A new Narcissus gazed himself to death,
Picturing his lonely beauty in the flood,
The river, onward flowing, flouts the breath
That charm’d the fire, Promethean, from its mud:
Who topple on a pinnacle, scorn the steps
That usher to the pride, whereon they stand;
Yet Nature’s structure swerves not, men, adepts
At self-deception, judge from whence they’ve scann’d;
View the whole plot, and just should all appear,
What’s beauteous, the relief that Nature wears,
The base, by difficult straits and shoals, should steer
To quicken praise, shunning monotonous cares:
What fail’d of high fulfilment, where it lack’d,
Should live in others’ worth when all were pack’d.
LIX.
Thy voice still cautioned, ’tis no time for woe,
Nor only warned, but marked out safety’s road;
Who crams his yearning heart with earthly show,
Straight to be voided, fondles with the goad;
Who nods to Passion, as he gulps the chaff
That whitens the base highway of the world,
Totters to age, on an unstable staff,
Shook by the winds, which his own hopes unfurl’d;
Who tamely would let Age assert his claims,
And stiffen self to a distincter mould,
Who would not rather curse all shapes, thoughts, names,
That frame men’s hearts to forms, as meagre-cold:
He ne’er shall triumph o’er the powers of woe;
Mad Passion bursts his bounds, and thunders, “No.”
LX.
The poison well’d from Circe’s treacherous cups
Beyond the shape, with fell designment, work’d;
Had thought not pander’d to nectareous sups,
And, brute-like, veiled what beastly semblance lurk’d,
Sure change had mock’d his aim, by death and spleen.
’Tis bounteous Nature smoothes the wrinkled brow,
Bellying with pride the front that looks too lean:
She plants conceit in gaping brains enow;
She salves with flattery some unequal wounds,
Impartial measures grief for men and years;
One age inglorious slumbers on and swounds;
One moistens deathless leaves with blood and tears:
All drink, and die, but oh! how deep a draught,
E’er separate life’s a blessing, must be quafft.
LXI
The rivulets, the earth, the skies, the motion
Whose substance varies to a higher change,
The clouds, the woods, the mountains, and the ocean
Whose endless blue defies the fancy’s range,
The sun, and the calm host that guide the night
Throughout the seasons of the changeful year,
The warmth, the snow, the music, and the bright
Foliage that quivers to the songsters’ cheer;
And the swift thought that wings its measureless way
(Though clogg’d with self, it feels but how it fails,)
Just to the confines of eternal day,
In outer orbit whirl’d it pines, and sails;
And more than these, Love, Beauty, Reason, Joy.
All these are life, but self’s a half-formed toy.