EPISTLE THE SEVENTH. (Hark! my Lorenzo, how they rage)

Hark! my Lorenzo, how they rage, The pious of our pious age; Those who think Heav'n an easy fool, Of wiser mortals made the tool, Vile counters take for current coin; Our filthy rags for robes divine: We made its joint immortal heirs For penance, paltry alms and prayers! What racks their disappointed zeal Dooms the poor, culprit bard to feel; A thief, whose rhimes the rents have stole, Long mark'd on their celestial roll! So angry bees take sudden wing, Furious the harmless boy to sting, Who, less in anger than in play, O'erturn'd their labours in his way. Have they the poor their farthings lent, At more than th' usual cent per cent; Because the promises of Heav'n For principal and interest given; Yet, loth to mortgage house or land, Dealing ev'n these with sparing hand; Hard times and taxes wont to moan, T'excuse their adding to the loan; Spite of hypocrisy, confess'd The world's security the best? Vile us'rers! yet you think it hard, Your virtue should not meet reward! I think so too—hence, hence, to hell: With merit there 'mong devils swell.

Do here th' immoral pertly ask, What profits rise from virtue's task? Or wherefore vice we should eschew, If what the muse hath sung be true? That "vice and virtue, bliss and woe "Quit scores effectually below; "While, unaffected, Heav'n surveys "Its ends fulfill'd in human ways." Say they "if pain give pleasure birth, "To joy proportion'd grief, on earth, "Our suff'rings all comparative, "What matters how th' ungodly live? "What can we gain by self-denial, "Or standing virtue's fiery trial?" Virtue's clear gain, my friend, 'tis true, If any, hid from me and you, Lodg'd in the dark decrees of fate, A waits us in some future state; A gift Heav'n pleases to bestow, Wholly unmerited below. So, whatsoever diff'rent state Should vice in future life await, Hid in the counsels of th' All-wise, The reprobating secret lies: Predestination's dreadful plan Beyond the scrutiny of man.

Can yet Lorenzo weakly dream That ours is an immoral scheme; Because we hold that joy and strife Are ballanc'd probably in life; Whence equally nor blest nor curst The lives of th' unjust and the just? Shines not the sun alike, on earth, On good and bad of mortal birth? Falls not the plant-enliv'ning rain Alike on mountain-heath and plain? Tho' noxious there vile brambles shoot; Here sweetest flow'rs and choicest fruit, To reason's sober call, my friend, Did the blind passions but attend; While ever present to the mind A full conviction we might find, "That in the lust of mere desire "No certain pleasure men acquire; "But what in extasy they gain "They're sure to lose in future pain." By truth enlighten'd, hence, to fly The distant evil as the nigh, Men were no longer prone to vice, Now stript of all her charms t'entice; But, arming in their own defence, Would stand in neutral innocence.

Through reason let a sensual eye Th' enchanting form of vice espy: Equivocal in make and face, Her left side doth her right disgrace. As form'd to give, and share, delight, One blooming cheek doth hearts invite, While roguish loves in ambush lie, And dart their arrows from her eye. A polish'd arm, a taper side, Her thigh, that scarce her garments hide, Her snow-white leg, and foot, shod neat, The half of beauty's form compleat. But ah, the contrast side appears Worn out with care and gray with years; With wrinkled brow and squinting eye, Scowling most haggardly awry; While hollow cheek and nostril maim'd, Notch'd ear, burnt hand, and thigh-bone lam'd, Display a wretch, from head to tail Diseas'd with many a desp'rate ail; A form, which, wrapt in squalid dress, Compleats the half of ugliness. Behold the charmer—this is Vice. Embrace her. —Is thy stomach nice? Too often passion, single ey'd, Enamour'd with the fairer side, The monster clasps; till, turn'd her face, We starting fly her loath'd embrace: Through reason's medium only shown Her real form, in tints her own; Which thus disgusting to the sense, Could ne'er beguile our innocence.

Should virtue, then, disown the muse; At least let innocence excuse: The strictest moralists content If mortals were but innocent. In actual virtue, true, indeed, I see no hopes we should succeed; If once by reason grown so tame That naught our passions could inflame. For say, desires may not extrude A sense of moral rectitude: This only points, to what is right; But ne'er to virtue can excite. Reason, indiff'rent to th' event, Merely bestows its cold assent; As far as truth's concern'd, in part, Speaks to the head, but not the heart: Reason bestow'd, an humble friend, Not to keep faultless, but to mend; With hopes to cheer or fears to bind Self-love, a glutton deaf and blind; To give our scene of action light; To check the sensual appetite; To show us what is good and fair; And passion's blunders to repair.

To virtue sense of right and wrong Must of necessity belong; But from this knowledge who infer The conscious party, cannot err? Nay, founded on such sense our claim To bear of vice the moral blame; The fool, the mad, do what they will, Standing excus'd of moral ill. Say, then, the virtuous must be wise; Yet not in wisdom virtue lies. By other motives must the mind To virtuous action be inclin'd. "What other motive?" dost thou ask? Lorenzo, difficult the task T'unravel here the human mind; Its moral principles to find.

Sayst thou we all true virtue love; And virtue that which all approve. Supposing this, yet is't with you That very approbation too? Is this, Lorenzo, what is meant By virtue sprung from sentiment? By that ambiguous term of art The native goodness of the heart? Pride not yourselves, ye Pharisees, That acts of kindness give you ease: Nor think, ye publicans, from Heaven An evil inclination given. Know that from diff'rent passions vice And virtue take not sep'rate rise. For, tho' deducing moral ill But from th' indulgence of the will, No passion, not the love of pelf, Is really vicious, in itself: The noblest in the human breast, Motives to action but confess'd, Howe'er admir'd, howe'er approv'd, From actual virtue far remov'd. For a good heart, as put to use, Or vice or virtue may produce: A fertile soil, where, taking root, Plants good and bad bear equal fruit.

Narcissa boasted once a mind, The purest sure of human kind, Till growing passions taught her breast To feel for all that seem'd distress'd, To melt in tenderness of grief, And sigh to give, unask'd, relief. Ah, since, by cruel arts betray'd, How low is fall'n the hapless maid! Too innocent to feel distrust, Or know how diff'rent love and lust! Now, by her tempter ev'n accus'd, See her abandon'd and abus'd; Her open heart, her gen'rous mind To prostitution how resign'd! Of vices glorying in the shame Her former self had blush'd to name. Alas, for pity! sec, mean-while, At lost Narcissa's ruin smile Gremia, to pity never mov'd, As little loving as belov'd; In spite of all vile man could say, In pious maidenhood grown gray, Blessing her better stars, that she Still triumphs in her chastity; Tho', with the planets, on her side Ill-nature, ugliness and pride.

See Phormio, stoically cold, In youth by constitution old, Who never yet, his heart of stone, Once made another's cause his own; But, living for himself, or heirs, Minds nothing but his own affairs: Whose word not unbelieving Jews, For more than Heav'n is worth, refuse: His credit sacred, east and west His bills negotiating best; Safe in whose hands were many a pound; Too good a man to run a-ground. O worthy, honest man! we cry; While bankrupt knaves in dungeons lie: So vile the rogue, who, scorning pelf, Lov'd others better than himself!

Thus oft th'inflexible, the just, The man that never broke his trust, Indebted to inhuman art, Or killing coldness in his heart; While base and mean the quick-of-sense, From glowings of benevolence.

Lorenzo, feelingly I speak Of failings where myself am weak; To whom adversity severe Hath sold experience much too dear: Hard hearted prudence far from me, And narrow-soul'd economy, To knave and fool too oft a prey, No match for either in his way, Till cheated, plunder'd, fill'd with shame, Lit on my luckless head the blame. How short, Lorenzo, plainly, hence, Of virtue is benevolence! To mere good nature, while you live, No more that pompous title give: The milk of kindness in a trice Yielding the luscious cream of vice.

The dryest eye, the hardest heart, May act as virtuous a part: When turn'd, as adders deaf, the ear From all that others feel or fear; Thence, vicious sloth, a whining cheat, Is forc'd to work before it eat; Misfortune, struggling in its thrall, Rises more glorious from its fall.

Should to the prodigal the friend, On whom his spendthrift hopes depend, When ask'd assistance or advice, Reply, with looks as cold as ice, With all the insolence of ease, "Nay, friend, for me do what you please." May this not teach the hand profuse Virtuous discretion's sov'reign use; And thus a coldness of the heart A good to too much warmth impart?

How much less vicious oft the mind, That ne'er, beneficent or kind, For others broke one moment's rest, Nor cheer'd with comfort the distress'd, Than he, whose open hand and heart Espouse the poor and needy's part, Plunging in unforeseen distress Hundreds, in striving one to bless.

Shortsighted, oft benevolence Proves a sad breach of innocence: To virtue requisite that first The virtuous mind be strictly just.

Passions, the springs of joy and strife, Are but the elements of life; And, as the streams from mountains flow, Smooth winding some through vales below, While others, raging as they come, Tear up their mother-mountain's womb; Or, pouring down the hills amain, Deluge, at once, the humble plain; So some of these are gently mild, While others, furious, bold and wild, Foaming o'er reason's rock-built mounds, Disdain the check of moral bounds. But see in pastures streams of use When art corrects the flood's abuse, When, their due channels taught to keep, In shallow brook or river deep, Smiling through dappled meads they go; And paint the flow'rs they cause to grow. Corrected thus, by reason's art, The bursts, or meltings, of the heart, In virtue's channels see them glide; Her flow'rs the blooming margin's pride.

Is the small spring thy fav'rite theme, That trickles forth a shallow stream, In murmurs soft, a purling rill? What wilt thou do to drive the mill? How wilt thou make to ride at large Thy timber, or thy loaded barge? As much as purling rills admir'd The navigable stream requir'd; The stream, whose turbulence abides The roaring of the swelling tides, Alike whose raging bosom swells, And back the threat'ning tide repels. The hero, thus, the hardy brave How needful half the world to save; Like Prussia's king, through seas of blood Wading, for threaten'd Europe's good!

Virtuously useful to mankind The strongest as the weakest mind, Thus, one no better than the other, The warmest heart's the cold one's brother: And neither this nor that, in fact, Are virtuous till as such they act.

Yet here, appearances believ'd, In virtuous actions oft deceiv'd, How plain in th'hypocritick face We read the characters of grace; And falsely to youth's giddy tribe Designing villainy ascribe; While time, and circumstance, and place, Our byass'd judgments here disgrace.

Is there a man, whose tender heart Takes in another's pains a part, Who clothes the naked, feeds the poor, And bribes the orphan to his door; So kind he cannot bear to see Another less at ease than he? Godlike benevolence! you cry; And praise his virtue to the sky. But were this virtuous mortal poor, Oblig'd to beg from door to door; Could he not eat the bread at rest, Torn by the law from the distress'd; Should his weak mind compunction feel, In honest ways of trade, to steal; Could not the softness of his heart Torture the horse, that draws the cart; Mangle the lamb before it die, Or draw its heart's blood through its eye: Who would not cry, "too proud to serve! "Work, idle wretch, or work or starve:" To Bridewell's lash the knave consign'd, For vicious tenderness of mind.

Is there who, worn with vice, begins To hide his multitude of sins, Leave of the wicked world doth take And hermit turns for virtue's sake; Or, anxious for the souls of men, Flies to the pulpit or the pen? Behold another Paul! we cry, A new apostle from on high!

Are there whom cares nor want exclude, At little cost, from doing good; In pious practices that spend Their fortune and their latter end; The sick who physick in distress; And make the trav'ler's burthen less? To these what virtue will refuse The praiseful, elegiack muse! But, say, doth tenderness of heart Teach the divine's or doctor's art? Too oft unletter'd preachers rave, And damn the souls they meant to save: Too oft, alas, the pious pill Of charity, like Ward's, doth kill: While lighten'd more the pedlar's pack To clothe our own than save his back.

"Whence then is virtue," dost thou cry? In truth and nature, I reply: Reason and passion both combin'd To form true virtue in the mind. Nor rests it there in mere design; To go where these may chance t' incline. 'Tis not sufficient to set out, Tho' meaning well, thy way in doubt; Needful experience here to use, That passion reason mayn't abuse; Cautious in virtue's route to go No farther than such route we know: Lest, when, through ign'rance lost our way, Passion to vice should wildly stray. 'Tis not enough to mean aright, Unless that meant effect's in sight: Too apt to wander from the mark, When blund'ring forward in the dark. A poor excuse to have it said The heart had put it in the head, When mischief done, instead of good, For want of being understood! To virtue pitiful our claim When, at a venture taking aim, More by good luck than sense or wit, The mark of moral good we hit! What virtue's in the madman's dream, Or fool's impracticable scheme? Whose, should they ev'n succeed, at best, Chance-medley morals are confess'd.

Knowledge, my friend, goes, hence 'tis plain, Foremost in virtue's splendid train; While reason and the passions, join'd, Walk closely, hand in hand, behind.

Is't said? "one mere good-natur'd deed "All worth in science doth exceed." On this weak maxim dost object We virtuous merit here neglect; Thus honest ign'rance to contemn; And inability condemn? Sayst thou "here no fore-knowledge given, Events are in the hands of Heaven; "And, therefore, virtuous those confess'd "From what they know who act the best." Lorenzo, no—unless 'tis shown That such no better might have known. 'Tis true, as individuals here Are plac'd in, each his, proper sphere, Their knowledge more or less compleat As genius and instruction meet, Man by no seraph's rapture fir'd, Virtue's, as knowledge giv'n, requir'd. But think not thou that bounteous Heav'n Hath barren understanding given; Hath talents lent which, unapplied, 'Tis virtuous in the earth to hide. No—with the pow'r of genius blest, Improvement's claim'd, as interest.

Is there who turns away his ear, Instruction's voice averse to hear, Most obstinately bent to plod Along the road his father trod, Old custom never to forsake; Nor use of eye or ear to make? Tho' right the wilful wretch we find, Is his a virtuous turn of mind? With God above, or man below, How is't deserving not to know?

Of virtue's merit, folly, hush: Nor put true wisdom to the blush, Remember virtue still depends Both on our motives and our ends. What merit is't we gladly do That which our hearts incline us to? Or what that reason doth submit To own the truth is right and fit? For say that by the heart or head Solely to virtue men were led. If by the heart, and that alone, What man e'er call'd his heart his own? Right oft by impulse forc'd to go, Whether his reason leads or no: Apparently against the will, As oft conducting him to ill. How meritorious, then, the best That love or pity warms the breast? For this, nor that, from vice can save; Or if they could—'tis God that gave.

Is it from caution, practis'd long, You seek the right and shun the wrong; By just experience understood How much your int'rest to be good? What merits here the clod of earth That nature smil'd upon its birth; And gave it reason's fost'ring aid To teach it virtue as its trade? Sayst thou "when head and heart we praise, "Doth this not virtue's merit raise? "The man of vicious acts asham'd—" May yet for spiritual pride be blam'd. "The elegantly just"—too nice Perhaps for vulgar scenes of vice. "The lowly-minded, kind and meek"— Mean, pitiful, perhaps, and weak. "The patriot, in his country's cause"— A gudgeon, greedy of applause. "The pious, that their God revere,"— Only, perhaps, of Hell in fear; Or, not by fears sufficient driven, Push'd forward by the hopes of Heaven. So little do we truly know The cause to which we virtue owe; To what bad principle or good Ev'n we ourselves have vice withstood: Nor can the best of mortals say From what has yet directed may; Or in a state he never knew Tell what his head and heart might do. Who then their moral worth shall prize? Shall ev'n the best the worst despise? Thin the partitions that divide Ev'n vice itself from virtue's pride; The virtuous boaster weak and proud; Like the tall ideot in the crowd, Who, stalking with exalted tread, Above his fellows rears his head: While from his more distinguish'd height The harm upon his pate doth light.

The pride of virtue hence depress'd, O learn to pity not detest: Ev'n looking with a brother's eye On wretches doom'd by law to die: To Heav'n that hath the diff'rence made 'Tween thee and them, the honour paid! The object more of pity, sure, The vicious mind no leech can cure, Than such whose mere corporeal part Diseas'd admits the doctor's art! Nay, if by virtue understood The act producing moral good, And moral good and evil known By sense of physical alone, The term of merit thrown aside, Abash'd at once is virtue's pride: Since such most virtuous we must call Who most promote the good of all. Here virtue see, in fortune's power, Dependent ev'ry day and hour! So little rests on good intent, So much alas, on accident! See to the publick good conduce Of wealth and state the simple use: Such pow'r of doing good a lot By birth, caprice, or favour got: A post of virtue oft the gain Of knavery; honest hearts disdain.

Proportional to ev'ry state Sayst thou its virtue we must rate; Those much to blame, tho' doing good, Who fail to do the must they could? Most needful, then, how far to know Our pow'rs of doing good may go: In ev'ry station, place and time, Neglectful ignorance a crime. For say, if e'er preferr'd to place, Should fortune take us into grace; Tho' kings should act the donor's part, They neither give a head or heart. 'Tis true a ribbon, star and garter May make a flutt'ring fop look smarter; SIR John sounds big and mighty pretty Among the plain Johns of the city; But George himself, of many a knight, Ne'er dubb'd one sordid cit polite. Clever indeed could royal grace Fit ev'ry placeman for his place! If being voted for with spirit Supplied our want of real merit, Conferr'd taste, judgment, observation, Adapted to th'appointed station! Title and pow'r give consequence, But ah! ne'er gave one jot of sense.

Knowledge, Lorenzo, hence confese'd Of moral principles the best, Well spent we hope our vacant days In studious search of wisdom's ways: On reason while our steps attend, Reason fair virtue's firmest friend! Hail sober guide! O teach my youth To woo thy lovelier sister truth; For whose embrace my vows I pay, In ardent sighs, throughout the day; Nor, when the longest day is o'er, Cease, by the midnight lamp, to pore O'er the dull tale, or tedious, page Of saint or, more laborious, sage: Happy if saint or sage could tell, Where I with her might ever dwell: With her for whom, and whom alone, My genius for the verse be knwon: For truth content to lose the bays; The poet's for her lover's praise.