THE ENTHUSIAST: AN ODE. William Whitehead Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1135 K093079.002 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. II. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 316-320. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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THE ENTHUSIAST : AN ODE . BY WM. WHITEHEAD , ESQ . ONCE , I remember well the day , 'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May Had lost their freshest hues , When every flower on every hill , In every vale , had drank its fill Of sunshine , and of dews . In short , 'twas that sweet season's prime When Spring gives up the reins of Time To Summer's glowing hand , And doubting mortals hardly know , By whose command the breezes blow Which fan the smiling land . 'Twas then , beside a green-wood shade , Which cloath'd a lawn's aspiring head I urg'd my devious way , With loitering steps regardless where , So soft , so genial was the air , So wonderous bright the day . And now my eyes with transport rove O'er all the blue expanse above , Unbroken by a cloud ! And now beneath delighted pass , Where winding thro' the deep-green grass A full-brim'd river flow'd . I stop , I gaze ; in accents rude , To thee , serenest Solitude , Burst forth th' unbidden lay ; " Begone , vile world , the learn'd , the wise , The great , the busy I despise , And pity e'en the gay . These , these are joys alone , I cry ; 'Tis here , divine Philosophy , Thou deign'st to fix thy throne ! Here Contemplation points the road Thro' Nature's charms to Nature's God ! These , these are joys alone ! Adieu , ye vain low-thoughted cares , Ye human hopes , and human fears , Ye pleasures and ye pains ! " While thus I spake , o'er all my soul A philosophic calmness stole , A stoic stillness reigns . The tyrant passions all subside , Fear , anger , pity , shame and pride No more my bosom move ; Yet still I felt , or seem'd to feel A kind of visionary zeal Of universal love . When lo ! a voice , a voice I hear ! 'Twas Reason whisper'd in my ear These monitory strains : What mean'st thou , man ? would'st thou unbind The ties which constitute thy kind , The pleasures and the pains ? The same Almighty Power unseen , Who spreads the gay or solemn scene To Contemplation's eye , Fix'd every movement of the soul , Taught every wish its destin'd goal , And quicken'd every joy . He bids the tyrant passions rage , He bids them war eternal wage , And combat each his foe : Till from dissensions concords rise ; And beauties from deformities , And happiness from woe . Art thou not man , and dar'st thou find A bliss which leans not to mankind ? Presumptuous thought and vain ! Each bliss unshar'd is unenjoy'd , Each power is weak unless employ'd Some social good to gain . Shall light and shade , and warmth and air , With those exalted joys compare , Which active Virtue feels ! When on she drags , as lawful prize , Contempt , and Indolence , and Vice , At her triumphant wheels . As rest to labour still succeeds To man , whilst Virtue's glorious deeds Employ his toilsome day ; This fair variety of things , Are merely Life's refreshing springs , To sooth him on his way . Enthusiast go , unstring thy lyre , In vain thou sing'st , if none admire , How sweet soe'er the strain . And is not thy o'erflowing mind , Unless thou mixest with thy kind , Benevolent in vain ? Enthusiast go , try every sense , If not thy bliss , thy excellence , Thou yet hast learn'd to scan ; At least thy wants , thy weakness know , And see them all uniting show , That man was made for man . "