The SPLEEN. An EPISTLE to Mr. C— J

The SPLEEN . An EPISTLE to Mr. C— J— . By Mr. Matthew Green of the Custom-house . THIS motly piece to you I send , Who always were a faithful friend ; Who , if disputes should happen hence , Can best explain the author's sense ; And , anxious for the public weal , Do , what I sing , so often feel . The want of method pray excuse , Allowing for a vapour'd Muse ; Nor to a narrow path confin'd , Hedge in by rules a roving mind . The child is genuine , you may trace Throughout the sire's transmitted face . Nothing is stol'n : my Muse , tho' mean , Draws from the spring she finds within ; Nor vainly buys what Gildon sells , Poetick buckets for dry wells . School-helps I want , to climb on high , Where all the ancient treasures lie , And there unseen commit a theft On wealth in Greek exchequers left . Then where ? from whom ? what can I steal , Who only with the moderns deal ? This were attempting to put on Raiment from naked bodies won : They safely sing before a thief , They cannot give who want relief ; Some few excepted , names well known , And justly laurel'd with renown , Whose stamp of genius marks their ware , And theft detects : of theft beware ; From Moore so lash'd , example fit , Shun petty larceny in wit . First know , my friend , I do not mean To write a treatise on the Spleen ; Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse ; Nor mend th' alarum watch , you pulse . If I am right , your question lay , What course I take to drive away The day-mare Spleen , by whose false pleas Men prove mere suicides in ease ; And how I do myself demean In stormy world to live serene . When by its magick lantern Spleen With frightful figures spreads life's scene , And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears , A stranger to the luck of heirs ; Reason , some quiet to restore , Shew'd part was substance , shadow more ; With Spleen's dead weight tho' heavy grown , In life's rough tide I sunk not down , But swam , till Fortune threw a rope , Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope . I always choose the plainest food To mend viscidity of blood . Hail ! water-gruel , healing power , Of easy access to the poor ; Thy help love's confessors implore , And doctors secretly adore ; To thee I fly , by thee dilute — Thro' veins my blood doth quicker shoot , And by swift current throws off clean Prolifick particles of Spleen . I never sick by drinking grow , Nor keep myself a cup too low , And seldom Cloe's lodgings haunt , Thrifty of spirits , which I want . Hunting I reckon very good To brace the nerves , and stir the blood ; But after no field-honours itch , Atchiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch . While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed , Or o'er coal fires inclines the head , Hygeia's sons with hound and horn , And jovial cry awake the morn . These see her from the dusky plight , Smear'd by th' embraces of the night , With roral wash redeem her face , And prove herself of Titan's race , And , mounting in loose robes the skies , Shed light and fragrance as she flies . Then horse and hound fierce joy display , Exulting at the Hark-away , And in pursuit o'er tainted ground From lungs robust field-notes resound . Then , as St. George the dragon slew , Spleen pierc'd , trod down , and dying view ; While all their spirits are on wing , And woods , and hills , and vallies ring . To cure the mind's wrong biass , Spleen ; Some recommend the bowling-green ; Some , hilly walks ; all , exercise ; Fling but a stone , the giant dies ; Laugh and be well . Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the Spleen ; And kitten , if the humour hit , Has harlequin'd away the fit . Since mirth is good in this behalf , At some partic'lars let us laugh . Witlings , brisk fools , curs'd with half sense , That stimulates their impotence ; Who buz in rhyme , and , like blind flies , Err with their wings for want of eyes . Poor authors worshipping a calf ; Deep tragedies that make us laugh , A strict dissenter saying grace , A lect'rer preaching for a place ; Folks , things prophetick to dispense , Making the past the future tense , The popish dubbing of a priest , Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd , Green-apron'd Pythonissa's rage , Great Aesculapius on his stage , A miser starving to be rich , The prior of Newgate's dying speech , A jointur'd widow's ritual state , Two Jews disputing tête à tête , New almanacks compos'd by seers , Experiments on felons ears , Disdainful prudes , who ceaseless ply The superb muscle of the eye , A coquet's April-weather face , A Queenb'rough mare behind his mace , And fops in military show , Are so'vreign for the case in view . If Spleen-fogs rise at close of day , I clear my ev'ning with a play , Or to some concert take my way . The company , the shine of lights , The scenes of humour , musick's flights , Adjust and set the soul to rights . Life's moving pictures , well-wrought plays , To others' griefs attention raise : Here , while the tragick fictions glow , We borrow joy by pitying woe ; There gaily comick scenes delight , And hold true mirrors to our sight . Virtue in charming dress array'd , Calling the passions to her aid , When moral scenes just actions join , Takes shape , and shews her face divine . Musick has charms , we all may find , Ingratiate deeply with the mind . When art does sound's high pow'r advance , To musick's pipe the passions dance ; Motions unwill'd its pow'rs have shewn , Tarantulated by a tune . Many have held the soul to be Nearly ally'd to harmony . Her have I known indulging grief , And shunning company's relief , Unveil her face , and looking round , Own , by neglecting sorrow's wound , The consanguinity of sound . In rainy days keep double guard , Or Spleen will surely be too hard ; Which , like those fish by sailors met , Fly highest , while their wings are wet . In such dull weather , so unfit To enterprize a work of wit , When clouds one yard of azure sky , That's fit for simile , deny , I dress my face with studious looks , And shorten tedious hours with books , But if dull fogs invade the head , That mem'ry minds not what is read , I sit in window dry as ark , And on the drowning world remark : Or to some coffee-house I stray For news , the manna of a day , And from the hipp'd discourses gather , That politicks go by the weather : Then seek good-humour'd tavern chums , And play at cards , but for small sums ; Or with the merry fellows quaff , And laugh aloud with them that laugh ; Or drink a joco-serious cup With souls who've took their freedom up , And let my mind , beguil'd by talk , In Epicurus' garden walk , Who thought it heav'n to be serene , Pain hell ; and purgatory spleen . Sometimes I dress , with women sit , And chat away the gloomy fit ; Quit the stiff garb of serious sense , And wear a gay impertinence , Nor think , nor speak with any pains , But lay on fancy's neck the reins ; Talk of unusual swell of waist In maid of honour loosely lac'd , And beauty borr'wing Spanish red , And loving pair with sep'rate bed , And jewels pawn'd for loss of game , And then redeem'd by loss of fame ; Of Kitty ( aunt left in the lurch By grave pretence to go to church ) Perceiv'd in hack with lover fine , Like Will and Mary on the coin : And thus in modish manner we , In aid of sugar , sweeten tea . Permit , ye fair , your idol form Which e'en the coldest heart can warm , May with its beauties grace my line , While I bow down before its shrine , And your throng'd altars with my lays Perfume , and get by giving praise . With speech so sweet , so sweet a mien You excommunicate the Spleen , Which , fiend-like , flies the magick ring You form with sound , when pleas'd to sing ; Whate'er you say , howe'er you move , We look , we listen , and approve . Your touch , which gives to feeling bliss , Our nerves officious throng to kiss ; By Celia's pat , on their report , The grave-air'd soul ; inclin'd to sport , Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp , And loves the floral game , to romp . But who can view the pointed rays , That from black eyes scintillant blaze ? Love on his throne of glory seems Encompass'd with Satellite beams . But when blue eyes , more softly bright , Diffuse benignly humid light , We gaze , and see the smiling loves , And Cytherea's gentle doves , And raptur'd fix in such a face , Love's mercy-seat , and throne of grace . Shine but on age , you melt its snow ; Again fires long-extinguish'd glow , And , charm'd by witchery of eyes , Blood long congealed liquifies : True miracle , and fairly done By heads which are ador'd while on . But oh , what pity 'tis to find Such beauties both of form and mind , By modern breeding much debas'd , In half the female world at least ! Hence I with care such lott'ries shun , Where , a priz'd miss'd , I'm quite undone ; And han't , by vent'ring on a wife , Yet run the greatest risk in life . Mothers , and guardian aunts , forbear Your impious pains to form the fair , Nor lay out so much cost and art , But to deflow'r the virgin heart ; Of ev'ry folly-fost'ring bed By quick'ning heat of custom bred . Rather than by your culture spoil'd , Desist , and give us nature wild , Delighted with a hoyden soul , Which truth and innocence controul . Coquets , leave off affected arts , Gay fowlers at a flock of hearts ; Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill , You shew so plain , you strive to kill . In love the artless catch the game , And they scarce miss who never aim . The world's great Author did create The sex to fit the nuptial state , And meant a blessing in a wife To solace the fatigues of life ; And old inspired times display , How wives could love , and yet obey . Then truth and patience of controul , And house-wife arts adorn'd the soul ; And charms , the gift of nature , shone ; And jealousy , a thing unknown : Veils were the only masks they wore ; Novels ( receipts to make a whore ) Nor ombre , nor quadrille they knew , Nor Pam's puissance felt at loo . Wise men did not , to be thought gay , Then compliment their pow'r away : But lest , by frail desires misled , The girls forbidden paths should tread , Of ign'rance rais'd the safe high wall ; We sink haw-haws , that shew them all . Thus we at once solicit sense , And charge them not to break the fence . Now , if untir'd , consider friend , What I avoid to gain my end . I never am at Meeting seen , Meeting , that region of the Spleen ; The broken heart , the busy fiend , The inward call , on Spleen depend . Law , licens'd breaking of the peace , To which vacation is disease ; A gypsy diction scarce known well By th' magi , who law-fortunes tell I shun ; nor let it breed within Anxiety , and that the Spleen ; Law , grown a forest , where perplex The mazes , and the brambles vex ; Where its twelve verd'rers every day Are changing still the publick way ; Yet if we miss our path and err , We grievous penalties incur ; And wand'rers tire , and tear their skin , And then get out where they went in . I never game , and rarely bet , Am loth to lend , or run in debt . No compter-writs me agitate ; Who moralizing pass the gate , And there mine eyes on spend thrifts turn , Who vainly o'er their bondage mourn . Wisdom , before beneath their care , Pays her upbraiding visits there , And forces folly thro' the grate Her panegyrick to repeat . This view , profusely when inclin'd , Enters a caveat in the mind : Experience join'd with common sense , To mortals is a providence . Passion , as frequently is seen , Subsiding settles into Spleen . Hence , as the plague of happy life , I run away from party-strife . A prince's cause , a church's claim , I've known to raise a mighty flame , And priest , as stoker , very free To throw in peace and charity . That tribe , whose practicals decree Small-beer the deadliest heresy ; Who , fond of pedigree , derive From the most noted whore alive ; Who own wine's old prophetick aid , And love the mitre Bacchus made , Forbid the faithful to depend On half-pint drinkers for a friend , And in whose gay red-letter'd face We read good-living more than grace : Nor they so pure , and so precise , Immac'late as their white of eyes , Who for the spirit hug the Spleen , Phylacter'd throughout all their mien , Who their ill-tasted home-brew'd pray'r To the state's mellow forms prefer ; Who doctrines , as infectious , fear , Which are not steep'd in vinegar , And samples of heart-chested grace Expose in shew-glass of the face , Did never me as yet provoke , Either to honour band and cloak , Or deck my hat with leaves of oak . I rail not with mock-patriot grace At folks , because they are in place ; Nor , hir'd to praise with stallion pen , Serve the ear-lechery of men ; But to avoid religious jars The laws are my expositors , Which in my doubting mind create Conformity to church and state , I go , pursuant to my plan , To Mecca with the caravan , And think it right in common sense Both for diversion and defence . Reforming schemes are none of mine ; To mend the world's a vast design : Like theirs , who tug in little boat , To pull to them the ship afloat , While to defeat their labour'd end , At once both wind and stream contend : Success herein is seldom seen , And zeal , when baffled , turns to Spleen . Happy the man , who , innocent , Grieves not at ills he can't prevent ; His skiff does with the current glide , Not puffing pull'd against the tide . He , paddling by the scuffling crowd , Sees unconcern'd life's wager row'd , And when he can't prevent foul play , Enjoys the folly of the fray . By these reflections I repeal Each hasty promise made in zeal . When g—l P—s say , Were bound our great light to display , And Indian darkness drive away , Yet none but drunken watchmen send , And scoundrel link-boys for that end ; When they cry up this holy war , Which ev'ry christian should be for , Yet such as owe the law their ears , We find employ'd as engineers : This view my forward zeal so shocks , In vain they hold the money-box . At such a conduct which intends By vicious means such virtuous ends , I laugh off Spleen , and keep my pence From spoiling Indian innocence . Yet philosophic love of ease I suffer hot to prove disease , But rise up in the virtuous cause Of a free press , and equal laws . The press restrain'd ! nefandous thought ! In vain our fires have nobly fought : While free from force the press remains , Virtue and Freedom cheer our plains , And Learning largesses bestows , And keeps uncensur'd open house . We to the nation's publick mart Our works ot wit , and schemes of art And philosophic goods this way , Like water carriage cheap convey . This tree , which knowledge so affords , Inquisitors with flaming swords From lay-approach with zeal defend , Lest their own paradise should end . The press from her fecundous womb Brought forth the arts of Greece and Rome ; Her offspring , skill'd in logic war , Truth's banner wav'd in open air ; The monster Superstition fled , And hid in shades its Gorgon head ; And lawless pow'r , the long-kept field , By reason quell'd , was forc'd to yield . This nurse of arts , and freedom's fence To chain , is treason against sense ; And , Liberty , thy thousand tongues None silence , who design no wrongs ; For those , that use the gag's restraint , First rob , before they stop complaint . Since disappointment galls within , And subjugates the soul to Spleen , Most schemes , as money-snares , I hate , And bite not at projector's bait . Sufficient wrecks appear each day , And yet fresh fools are cast away . Ere well the bubbled can turn round , Their painted vessel runs aground ; Or in deep seas it oversets By a fierce hurricane of debts ; Or helm-directors in one trip , Freight first embezzled , sink the ship . Such was of late a corporation , The brazen serpent of the nation , Which when hard accidents distress'd , The poor must look at to be blest , And thence expect , with paper seal'd By fraud and us'ry , to be heal'd . I in no soul-consumption wait Whole years at levees of the great , And hungry hopes regale the while On the spare diet of a smile . There you may see the idol stand With mirror in his wanton hand ; Above , below , now here , now there He throws about the sunny glare : Crowds pant , and press to seize the prize , The gay delusion of their eyes . When Fancy tries her limning skill To draw and colour at her will , And raise and round the figures well , And shew her talent to excel , I guard my heart , lest it should woo Unreal beauties Fancy drew , And disappointed , feel despair At loss of things , that never were . When I lean politicians mark Grazing on aether in the park ; Who e'er on wing with open throats Fly at debates , expresses , votes , Just in the manner swallows use , Catching their airy food of news ; Whose latrant stomachs oft molest The deep-laid plans their dreams suggest ; Or see some poet pensive sit , Fondly mistaking Spleen for Wit ; Who , tho' short-winded , still will aim To sound the epick triumph of Fame ; Who still on Phoebus' smiles will doat , Nor learn conviction from his coat ; I bless my stars , I never knew Whimsies , which close pursu'd , undo , And have from old experience been Both parent and the child of Spleen . These subjects of Apollo's state , Who from false fire derive their fate , With airy purchases undone Of lands , which none lend money on , Born dull , had follow'd thriving ways , Nor lost one hour to gather bays . Their fancies first delirious grew , And scenes ideal took for true . Fine to the sight Parnassus lies , And with false prospects cheats their eyes ; The fabled gods the poets sing , A season of perpetual spring , Brooks , flow'ry fields , and groves of trees , Affording sweets and similes , Gay dreams inspir'd in myrtle bow'rs , And wreaths of undecaying flow'rs , Apollo's harp with airs divine , The sacred musick of the Nine , Views of the temple rais'd to Fame , And for a vacant nitch proud aim , Ravish their souls , and plainly shew What Fancy's sketching power can do . They will attempt the mountain steep , Where on the top , like dreams in sleep , The Muses revelation shew , That find men crack'd , or make them so . You friend , like me , the trade of rhyme Avoid , elab'rate waste of time , Nor are content to be undone , To pass for Phoebus' crazy son . Poems , the hop-grounds of the brain , Afford the most uncertain gain ; And lott'ries never tempt the wise With blanks so many to a prize . I only transient visits pay , Meeting the Muses in my way , Scarce known to the fastidious dames , Nor skill'd to call them by their names . Nor can their passports in these days , Your profit warrant , or your praise . On poems by their dictates writ , Criticks , as sworn appraisers , sit , And mere upholst'rers in a trice On gems and painting set a price . These tayl'ring artists for our lays Invent cramp'd rules , and with strait stays Striving free Nature's shape to hit , Emaciate sense , before they fit . A common place , and many friends , Can serve the plagiary's ends . Whose easy vamping talent lies , First wit to pilfer , then disguise . Thus some devoid of art and skill To search the mine on Pindus' hill , Proud to aspire and workmen grow , By genius doom'd to stay below , For their own digging shew the town Wit's treasure brought by others down . Some wanting , if they find a mine , An artist's judgment to refine , On fame precipitately fix'd , The ore with baser metals mix'd Melt down , impatient of delay , And call the vicious mass a play . All these engage to serve their ends , A band select of trusty friends , Who , lesson'd right , extol the thing , As Psapho taught his birds to sing ; Then to the ladies they submit , Returning officers on wit ; A crowded house their presence draws , And on the beaus imposes laws , A judgment in its favour ends , When all the pannel are its friends : Their natures merciful and mild Have from mere pity sav'd the child ; In bulrush ark the bantling found Helpless and ready to be drown'd , They have preserv'd by kind support , And brought the baby-muse to court . But there's a youth that you can name , Who needs no leading strings to fame , Whose quick maturity of brain The birth of Pallas may explain : Dreaming of whose depending fate , I heard Melpomene debate , This , this is he , that was foretold Should emulate our Greeks of old . Inspir'd by me with sacred art , He sings , and rules the varied heart ; If Jove's dread anger he rehearse , We hear the thunder in his verse ; If he describes love turn'd to rage , The furies riot in his page . If he fair liberty and law By ruffian power expiring draw , The keener passions then engage Aright , and sanctify their rage ; If he attempt disastrous love , We hear those plaints that wound the grove , Within the kinder passions glow , And tears distill'd from pity flow . From the bright vision I descend , And my deserted theme attend . Me never did ambition seize , Strange fever most inflam'd by ease ! The active lunacy of pride , That courts jilt Fortune for a bride . This par'dise-tree , so fair and high , I view with no aspiring eye : Like aspine shake the restless leaves , And Sodom-fruit our pains deceives , Whence frequent falls give no surprize , But fits of Spleen , call'd growing wise . Greatness in glitt'ring forms display'd Affects weak eyes much us'd to shade , And by its falsly-envy'd scene Gives self-debasing fits of Spleen . We should be pleas'd that things are so , Who do for nothing see the show , And , middle-siz'd , can pass between Life's hubbub safe , because unseen , And 'midst the glare of greatness trace A watry sun-shine in the face , And pleasures fled to , to redress The sad fatigue of idleness . Contentment , parent of delight , So much a stranger to our sight , Say , goddess , in what happy place Mortals behold thy blooming face ; Thy gracious auspices impart , And for thy temple chuse my heart . They , whom thou deignest to inspire , Thy science learn , to bound desire ; By happy alchymy of mind They turn to pleasure all they find ; They both disdain an outward mien The grave and solemn garb of Spleen , And meretricious arts of dress , To feign a joy , and hide distress ; Unmov'd when the rude tempest blows ; Without an opiate they repose ; And cover'd by your shield , defy The whizzing shafts , that round them fly : Nor meddling with the gods' affairs , Concern themselves with distant cares ; But place their bliss in mental rest , And feast upon the good possess'd . Forc'd by soft violence of pray'r , The blythsome goddess sooths my care , I feel the deity inspire , And thus she models my desire . Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid , Annuity securely made , A farm some twenty miles from town , Small , tight , salubrious , and my own ; Two maids , that never saw the town , A serving-man not quite a clown , A boy to help to tread the mow , And drive , while t'other holds the plough ; A chief of temper form'd to please , Fit to converse , and keep the keys ; And better to preserve the peace , Commission'd by the name of niece : With understandings of a size To think their master very wise . May heav'n ( it's all I wish for ) send One genial room to treat a friend , Where decent cup-board , little plate , Display benevolence , not state . And may my humble dwelling stand Upon some chosen spot of land : A pond before full to the brim , Where cows may cool , and geese may swim , Behind , a green like velvet neat , Soft to the eye , and to the feet ; Where od'rous plants in evening fair Breathe all around ambrosial air ; From Eurus , foe to kitchen-ground , Fenc'd by a slope with bushes crown'd , Fit dwelling for the feather'd throng , Who pay their quit-rents with a song ; With op'ning views of hill and dale , Which sense and fancy too regale , Where the half-cirque , which vision bounds , Like amphitheatre surrounds : And woods impervious to the breeze , Thick phalanx of embodied trees , From hills thro' plains in dusk array Extended far , repel the day . Here stillness , height , and solemn shade Invite , and contemplation aid : Here nymphs from hollow oaks relate The dark decrees and will of fate , And dreams beneath the spreading beech Inspire , and docile fancy teach , While soft as breezy breath of wind , Impulses rustle thro' the mind : Here Dryads , scorning Phoebus' ray , While Pan melodious pipes away , In measur'd motions frisk about , 'Till old Silenus puts them out . There see the clover , pea , and bean , Vie in variety of green ; Fresh pastures speckled o'er with sheep , Brown fields their fallow sabbaths keep , Plump Ceres golden tresses wear , And poppy-top-knots deck her hair , And silver-streams through meadows stray , And Naiads on the margin play , And lesser nymphs on side of hills From play-thing urns pour down the rills . Thus shelter'd , free from care and strife , May I enjoy a calm thro' life ; See faction , safe in low degree , As men at land see storms at sea , And laugh at miserable elves , Not kind , so much as to themselves , Curs'd with such souls of base alloy , As can possess , but not enjoy ; Debar'd the pleasure to impart By av'rice , sphincter of the heart , Who wealth , hard earn'd by guilty cares , Bequeath untouch'd to thankless heirs . May I , with look ungloom'd by guile , And wearing Virtue's liv'ry-smile , Prone the distressed to relieve , And little trespasses forgive , With income not in Fortune's pow'r , And skill to make a busy hour , With trips to town life to amuse , To purchase books , and hear the news , To see old friends , brush off the clown , And quicken taste at coming down , Unhurt by sickness' blasting rage , And slowly mellowing in age , When Fate extends its gathering gripe , Fall off like fruit grown fully ripe , Quit a worn being without pain , Perhaps to blossom soon again . But now more serious see me grow , And what I think , my Memmius , know . Th' enthusiast's hopes , and raptures wild Have never yet my reason foil'd . His springy soul dilates like air , When free from weight of ambient care , And , hush'd in meditation deep , Slides into dreams , as when asleep ; Then , fond of new discoveries grown , Proves a Columbus of her own , Disdains the narrow bounds of place , And thro' the wilds of endless space , Borne up on metaphysick wings , Chases light forms , and shadowy things , And in the vague excursion caught , Brings home some rare exotick thought . The melancholy man such dreams , As brightest evidence , esteems ; Fain would he see some distant scene Suggested by his restless Spleen , And Fancy's telescope applies With tinctur'd glass to cheat his eyes . Such thoughts , as love the gloom of night , I close examine by the light ; For who , tho' brib'd by gain to lie , Dare sun-beam-written truths deny , And execute plain common sense On faith's mere hearsay evidence ? That superstition mayn't create , And club its ill with those of fate , I many a notion take to task , Made dreadful by its visor-mask . Thus scruple , spasm of the mind , Is cur'd , and certainty I find , Since optick reason shews me plain , I dreaded spectres of the brain , And legendary fears are gone , Tho' in tenacious childhood sown . Thus in opinions I commence Freeholder in the proper sense , And neither suit nor service do , Nor homage to pretenders shew , Who boast themselves by spurious roll Lords of the manor of the soul ; Preferring sense , from chin that's bare , To nonsense thron'd in whisker'd hair . To thee , Creator uncreate , O Entium Ens ! divinely great ! — Hold , Muse , nor melting pinions try , Nor near the blazing glory fly , Nor straining break thy feeble bow , Unfeather'd arrows far to throw : Thro' fields unknown nor madly stray , Where no ideas mark the way . With tender eyes , and colours faint , And trembling hands forbear to paint . Who features veil'd by light can hit ? Where can , what has no outline , sit ? My soul , the vain attempt forego , Thy self , the fitter subject , know . He wisely shuns the bold extreme , Who soon lays by th' unequal theme , Nor runs , with wisdom's Sirens caught , On quicksands swall'wing shipwreck'd thought ; But , conscious of his distance , gives Mute praise , and humble negatives . In one , no object of our sight , Immutable and infinite , Who can't be cruel , or unjust , Calm and resign'd , I fix my trust ; To him my past and present state I owe , and must my future fate . A stranger into life I'm come , Dying may be our going home , Transported here by angry Fate , The convicts of a prior state . Hence I no anxious thoughts bestow On matters , I can never know ; Thro' life's foul way , like vagrant pass'd , He'll grant a settlement at last , And with sweet ease the wearied crown , By leave to lay his being down . If doom'd to dance th' eternal round Of life no sooner lost but found , And dissolution soon to come , Like spunge , wipes out life's present sum , But can't our state of pow'r bereave An endless series to receive ; Then , if hard dealt with here by fate , We ballance in another state , And consciousness must go along , And sign th' acquittance for the wrong . He for his creatures must decree More happiness than misery , Or be supposed to create , Curious to try , what 'tis to hate : And do an act , which rage infers , 'Cause lameness halts , or blindness errs . Thus , thus I steer my bark , and sail On even keel with gentle gale ; At helm I make my reason sit , My crew of passions all submit . If dark and blust'ring prove some nights , Philosophy puts forth her lights ; Experience holds the cautious glass , To shun the breakers , as I pass , And frequent throws the wary lead , To see what dangers may be hid : And once in seven years I'm seen At Bath or Tunbridge , to careen . Tho' pleas'd to see the dolphins play , I mind my compass and my way , With store sufficient for relief , And wisely still prepar'd to reef , Nor wanting the dispersive bowl Of cloudy weather in the soul , I make ( may heav'n propitious send Such wind and weather to the end ) Neither becalm'd , nor over-blown , Life's voyage to the world unknown .