
To him presented, at his birth,
 the key of human hearts.

But not to me by him bequeath'd
 his gentle smooth address;
His tender hand to touch the wound
 in throbbings of distress:

Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless'd
 with Esculapian art:
Know, love sometimes, mistaken love!
 plays disaffection's part:

Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars,
 can soul from foul divide;
They correspond from distant worlds,
 tho' transports are deny'd;

Are you not, then, unkindly kind?
 is not your love severe?

O! stop that crystal source of woe;
 nor wound him with a tear.

As those above from human bliss
 receive encrease of joy;
May not a stroke from human woe,
 in part, their peace destroy?

He lives in those he left;———to what?
 your, now, paternal care,
Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye,
 it will discern him there;

In features, not of form alone,
 but those, I trust, of mind,
Auspicious to the public weal,
 and to their fate resign'd.

Think on the tempests he sustain'd;
 revolve his battles won;
And let those prophesy your joy
 from such a father's son:

Is consolation what you seek?
 fan, then, his martial fire;
And animate to flame the sparks
 bequeath'd him by his sire:

As nothing great is born in haste,
 wise nature's time allow;
His father's laurels may descend,
 and flourish on his brow.

Nor, madam! be surpriz'd to hear
 that laurels may be due
Not more to heroes of the field,
 (proud boasters!) than to you:

Tender as is the female frame,
 like that brave man you mourn,
You are a soldier, and to fight
 superior battles born;

Beneath a banner nobler far
 than ever was unfurl'd
In fields of blood; a banner bright!
 high wav'd o'er all the world,

It, like a streaming Meteor, casts
 an universal light;
Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day
 on nations whelm'd in night;

Beneath that banner, what exploit
 can mount our glory higher,
Than to sustain the dreadful blow,
 when those we love expire?

Go forth a moral Amazon;
 arm'd with undaunted thought;
The battle won, tho' costing dear,
 you'll think it cheaply bought:

The passive Hero, who sits down
 unactive, and can smile
Beneath affliction's galling load,
 out-acts a Cæsar's toil:

The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes,
 inferior praise afford;
Reason's a bloodless conqueror,
 more glorious than the sword.

Nor can the thunders of huzzas
 from shouting nations, cause
Such sweet delight, as from your heart
 soft whispers of applause:

The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms,
 with what delight he'll view
His triumphs on the main outdone,
 thus conquer'd, twice, by you?

Share his delight; take heed to shun
 of bosoms most diseas'd
That odd distemper, an absurd
 reluctance to be pleas'd:

Some seem in love with sorrow's charms,
 and that foul fiend embrace:
This temper let me justly brand;
 and stamp it with disgrace:

Sorrow! of horrid parentage!
 thou second-born of hell!
Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd
 how dar'st thou to rebel?

From black and noxious vapours bred,
 and nurs'd by want of thought,
And to the door of frenzy's self
 by perseverance brought,

Thy most inglorious, coward tears
 from brutal eyes have ran:
Smiles, incommunicable smiles!
 are radiant marks of man;

They cast a sudden glory round
 th' illumin'd human face;
And light in sons of honest joy
 some beams of Moses' face:

Is resignation's lesson hard?
 examine, we shall find
That duty gives up little more
 than anguish of the mind;

Resign; and all the load of life
 that moment you remove,
Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares
 devolve on one above;

Who bids us lay our burthen down
 on his almighty hands,
Softens our duty to relief,
 to blessing a command.

For joy what cause? how ev'ry sense
 is courted from above
The year around, with presents rich,
 the growth of endless love?

But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd,
 forget the wonders done,
And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense,
 their prospect at the sun;

From that, their final point of view,
 from that their radiant goal,
On travel infinite of thought,
 sets out the nobler soul,

Broke loose from time's tenacious ties,
 and earth's involving gloom,
To range at last its vast domain,
 and talk with worlds to come:

They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd,
 life's idle moments run;
And doing nothing for themselves,
 imagine nothing done;

Fatal mistake! their fate goes on,
 their dread account proceeds,
And their not-doing is set down
 amongst their darkest deeds;

Tho' man sits still, and takes his ease,
 God is at work on man;
No means, no moment unemploy'd,
 to bless him, if He can.

But man consents not, boldly bent
 to fashion his own fate;
Man, a mere bungler in the trade,
 repents his crime too late;

Hence loud laments: let me thy cause,
 indulgent Father! plead;
Of all the wretches we deplore,
 not one by Thee was made;

What is thy whole creation fair?
 of love divine the child;
Love brought it forth; and from its birth,
 has o'er it fondly smil'd:

Now, and thro' periods distant far,
 long ere the world began,
Heaven is, and has in travel been,
 its birth the good of man;

Man holds in constant service bound
 the blustering winds and seas;
Nor suns disdain to travel hard
 their master, man, to please:

To final good the worst events
 thro' secret channels run;
Finish for man their destin'd course,
 as 'twas for man begun.

One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few)
 has often smote, and smites
My mind, as demonstration strong;
 that heaven in man delights;

What's known to man of things unseen,
 of future world's, or fates?
So much, nor more, than what to man's
 sublime affairs relates:

What's revelation then? a list,
 an inventory just
Of that poor insect's goods, so late
 call'd out of night and dust.

What various motives to rejoice?
 to render joy sincere,
Has this no weight? our joy is felt
 beyond this narrow sphere:

Would we in heav'n new heav'n create,
 and double its delight?
A smiling world, when heav'n looks down,
 how pleasing in its sight?

Angels stoop forward from their thrones
 to hear its joyful lays;
As incense sweet enjoy, and join,
 its aromatic praise:

Have we no cause to fear the stroke
 of heaven's avenging rod?
When we presume to counteract
 a sympathetick God?

If we resign, our patience makes
 his rod an armless wand;
If not, it darts a serpent's sting,
 like that in Moses' hand;

Like that, it swallows up whate'er
 earth's vain magicians bring,
Whose baffled arts would boast below
 of joys a rival spring.

Consummate love! the list how large
 of blessings from thy hand?
To banish sorrow, and be blest,
 is thy supreme command.

Are such commands but ill obey'd?
 of bliss, shall we complain?
The man, who dares to be a wretch,
 deserves still greater pain:

Joy is our duty, glory, health;
 the sunshine of the soul;
Our best encomium on the pow'r
 who sweetly plans the whole:

Joy is our Eden still possess'd:
 be gone, ignoble grief!
'Tis joy makes Gods, and men exalts,
 their nature, our relief;

Relief, for man to that must stoop,
 and his due distance know;
Transport's the language of the skies,
 content the style below.

Content is joy, and joy in pain,
 is joy and virtue too;
Thus, whilst good present we possess,
 more precious we pursue:

Of joy the more we have in hand,
 the more have we to come;
Joy, like our money, interest bears,
 which daily swells the sum.

"But how to smile; to stem the tide
 "of nature in our veins;
"Is it not hard to weep in joy?
 "what then to smile in pains?"

Victorious joy! which breaks the clouds,
 and struggles thro' a storm;
Proclaims the mind as great, as good;
 and bids it doubly charm:

If doubly charming in our sex,
 a sex, by nature, bold;
What then in yours? 'Tis diamond there
 triumphant o'er our gold.

And should not this complaint repress?
 and check the rising sigh?
Yet farther opiate to your pain
 I labour to supply.

Since spirits greatly damp'd distort
 ideas of delight,
Look thro' the medium of a friend,
 to set your notions right:

As tears the sight, grief dims the soul;
 its object dark appears;
True friendship, like a rising sun,
 the soul's horizon clears.

A friend's an optic to the mind
 with sorrow clouded o'er;
And gives it strength of sight to see
 redress unseen before.

Reason is somewhat rough in man,
 extremely smooth and fair,
When she, to grace her manly strength,
 assumes a female air:

A ^[3]friend you have, and I the same,
 whose prudent, soft address,
Will bring to life those healing thoughts
 which dy'd in your distress;

That friend the spirit of my theme
 extracting for your ease,
Will leave to me the dreg, in thoughts
 too common; such as these;

"Let those lament, to whom full bowls
 of sparkling joys are giv'n;
That triple bane inebriates life,
 imbitters death, and hazards heav'n:

Woe to the soul at perfect ease!
 'tis brewing perfect pains;
Lull'd reason sleeps, the pulse is king;
 despotic body reigns:

Have you ne'er pity'd joy's gay scenes,
 and deem'd their glory dark?
Alas! poor envy! she's stone-blind,
 and quite mistakes her mark:

Her mark lies hid in sorrow's shades,
 but sorrow well subdu'd;
And in proud fortune's frown defy'd
 by meek, unborrow'd good.

By resignation; all in that
 a double friend may find,
A wing to heav'n, and, while on earth,
 the pillow of mankind:

On pillows void of down, for rest
 our restless hopes we place;
When hopes of heav'n lie warm at heart,
 our hearts repose in peace:

The peace, which resignation yields,
 who feel alone can guess;
'Tis disbeliev'd by murm'ring minds,
 they must conclude it less:

The loss, or gain, of that alone
 have we to hope or fear;
That fate controuls, and can invert
 the seasons of the year:

O! the dark days, the year around,
 of an impatient mind;
Thro' clouds, and storms, a summer breaks,
 to shine on the resign'd:

While man by that of ev'ry grace,
 and virtue, is possess'd;
Foul vice her pandaemonium builds
 in the rebellious breast;

By resignation we defeat
 the worst that can annoy;
And suffer, with far more repose,
 than worldlings can enjoy.

From small experience this I speak;
 O! grant to those I love,
Experience fuller far, ye pow'rs!
 who form our fates above:

My love were due, if not to those
 who leaving grandeur came
To shine on age in mean recess,
 and light me to my theme?

A theme themselves! A theme, how rare?
 the charms, which they display,
To triumph over captive heads,
 are set in bright array:

With his own arms proud man's o'ercome,
 his boasted laurels die,
Learning and genius, wiser grown,
 to female bosoms fly.

This Revolution, fix'd by fate,
 in fable was foretold;
The dark prediction puzzled wits,
 nor could the learn'd unfold:

But as those ^[4]Ladies works I read,
 they darted such a ray,
The latent sense burst out at once,
 and shone in open day:

So burst full ripe, distended fruits,
 when strongly strikes the sun;
And from the purple grape unpress'd
 spontaneous nectars run.

Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull,
 forsook his drowsy brain;
And sprightly leap'd into the throne
 of wisdom's brighter reign;

Her helmet took; that is, shot rays
 of formidable wit;
And lance,———or, genius most acute,
 which lines immortal writ;

And Gorgon shield,—or, pow'r to fright
 man's folly dreadful shone,
And many a blockhead (easy change!)
 turn'd, instantly, to stone.

Our authors male, as, then, did Jove,
 now scratch a damag'd head,
And call for what once quarter'd there,
 but find the goddess fled.

The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit!
 that once forbidden tree,
Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now
 to Britain's daughters free:

In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair
 the noble thirst began;
And they, like her, have caus'd a fall,
 a fall of fame in man:

And since of genius in our sex,
 O Addison! with thee
The sun is set; how I rejoice
 this sister lamp to see?

It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams
 on man's nocturnal state;
His lessen'd light, and languid pow'rs,
 I show, whilst I relate.

1. Mrs. M———
2. Whilst the author was writing this, he received the news of Mr. Richardson's death, who was then printing the the former part of the poem.
3. Mrs. M———
4. Mrs. M———. Mrs. C———.