When we see The false Octavius, and wild Antony, Godlike Brutus, conquer thee? What can we say but thine own tragic word, An idol only, and a name? Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit. Which these great secrets shall unseal, A few years more, so soon hadst thou not died, 6. [From Verses written on Several Occasions.] STANZAS FROM THE 'HYMN TO LIGHT.' Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flow'ry lights thine own nocturnal spring. The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn And with those living spangles gild (O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, And sleep, the lazy owl of night; Ashamed and fearful to appear They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere. With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm, At the first opening of thine eye, The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly. The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts, Ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way. At thy appearance, grief itself is said To shake his wings, and rouse his head, A gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look. At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head Thy quire of birds about thee play, And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. All the world's bravery that delights our eyes Thou the rich dye on them bestowest, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou goest. A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st; The virgin lilies in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light! FROM THE 'ODE TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY.' From words, which are but pictures of the thought, The thirsty soul's refreshing wine. Who to the life an exact piece would make, Much less content himself to make it like No, he before his sight must place The real object must command Each judgment of his eye, and motion of his hand. From these and all long errors of the way, Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last. The barren wilderness he past, Did on the very border stand Of the blest promis'd land, And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit, But life did never to one man allow Time to discover worlds, and conquer too; Nor can so short a line sufficient be To fathom the vast depths of nature's sea: 1 Lord Bacon The work he did we ought t' admire, 7. [From the Discourses by Way of Essays.] ON SOLITUDE. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food, Hail, the poor muse's richest manor seat! Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Here nature does a house for me erect, Who those fond artists does despise Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Ah wretched, and too solitary he Who loves not his own company! He'll feel the weight of 't many a day Unless he call in sin or vanity To help to bear 't away. O Solitude, first state of human-kind! As soon as two (alas !) together join'd, The god himself, through countless ages thee Thee, sacred Solitude alone, Before the branchy head of number's tree Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light, Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see I should at thee too, foolish city, If it were fit to laugh at misery, Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, A solitude almost. |