Chiefly of man, whose body is As the great artist in his sphere of glass Saw the whole scene of heavenly motions pass; Nor does this science make thy crown alone, His gentler arts, belov'd in vain by me, There are who all their patients' chagrin have, gave. And this great race of learning thou hast run, Ere that of life be half yet done; Thou see'st thyself still fresh and strong, And better things of man report; For thou dost make Life long, and Art but short. Ah, learned friend! it grieves me, when I think As certainly as I; And all thy noble reparations sink Into the sure-wrought mine of treacherous mortality. Like Archimedes, honourably in vain, Thou hold'st out towns that must at last be ta'en, And let thy friends so happy be T'enjoy at once their health and thee: Let Nature and let Art do what they please, LIFE AND FAME. OH, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother! In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade, As 't is "to be," or "not to be." Dream of a shadow! a reflection made From the false glories of the gay reflected bow Is a more solid thing than thou. Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up betwixt two eternities! Yet canst nor wave nor wind sustain, [again. But, broken and o'erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet And with what rare inventions do we strive Wise, subtle arts, and such as well befit Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it, "Here lies the great"-false marble! where? Was slain so many hundred years before, Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre. His father-in-law an higher place does claim He, since that toy his death, Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath. What substance, what subsistence, what hypostasis, In those alone does the great Cæsar live, With a refin'd fantastick vanity, Fain would I see that prodigal, Who his to-morrow would bestow, For all old Homer's life, e'er since he dy'd, till now! THE ECSTASY. I LEAVE mortality, and things below; For I am call'd to go. A whirlwind bears-up my dull feet, Th' officious clouds beneath them meet; And lo! I mount, and lo ! [show! How small the biggest parts of earth's proud title Where shall I find the noble British land? And seems a grain o' th' sand! And is it this, alas! which we (Oh irony of words!) do call Great Britanie? I pass by th' arch'd magazines which hold Nor shake with fear or cold: Without affright or wonder I meet clouds charg'd with thunder, And lightnings, in my way, Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play. Now into' a gentle sea of rolling flame I'm plung'd, and still mount higher there, So perfect, yet so tame, So great, so pure, so bright a fire, My faithful breast did cover, Then, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover. Through several orbs which one fair planet bear, Where I behold distinctly as I pass The hints of Galileo's glass, I touch at last the spangled sphere : Is but one galaxy, 'Tis all so bright and gay, And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day. Where am I now? Angels, and God is here; Swallows my senses quite, And drowns all What, or How, or Where! |