IF from great nature's or our own abyss Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, And eats her parents, albeit the digestion Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?
For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments (an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death.
'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it:- when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,- you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it.
'T is true, you don't- but, pale and struck with terror, Retire: but look into your past impression!
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears- but where? You know not, And that's the reason why you do- or do not.
But what 's this to the purpose? you will say.
Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, For which my sole excuse is- 't is my way;
Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion I write what 's uppermost, without delay:
This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places.
You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;'
And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows;
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws:
And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays.
The world is all before me- or behind;
For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;-Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame;
For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.
I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few.
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull.
But 'why then publish?'- There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.
I ask in turn,- Why do you play at cards?
Why drink? Why read?- To make some hour less dreary.
It occupies me to turn back regards On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery;
And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink- I have had at least my dream.
I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line:
So long I 've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine.
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing-The one is winning, and the other losing.
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts-And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction;
For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts;
And were her object only what 's call'd glory, With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.
Love, war, a tempest- surely there 's variety;
Also a seasoning slight of lucubration;
A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society;
A slight glance thrown on men of every station.
If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation;
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.
The portion of this world which I at present Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there 's no description recent.
The reason why is easy to determine:
Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages.
With much to excite, there 's little to exalt;
Nothing that speaks to all men and all times;
A sort of varnish over every fault;
A kind of common-place, even in their crimes;
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any.
Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill;
But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade;
But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls- at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui.
When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more;
