Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed:
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he amid his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing.
Every thing contains within itself
The seeds and sources of its own corruption;
The cankering rust corrodes the brightest steel:
The moth frets out your garment, and the worm
Eats its slow way into the solid oak:
But envy, of all evil things the worst,
The same to-day, to-morrow, and forever,
Saps and consumes the heart in which it works.
When all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.
Unnumbered comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestowed,
Before my infant heart conceived
From whom those comforts flowed.
When in the slippery paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe,
And led me up to man.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.
Through every period of my life,
Thy goodness I'll pursue;
And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.
If they but speak the truth of her,
These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honor,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life 'reft me so much of friends
But they shall find awaked, in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends,
To quit me of them thoroughly.
All's for the best! be sanguine and cheerful,
Trouble and Sorrow are friends in disguise;
Nothing but Folly goes faithless and fearful,
Courage forever is happy and wise:
All's for the best-if a man would but know it,
Providence wishes us all to be blest;
This is no dream of the pundit or poet,
Heaven is gracious, and-All's for the best!
All's for the best! set this on your standard,
Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love,
Who to the shores of Despair may have wandered,
A way-wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove;
All's for the best!-be a man but confiding,
Providence tenderly governs the rest;
And the frail bark of his creature is guiding
Wisely and warily, all for the best.
Oh! I have passed a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 't were to buy a world of happy days.
So full of dismal terror was the time!
My dream was lengthened after life:-
Oh! then began the tempest to my soul!—
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environed me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling waked, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made my dream!
That bear the shapes of men, how have you run
From slaves that apes would beat!-Pluto and hell!
All hurt behind: backs red, and faces pale
With flight and agued fear!-Mend, and charge home,
Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe,
And make my wars on you: look to 't: come on!
How like a fawning publican he looks!
I hate him, for he is a Christian;
But more, for that, in low simplicity,
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance with us here in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him!
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him!
Seems, madam! nay, it is: I know not seems,
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath;
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passeth show,
These-but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Thou slave! thou wretch! thou coward!
Thou little valiant, great in villainy!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou fortune's champion, thou dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety! Thou art perjured, too,
And sooth'st up greatness! What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp, and sweat,
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide? Doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs
Whither shall I turn? wretch that I am! To what place shall I betake myself? Shall I go to the Capitol? Alas! it is stained with my brother's blood! Or shall I return to my home? there I behold my mother weeping, plunged in misery and despair.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee,-
Corruption wins not more than honesty;
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr!
With many holiday and lady terms,
He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf:
I, then, all smarting with my wounds, being galled
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience
Answered neglectingly-I know not what
He should, or should not; for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds-God save the mark-
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti-for an inward bruise.
Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee;
The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free!
I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest muttered low;
And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its blow.
I've scared you in the city; I've scalped you on the plain:
Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty; the paleface I defy;
Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "blood" my battle cry!
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