Proverbial Philosophy E-Book

Martin Farquhar Tupper

• Herausgeber: Passerino
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Proverbial Philosophy - A Book of Thoughts and Arguments, Originally Treated is a collection of philosophical thoughts and arguments. It consists of a series of maxims and aphorisms that convey moral and philosophical insights, often in a poetic and lyrical style. The work was popular in its time and has continued to be studied and appreciated by readers interested in moral philosophy and literature.

Martin Farquhar Tupper (17 July 1810 – 29 November 1889) was an English poet and novelist. He was one of the most widely-read English-language authors of his day with the poetry collection Proverbial Philosophy, which was a bestseller in the United Kingdom and North America for several decades.

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Martin Farquhar Tupper

Proverbial Philosophy

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Table of contents

FIRST SERIES.

PREFATORY.

THE WORDS OF WISDOM.

OF TRUTH IN THINGS FALSE.

OF ANTICIPATION.

OF HIDDEN USES

OF COMPENSATION.

OF INDIRECT INFLUENCES.

OF MEMORY.

THE DREAM OF AMBITION.

OF SUBJECTION.

OF REST.

OF HUMILITY.

OF PRIDE.

​ OF EXPERIENCE.

OF ESTIMATING CHARACTER.

OF HATRED AND ANGER.

OF GOOD IN THINGS EVIL.

OF PRAYER.

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

OF DISCRETION.

​OF TRIFLES.

OF RECREATION.

THE TRAIN OF RELIGION.

OF A TRINITY.

OF THINKING.

​ OF SPEAKING.

​ OF READING.

OF WRITING.

OF WEALTH.

OF INVENTION.

OF RIDICULE.

OF COMMENDATION.

OF SELF-ACQUAINTANCE.

OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

ON FRIENDSHIP

OF LOVE

OF MARRIAGE

OF EDUCATION

OF TOLERANCE.

OF SORROW.

OF JOY.

SECOND SERIES.

INTRODUCTORY.

OF CHEERFULNESS.

OF YESTERDAY.

OF TO-DAY.

OF TO-MORROW.

OF AUTHORSHIP.

​OF MYSTERY.

OF GIFTS.

​ OF BEAUTY.

OF FAME.

OF FLATTERY.

OF NEGLECT.

OF CONTENTMENT.

OF LIFE.

OF DEATH.

OF IMMORTALITY.

OF IDEAS.

OF NAMES.

OF THINGS.

OF FAITH.

OF HONESTY.

OF SOCIETY.

​ OF SOLITUDE.

RECAPITULATION.

FIRST SERIES.

PREFATORY.

Thoughts, that have tarried in my mind, and peopled its inner chambers,

The sober children of reason, or desultory train of fancy;

Clear running wine of conviction, with the scum and the lees of speculation;

Corn from the sheaves of science, with stubble from mine own garner:

Searchings after Truth, that have tracked her secret lodes,

And come up again to the surface-world, with a knowledge grounded deeper;

Arguments of high scope, that have soared to the key-stone of heaven,

And thence have swooped to their certain mark, as the falcon to its quarry;

The fruits I have gathered of prudence, the ripened harvest of my musings,

These commend I unto thee, O docile scholar of Wisdom,

These I give to thy gentle heart, thou lover of the right.

What, though a guilty man renew that hallowed theme,

And strike with feebler hand the harp of Sirach's son?

What, though a youthful tongue take up that ancient parable,

And utter faintly forth dark sayings as of old?

Sweet is the virgin honey, though the wild bee have stored it in a reed,

And bright the jewelled band, that circleth an Ethiop's arm;

Pure are the grains of gold in the turbid stream of Ganges,

And fair the living flowers, that spring from the dull cold sod.

Wherefore, thou gentle student, bend thine ear to my speech,

For I also am as thou art; our hearts can commune together:

To meanest matters will I stoop, for mean is the lot of mortal;

I will rise to noblest themes, for the soul hath an heritage of glory:

The passions of puny man; the majestic characters of God;

The feverish shadows of time, and the mighty substance of eternity.

Commend thy mind unto candour, and grudge not as though thou hadst a teacher,

Nor scorn angelic Truth for the sake of her evil herald;

Heed not him, but hear his words, and care not whence they come;

The viewless winds might whisper them, the billows roar them forth,

The mean unconscious sedge sigh them in the ear of evening,

Or the mind of pride conceive, and the mouth of folly speak them.

Lo now, I stand not forth laying hold on spear and buckler,

I come a man of peace, to comfort, not to combat;

With soft persuasive speech to charm thy patient ear,

Giving the hand of fellowship, acknowledging the heart of sympathy:

Let us walk together as friends in the shaded paths of meditation,

Nor Judgment set his seal until he hath poised his balance;

That the chastenings of mild reproof may meet unwitting error,

And Charity not be a stranger at the board that is spread for brothers.

THE WORDS OF WISDOM.

Few and precious are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter:

To what shall their rarity be likened? What price shall count their worth?

Perfect and much to be desired, and giving joy with riches,

No lovely thing on earth can picture all their beauty.

They be chance pearls, flung among the rocks by the sullen waters of Oblivion,

Which Diligence loveth to gather, and hang around the neck of Memory;

They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted from the islands of the blessed,

Which Thought carefully tendeth, in the kindly garden of the heart;

They be sproutings of an harvest for eternity, bursting through the tilth of time,

Green promise of the golden wheat, that yieldeth angels' food;

They be drops of the crystal dew, which the wings of seraphs scatter,

When on some brighter sabbath, their plumes quiver most with delight:

Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter.

Yet more, for the half is not said, of their might, and dignity, and value;

For life-giving be they and glorious, redolent of sanctity and heaven:

As fumes of hallowed incense, that veil the throne of the Most High;

As beaded bubbles that sparkle on the rim of the cup of immortality;

As wreaths of the rainbow spray, from the pure cataracts of truth:

Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter.

Yet once again, loving student, suffer the praises of thy teacher,

For verily the sun of the mind, and the life of the heart is Wisdom:

She is pure and full of light, crowning grey hairs with lustre,

And kindling the eye of youth with a fire not its own;

And her words, whereunto canst thou liken them? for earth cannot show their peers:

They be grains of the diamond sand, the radiant floor of heaven,

Rising in sunny dust behind the chariot of God;

They be flashes of the dayspring from on high, shed from the windows of the skies;

They be streams of living waters, fresh from the fountain of Intelligence:

Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter.

For these shall guide thee well, and guard thee on thy way;

And wanting all beside, with these shalt thou be rich:

Though all around be woe, these shall make thee happy;

Though all within be pain, these shall bring thee health:

Thy good shall grow into ripeness, thine evil wither and decay,

And Wisdom's words shall sweetly charm thy doubtful into virtues:

Meanness shall then be frugal care; where shame was, thou art modest;

Cowardice riseth into caution, rashness is sobered into courage;

The wrathful spirit, rendering a reason, standeth justified in anger;

The idle hand hath fair excuse, propping the thoughtful forehead.

Life shall have no labyrinth but thy steps can track it,

For thou hast a silken clue, to lead thee through the darkness:

The rampant Minotaur of ignorance shall perish at thy coming,

And thine enfranchised fellows hail thy white victorious sails.

Wherefore, friend and scholar, hear the words of Wisdom;

Whether she speaketh to thy soul in the full chords of revelation;

In the teaching earth, or air, or sea; in the still melodies of thought;

Or, haply, in the humbler strains that would detain thee here.

OF TRUTH IN THINGS FALSE.

Error is a hardy plant; it flourisheth in every soil;

In the heart of the wise and good, alike with the wicked and foolish.

For there is no error so crooked, but it hath in it some lines of truth:

Nor is any poison so deadly, that it serveth not some wholesome use:

And the just man, enamoured of the right, is blinded by the speciousness of wrong;

And the prudent, perceiving an advantage, is content to overlook the harm.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God,

Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption:

And if error cometh in like a flood, it mixeth with streams of truth;

And the Adversary loveth to have it so, for thereby many are decoyed.

Providence is dark in its permissions; yet one day, when all is known,

The universe of reason shall acknowledge how just and good were they;

For the wise man leaneth on his wisdom, and the righteous trusteth to his righteousness,

And those, who thirst for independence, are suffered to drink of disappointment.

Wherefore?—to prove and humble them; and to teach the idolaters of Truth,

That it is but the ladder unto Him, on whom only they should trust.

There is truth in the wildest scheme that imaginative heat hath engendered,

And a man may gather somewhat from the crudest theories of fancy:

The alchymist laboureth in folly, but catcheth chance gleams of wisdom,

And findeth out many inventions, though his crucible breed not gold;

The sinner, toying with witchcraft, thinketh to delude his fellows,

But there be very spirits of evil, and what if they come at his bidding?

He is a bold bad man who dareth to tamper with the dead;

For their whereabout lieth in a mystery—that vestibule leading to Eternity,

The waiting-room for unclad ghosts, before the presence-chamber of their King:

Mind may act upon mind, though bodies be far divided;

For the life is in the blood, but souls communicate unseen:

And the heat of an excited intellect, radiating to its fellows,

Doth kindle dry leaves afar off, while the green wood around it is unwarmed.

The dog may have a spirit, as well as his brutal master;

A spirit to live in happiness: for why should he be robbed of his existence?

Hath he not a conscience of evil, a glimmer of moral sense,

Love and hatred, courage and fear, and visible shame and pride?

There may be a future rest for the patient victims of the cruel;

And a season allotted for their bliss, to compensate for unjust suffering.

Spurn not at seeming error, but dig below its surface for the truth;

And beware of seeming truths, that grow on the roots of error:

For comely are the apples that spring from the Dead Sea's cursed shore,

But within are they dust and ashes, and the hand that plucked them shall rue it.

A frequent similar effect argueth a constant cause:

Yet who hath counted the links that bind an omen to its issue?

Who hath expounded the law that rendereth calamities gregarious,

Pressing down with yet more woes the heavy-laden mourner?

Who knoweth wherefore a monsoon should swell the sails of the prosperous,

Blithely speeding on their course the children of good luck?

Who hath companied a vision from the horn or ivory gate?

Or met another's mind in his, and explained its presence?

There is a secret somewhat in antipathies; and love is more than fancy;

Yea, and a palpable notice warneth of an instant danger;

For the soul hath its feelers, cobwebs floating on the wind,

That catch events in their approach with sure and apt presentiment;

So that some halo of attraction heraldeth a coming friend,

Investing in his likeness the stranger that passed on before;

And while the word is in thy mouth, behold thy word fulfilled,

And he of whom we spake can answer for himself.

O man, little hast thou learnt of truth in things most true,

How therefore shall thy blindness wot of truth in things most false?

Thou hast not yet perceived the causes of life or motion,

How then canst thou define the subtle sympathies of mind?

For the spirit, sharpest and strongest when disease hath rent the body,

Hath welcomed kindred spirits in nightly visitations,

Or learnt from restless ghosts dark secrets of the living,

And helped slow justice to her prey by the dreadful teaching of a dream.

Verily, there is nothing so true, that the damps of error have not warped it;

Verily, there is nothing so false, that a sparkle of truth is not in it.

For the enemy, the father of lies, the giant Upas of creation,

Whose deadly shade hath blasted this once green garden of the Lord,

Can but pervert the good, but may not create the evil;

He destroyeth, but cannot build; for he is not antagonist deity:

Mighty is his stolen power, yet is he a creature and a subject;

Not a maker of abstract wrong, but a spoiler of concrete right:

The fiend hath not a royal crown; he is but a prowling robber,

Suffered, for some mysterious end, to haunt the King's highway;

And the keen sword he beareth, once was a simple ploughshare;

Yea, and his panoply of error is but a distortion of the truth:

The sickle that once reaped righteousness, beaten from its useful curve,

With axe, and spike, and bar, headeth the marauder's halbert.

Seek not further, O man, to solve the dark riddle of sin;

Suffice it, that thine own bad heart is to thee thine origin of evil.

OF ANTICIPATION.

Thou hast seen many sorrows, travel-stained pilgrim of the world,

But that which hath vexed thee most hath been the looking for evil;

And though calamities have crossed thee, and misery been heaped on thy head,

Yet ills, that never happened, have chiefly made thee wretched.

The sting of pain and the edge of pleasure are blunted by long expectation,

For the gall and the balm alike are diluted in the waters of patience:

And often thou sippest sweetness, ere the cup is dashed from thy lip;

Or drainest the gall of fear, while evil is passing by thy dwelling.

A man too careful of danger liveth in continual torment,

But a cheerful expecter of the best hath a fountain of joy within him:

Yea, though the breath of disappointment should chill the sanguine heart,

Speedily gloweth it again, warmed by the live embers of hope;

Though the black and heavy surge close above the head for a moment,

Yet the happy buoyancy of Confidence riseth superior to Despair.

Verily, evils may be courted, may be wooed and won by distrust:

For the wise Physician of our weal loveth not an unbelieving spirit;

And to those giveth He good, who rely on His hand for good;

And those leaveth He to evil, who fear, but trust Him not.

Ask for good, and hope it, for the ocean of good is fathomless;

Ask for good, and have it, for thy Friend would see thee happy;

But to the timid heart, to the child of unbelief and dread,

That leaneth on his own weak staff, and trusteth the sight of his eyes,

The evil he feared shall come, for the soil is ready for the seed,

And suspicion hath coldly put aside the hand that was ready to help him.

Therefore look up, sad spirit; be strong, thou coward heart,

Or fear will make thee wretched, though evil follow not behind:

Cease to anticipate misfortune; there are still many chances of escape;

But if it come, be courageous; face it, and conquer thy calamity.

There is not an enemy so stout, as to storm and take the fortress of the mind,

Unless its infirmity turn traitor, and Fear unbar the gates.

The valiant standeth as a rock, and the billows break upon him;

The timorous is a skiff unmoored, tost and mocked at by a ripple:

The valiant holdeth fast to good, till evil wrench it from him;

The timorous casteth it aside, to meet the worst half way:

Yet oftentimes is evil but a braggart, that provoketh and will not fight;

Or the feint of a subtle fencer, who measureth his thrust elsewhere:

Or perchance a blessing in a masque, sent to try thy trust,

The precious smiting of a friend, whose frowns are all in love:

Often the storm threateneth, but is driven to other climes,

And the weak hath quailed in fear, while the firm hath been glad in his confidence.

The sea-wort floating on the waves, or rolled up high along the shore,

Ye counted useless and vile, heaping on it names of contempt:

Yet hath it gloriously triumphed, and man been humbled in his ignorance,

For health is in the freshness of its savour, and it cumbereth the beach with wealth;

Comforting the tossings of pain with its violet-tinctured essence,

And by its humbler ashes enriching many proud.

Be this, then, a lesson to thy soul, that thou reckon nothing worthless,

Because thou heedest not its use, nor knowest the virtues thereof.

And herein, as thou walkest by the sea, shall weeds be a type and an earnest

Of the stored and uncounted riches lying hid in all creatures of God:

There be flowers making glad the desert, and roots fattening the soil,

And jewels in the secret deep, scattered among groves of coral,

And comforts to crown all wishes, and aids unto every need,

Influences yet unthought, and virtues, and many inventions,

And uses above and around, which man hath not yet regarded.

Not long to charm away disease hath the crocus yielded up its bulb,

Nor the willow lent its bark, nor the nightshade its vanquished poison;

Not long hath the twisted leaf, the fragrant gift of China,

Nor that nutritious root, the boon of far Peru,

Nor the many-coloured dahlia, nor the gorgeous flaunting cactus,

Nor the multitude of fruits and flowers, ministered to life and luxury:

Even so, there be virtues yet unknown in the wasted foliage of the elm,

In the sun-dried harebell of the downs, and the hyacinth drinking in the meadow,

In the sycamore's winged fruit, and the facet-cut cones of the cedar;

And the pansy and bright geranium live not alone for beauty,

Nor the waxen flower of the arbute, though it dieth in a day,

Nor the sculptured crest of the fir, unseen but by the stars;

And the meanest weed of the garden serveth unto many uses,

The salt tamarisk, and juicy flag, the freckled orchis, and the daisy.

The world may laugh at famine, when forest-trees yield bread,

When acorns give out fragrant drink, and the sap of the linden is as fatness:

For every green herb, from the lotus to the darnel,

Is rich with delicate aids to help incurious man.

OF HIDDEN USES

HE sea-wort floating on the waves, or rolled up high along the shore,

Ye counted useless and vile, heaping on it names of contempt:

Yet hath it gloriously triumphed, and man been humbled in his ignorance,

For health is in the freshness of its savour, and it cumbereth the beach with wealth;

Comforting the tossings of pain with its violet-tinctured essence,

And by its humbler ashes enriching many proud.

Be this, then, a lesson to thy soul, that thou reckon nothing worthless,

Because thou heedest not its use, nor knowest the virtues thereof.

And herein, as thou walkest by the sea, shall weeds be a type and an earnest

Of the stored and uncounted riches lying hid in all creatures of God:

There be flowers making glad the desert, and roots fattening the soil,

And jewels in the secret deep, scattered among groves of coral,

And comforts to crown all wishes, and aids unto every need,

Influences yet unthought, and virtues, and many inventions,

And uses above and around, which man hath not yet regarded.

Not long to charm away disease hath the crocus yielded up its bulb,

Nor the willow lent its bark, nor the nightshade its vanquished poison;

Not long hath the twisted leaf, the fragrant gift of China,

Nor that nutritious root, the boon of far Peru,

Nor the many-coloured dahlia, nor the gorgeous flaunting cactus,

Nor the multitude of fruits and flowers, ministered to life and luxury:

Even so, there be virtues yet unknown in the wasted foliage of the elm,

In the sun-dried harebell of the downs, and the hyacinth drinking in the meadow,

In the sycamore's winged fruit, and the facet-cut cones of the cedar;

And the pansy and bright geranium live not alone for beauty,

Nor the waxen flower of the arbute, though it dieth in a day,

Nor the sculptured crest of the fir, unseen but by the stars;

And the meanest weed of the garden serveth unto many uses,

The salt tamarisk, and juicy flag, the freckled orchis, and the daisy.

The world may laugh at famine, when forest-trees yield bread,

When acorns give out fragrant drink, and the sap of the linden is as fatness:

For every green herb, from the lotus to the darnel,

Is rich with delicate aids to help incurious man.

Still, Mind is up and stirring, and pryeth in the corners of contrivance,

Often from the dark recesses picking out bright seeds of truth:

Knowledge hath clipped the lightning's wings, and mewed it up for a purpose,

Training to some domestic task the fiery bird of heaven;

Tamed is the spirit of the storm, to slave in all peaceful arts,

To walk with husbandry and science; to stand in the vanguard against death:

And the chemist balanceth his elements with more than magic skill,

Commanding stones that they be bread, and draining sweetness out of wormwood.

Yet man, heedless of a God, counteth up vain reckonings,

Fearing to be jostled and starved out, by the too prolific increase of his kind;

And asketh, in unbelieving dread, for how few years to come

Will the black cellars of the world yield unto him fuel for his winter.

Might not the wide waste sea be pent within narrower bounds?

Might not the arm of diligence make the tangled wilderness a garden?

And for aught thou canst tell, there may be a thousand methods

Of comforting thy limbs in warmth, though thou kindle not a spark.

Fear not, son of man, for thyself nor thy seed:—with a multitude is plenty;

God's blessing giveth increase, and with it larger than enough.

Search out the wisdom of nature, there is depth in all her doings;

She seemeth prodigal of power, yet her rules are the maxims of frugality:

The plant refresheth the air, and the earth filtereth the water,

And dews are sucked into the cloud, dropping fatness on the world:

She hath, on a mighty scale, a general use for all things;

Yet hath she specially for each its microscopic purpose:

There is use in the prisoned air, that swelleth the pods of the laburnum;

Design in the venomed thorns, that sentinel the leaves of the nettle;

A final cause for the aromatic gum, that congealeth the moss around a rose:

A reason for each blade of grass, that reareth its small spire.

How knoweth discontented man what a train of ills might follow,

If the lowest menial of nature knew not her secret office?

If the thistle never sprang up to mock the loose husbandry of indolence,

Or the pestilence never swept away an unknown curse from among men?

Would ye crush the buzzing myriads that float on the breath of evening?

Would ye trample the creatures of God that people the rotting fruit?

Would ye suffer no mildew forest to stain the unhealthy wall,

Nor a noisome savour to exhale from the pool that breedeth disease?

Pain is useful unto man, for it teacheth him to guard his life,

And the fetid vapours of the fen warn him to fly from danger:

And the meditative mind, looking on, winneth good food for its hunger,

Seeing the wholesome root bring forth a poisonous berry;

For otherwhile falleth it out that truth, driven to extremities,

Yieldeth bitter folly as the spoilt fruit of wisdom.

O, blinded is thine eye, if it see not just aptitude in all things:

O, frozen is thy heart, if it glow not with gratitude for all things:

In the perfect circle of creation not an atom could be spared,

From earth's magnetic zone to the bindweed round a hawthorn.

The sage, and the beetle at his feet, hath each a ministration to perform:

The briar and the palm have the wages of life, rendering secret service.

Neither is it thus alone with the definite existences of matter;

But motion and sound, circumstance and quality, yea, all things have their office.

The zephyr playing with an aspen-leaf,—the earthquake that rendeth a continent;

The moon-beam silvering a ruined arch,—the desert-wave dashing up a pyramid;

The thunder of jarring icebergs,—the stops of a shepherd's pipe;

The howl of the tiger in the glen,—and the wood-dove calling to her mate;

The vulture's cruel rage,—the grace of the stately swan;

The fierceness looking from the lynx's eye, and the dull stupor of the sloth:

To these, and to all, is there added each its USE, though man considereth it lightly;

For Power hath ordained nothing which Economy saw not needful.

OF COMPENSATION.

Equal is the government of heaven in allotting pleasures among men,

And just the everlasting law, that hath wedded happiness to virtue:

For verily on all things else broodeth disappointment with care,

That childish man may be taught the shallowness of earthly enjoyment.

Wherefore, ye that have enough, envy ye the rich man his abundance?

Wherefore, daughters of affluence, covet ye the cottager's content?

Take the good with the evil, for ye all are pensioners of God,

And none may choose or refuse the cup His wisdom mixeth.

The poor man rejoiceth at his toil, and his daily bread is sweet to him:

Content with present good, he looketh not for evil to the future:

The rich man languisheth with sloth, and findeth pleasure in nothing,

He locketh up care with his gold, and feareth the fickleness of fortune.

Can a cup contain within itself the measure of a bucket?

Or the straitened appetites of man drink more than their fill of luxury?

There is a limit to enjoyment, though the sources of wealth be boundless:

And the choicest pleasures of life lie within the ring of moderation.

Also, though penury and pain be real and bitter evils,

I would reason with the poor afflicted, for he is not so wretched as he seemeth.

What right hath an offender to complain, though others escape punishment,

If the stripes of earned misfortune overtake him in his sin?

Wherefore not endure with resignation the evils thou canst not avert?

For the coward pain will flee, if thou meet him as a man:

Consider, whatever be thy fate, that it might and ought to have been worse,

And that it lieth in thy hand to gather even blessing from afflictions:

Bethink thee, wherefore were they sent? and hath not use blunted their keenness?

Need hope, and patience, and courage, be strangers to the meanest hovel?

Thou art in an evil case, it were cruel to deny to thee compassion,

But there is not unmitigated ill in the sharpest of this world's sorrows:

I touch not the sore of thy guilt; but of human griefs I counsel thee,

Cast off the weakness of regret, and gird thee to redeem thy loss:

Thou hast gained, in the furnace of affliction, self-knowledge, patience, and humility,

And these be as precious ore, that waiteth the skill of the coiner:

Despise not the blessings of adversity, nor the gain thou hast earned so hardly,

And now thou hast drained the bitter, take heed that thou lose not the sweet.

Power is seldom innocent, and envy is the yoke-fellow of eminence;

And the rust of the miser's riches wasteth his soul as a canker.

The poor man counteth not the cost at which such wealth hath been purchased;

He would be on the mountain's top, without the toil and travail of the climbing.

But equity demandeth recompense: for high-place, calumny and care;

For state, comfortless splendour eating out the heart of home;

For warrior fame, dangers and death; for a name among the learned, a spirit overstrained;

For honour of all kinds, the goad of ambition; on every acquirement, the tax of anxiety.

He that would change with another, must take the cup as it is mixed:

Poverty, with largeness of heart; or a full purse, with a sordid spirit;

Wisdom, in an ailing body; or a common mind, with health:

Godliness, with man's scorn; or the welcome of the mighty, with guilt:

Beauty, with a fickle heart; or plainness of face, with affection.

For so hath Providence determined, that a man shall not easily discover

Unmingled good or evil, to quicken his envy or abhorrence.

A bold man or a fool must he be, who would change his lot with another;

It were a fearful bargain, and mercy hath lovingly refused it:

For we know the worst of ourselves, but the secrets of another we see not,

And better is certain bad, than the doubt and dread of worse.

Just, and strong, and opportune is the moral rule of God;

Ripe in its times, firm in its judgments, equal in the measure of its gifts:

Yet men, scanning the surface, count the wicked happy,

Nor heed the compensating peace, which gladdeneth the good in his afflictions.

They see not the frightful dreams that crowd a bad man's pillow,

Like wreathed adders crawling round his midnight conscience;

They hear not the terrible suggestions, that knock at the portal of his will,

Provoking to wipe away from life the one weak witness of the deed;

They know not the torturing suspicions that sting his panting breast,

When the clear eye of penetration quietly readeth off the truth.

Likewise of the good what know they? The memories bringing pleasure,

Shrined in the heart of the benevolent, and glistening from his eye;

The calm self-justifying reason that establisheth the upright in his purpose;

The warm and gushing bliss that floodeth all the thoughts of the religious.

Many a beggar at the cross-way, or grey-haired shepherd on the plain,

Hath more of the end of all wealth, than hundreds who multiply the means.

Moreover, a moral compensation reacheth to the secrecy of thought;

For if thou wilt think evil of thy neighbour, soon shalt thou have him for thy foe:

And yet he may know nothing of the cause that maketh thee distasteful to his soul,—

The cause of unkind suspicion, for which thou hast thy punishment:

And if thou think of him in charity, wishing or praying for his weal,

He shall not guess the secret charm that lureth his soul to love thee.

For just is retributive ubiquity: Samson did sin with Dalilah,

And his eyes and captive strength were forfeit to the Philistine:

Jacob robbed his brother, and sorrow was his portion to the grave:

David must fly before his foes, yea, though his guilt is covered:

And He who, seeming old in youth, was marred for others' sin,

For every special crime must bear its special penalty:

By luxury, or rashness, or vice, the member that hath erred suffereth,—

And therefore the Sacrifice for all was pained at every pore.

Alike to the slave and his oppressor cometh night with sweet refreshment,

And half of the life of the most wretched is gladdened by the soothings of sleep.

Pain addeth zest unto pleasure, and teacheth the luxury of health;

There is a joy in sorrow, which none but a mourner can know:

Madness hath imaginary bliss, and most men have no more;

Age hath its quiet calm, and youth enjoyeth not for haste:

Daily, in the midst of its beatitude, the righteous soul is vexed;

And even the misery of guilt doth attain to the bliss of pardon.

Who, in the face of the born-blind, ever looked on other than content?

And the deaf ear listeneth within to the silent music of the heart.

There is evil poured upon the earth from the overflowings of corruption,—

Sickness, and poverty, and pain, and guilt, and madness, and sorrow;

But, as the water from a fountain riseth and sinketh to its level,

Ceaselessly toileth justice to equalize the lots of men:

For, habit and hope and ignorance, and the being but one of a multitude,

And strength of reason in the sage, and dulness of feeling in the fool,

And the light elasticity of courage, and the calm resignation of meekness,

And the stout endurance of decision, and the weak carelessness of apathy,

And helps invisible but real, and ministerings not unfelt,

Angelic aid with worldly discomfiture, bodily loss with the soul's gain,

Secret griefs, and silent joys, thorns in the flesh, and cordials for the spirit,

(—Short of the insuperable barrier dividing innocence from guilt,—)

Go far to level all things, by the gracious rule of Compensation.

OF INDIRECT INFLUENCES.

Face thy foe in the field, and perchance thou wilt meet thy master,

For the sword is chained to his wrist, and his armour buckled for the battle;

But find him when he looketh not for thee, aim between the joints of his harness,

And the crest of his pride will be humbled, his cruelty will bite the dust.

Beard not a lion in his den, but fashion the secret pitfall;

So shall thou conquer the strong, thyself triumphing in weakness.

The hurricane rageth fiercely, and the promontory standeth in its might,

Breasting the artillery of heaven, as darts glance from the crocodile:

But the small continual creeping of the silent footsteps of the sea

Mineth the wall of adamant, and stealthily compasseth its ruin.

The weakness of accident is strong, where the strength of design is weak:

And a casual analogy convinceth, when a mind beareth not argument.

Will not a man listen? be silent; and prove thy maxim by example:

Never fear, thou losest not thy hold, though thy mouth doth not render a reason.

Contend not in wisdom with a fool, for thy sense maketh much of his conceit;

And some errors never would have thriven, had it not been for learned refutation:

Yea, much evil hath been caused by an honest wrestler for truth,

And much of unconscious good, by the man that hated wisdom:

For the intellect judgeth closely, and if thou overstep thy argument,

Or seem not consistent with thyself, or fail in thy direct purpose,

The mind that went along with thee, shall stop and return without thee,

And thou shalt have raised a foe, where thou mightest have won a friend.

Hints, shrewdly strown, mightily disturb the spirit,

Where a bare-faced accusation would be too ridiculous for calumny:

The sly suggestion toucheth nerves, and nerves contract the fronds,

And the sensitive mimosa of affection trembleth to its root;

And friendships, the growth of half a century, those oaks that laugh at storms,

Have been cankered in a night by a worm, even as the prophet's gourd.

Hast thou loved, and not known jealousy? for a sidelong look

Can please or pain thy heart more than the multitude of proofs:

Hast thou hated, and not learned that thy silent scorn

Doth deeper aggravate thy foe than loud-cursing malice?—

A wise man prevaileth in power, for he screeneth his battering engine,

But a fool tilteth headlong, and his adversary is aware.

Behold those broken arches, that oriel all unglazed,

That crippled line of columns bleaching in the sun,

The delicate shaft stricken midway, and the flying buttress

Idly stretching forth to hold up tufted ivy:

Thinkest thou the thousand eyes that shine with rapture on a ruin,

Would have looked with half their wonder on the perfect pile?

And wherefore not—but that light hints, suggesting unseen beauties,

Fill the complacent gazer with self-grown conceits?

And so, the rapid sketch winneth more praise to the painter,

Than the consummate work elaborated on his easel:

And so, the Helvetic lion caverned in the living rock

Hath more of majesty and force, than it upon a marble pedestal.

Tell me, daughter of taste, what hath charmed thine ear in music?

Is it the laboured theme, the curious fugue or cento,—

Nor rather the sparkles of intelligence flashing from some strange chord,

Or the soft melody of sounds far sweeter for simplicity?

Tell me, thou son of science, what hath filled thy mind in reading?

Is it the volume of detail where all is orderly set down,

And they that read may run, nor need to stop and think;

The book carefully accurate, that counteth thee no better than a fool,

Gorging the passive mind with annotated notes;—

Nor rather the half-suggested thoughts, the riddles thou mayst solve,

The fair ideas, coyly peeping like young loves out of roses,

The quaint arabesque conceptions, half cherub and half flower,

The light analogy, or deep allusion, trusted to thy learning,

The confidence implied in thy skill to unravel meaning mysteries?

For ideas are ofttimes shy of the close furniture of words,

And thought, wherein only is power, may be best conveyed by a suggestion:

The flash that lighteth up a valley, amid the dark midnight of a storm,

Coineth the mind with that scene sharper than fifty summers.

A worldly man boasteth in his pride, that there is no power but of money;

And he judgeth the characters of men by the differing measures of their means:

He stealeth all goodly names, as worth, and value, and substance,

Which be the ancient heritage of Virtue, but such an one ascribeth unto Wealth:

He spurneth the needy sage, whose wisdom hath enriched nations,

And the sons of poverty and learning, without whom earth were a desert:

Music, the soother of cares, the tuner of the dank discordant heart-strings,

It is nought unto such an one but sounds, whereby some earn their living:

The poem, and the picture, and the statue, to him seem idle baubles,

Which wealth condescendeth to favour, to gain him the name of patron.

But little wotteth he the might of the means his folly despiseth;

He considereth not that these be the wires which move the puppets of the world.

A sentence hath formed a character, and a character subdued a kingdom;

A picture hath ruined souls, or raised them to commerce with the skies:

The pen hath shaken nations, and stablished the world in peace;

And the whole full horn of plenty been filled from the vial of science.

He regardeth man as sensual, the monarch of created matter,

And careth not aught for mind, that linketh him with spirits unseen;

He feedeth his carcase and is glad, though his soul be faint and famished,

And the dull brute power of the body bindeth him a captive to himself.

Man liveth from hour to hour, and knoweth not what may happen;

Influences circle him on all sides, and yet must he answer for his actions:

For the being that is master of himself, bendeth events to his will,

But a slave to selfish passion is the wavering creature of circumstance.

To this man temptation is a poison, to that man it addeth vigour;

And each may render to himself influences good or evil.

As thou directest the power, harm or advantage will follow,

And the torrent that swept the valley, may be led to turn a mill;

The wild electric flash, that could have kindled comets,

May by the ductile wire give ease to an ailing child.

For outward matter or event fashion not the character within,

But each man, yielding or resisting, fashioneth his mind for himself.

Some have said, What is in a name?—most potent plastic influence;

A name is a word of character, and repetition stablisheth the fact:

A word of rebuke, or of honour, tending to obscurity or fame;

And greatest is the power of a name, when its power is least suspected.

A low name is a thorn in the side, that hindereth the footman in his running;

But a name of ancestral renown shall often put the racer to his speed.

Few men have grown unto greatness whose names are allied to ridicule,

And many would never have been profligate, but for the splendour of a name.

A wise man scorneth nothing, be it never so small or homely,

For he knoweth not the secret laws that may bind it to great effects.

The world in its boyhood was credulous, and dreaded the vengeance of the stars,

The world in its dotage is not wiser, fearing not the influence of small things:

Planets govern not the soul, nor guide the destinies of man,

But trifles, lighter than straws, are levers in the building up of character.

A man hath the tiller in his hand, and may steer against the current,

Or may glide down idly with the stream, till his vessel founder in the whirlpool.

Helvetiorum Fidei ac Virtuti Die X Augusti II et III Septembris MDCCXCII

OF MEMORY.

Where art thou, storehouse of the mind, garner of facts and fancies,—

In what strange firmament are laid the beams of thine airy chambers?

Or art thou that small cavern, the centre of the rolling brain,

Where still one sandy morsel testifieth man's original?

Or hast thou some grand globe, some common hall of intellect,

Some spacious market-place for thought, where all do bring their wares,

And gladly rescued from the littleness, the narrow closet of a self,

The privileged soul hath large access, coming in the livery of learning?

Live we as isolated worlds, perfect in substance and spirit,

Each a sphere, with a special mind, prisoned in its shell of matter?

Or rather, as converging radiations, parts of one majestic whole,

Beams of the Sun, streams from the River, branches of the mighty Tree,

Some bearing fruit, some bearing leaves, and some diseased and barren,—

Some for the feast, some for the floor, and some—how many—for the fire?

Memory may be but a power of coming to the treasury of Fact,

A momentary self-desertion, an absence in spirit from the Now,