Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, Was very young, although so very sage, Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, Especially upon a printed page.
But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, Has not the natural stays of strict old age;
And Socrates, that model of all duty, Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.
And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, But innocently so, as Socrates;
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic At seventy years had phantasies like these, Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic Has shown, I know not why they should displease In virgins- always in a modest way, Observe; for that with me 's a 'sine qua.'
Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke (See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd Opinions two, which at first sight may look Twin opposites, the second is the best.
Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, Or none at all- which seems a sorry jest:
But if a writer should be quite consistent, How could he possibly show things existent?
If people contradict themselves, can Help contradicting them, and every body, Even my veracious self?- But that 's a lie:
I never did so, never will- how should I?
He who doubts all things nothing can deny:
Truth's fountains may be clear- her streams are muddy, And cut through such canals of contradiction, That she must often navigate o'er fiction.
Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, Are false, but may he render'd also true, By those who sow them in a land that 's arable.
'T is wonderful what fable will not do!
'T is said it makes reality more bearable:
But what 's reality? Who has its clue?
Philosophy? No: she too much rejects.
Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?
Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear;
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
God help us! Since we have need on our career To keep our holy beacons always bright, 'T is time that some new prophet should appear, Or old indulge man with a second sight.
Opinions wear out in some thousand years, Without a small refreshment from the spheres.
But here again, why will I thus entangle Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle;
And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, I always knock my head against some angle About the present, past, or future state.
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.
But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon on a lunatic commission-In politics my duty is to show John Bull something of the lower world's condition.
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.
But politics, and policy, and piety, Are topics which I sometimes introduce, Not only for the sake of their variety, But as subservient to a moral use;
Because my business is to dress society, And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.
And now I will give up all argument;
And positively henceforth no temptation Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'-Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation.
Indeed, I never knew what people meant By deeming that my Muse's conversation Was dangerous;- I think she is as harmless As some who labour more and yet may charm less.
Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?
No; but you have heard- I understand- be dumb!
And don't regret the time you may have lost, For you have got that pleasure still to come:
And do not think I mean to sneer at most Of these things, or by ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:-For certain reasons my belief is serious.
Serious? You laugh;- you may: that will I not;
My smiles must be sincere or not at all.
I say I do believe a haunted spot Exists- and where? That shall I not recall, Because I 'd rather it should be forgot, 'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal.
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.
The night (I sing by night- sometimes an owl, And now and then a nightingale) is dim, And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl-I wish to heaven they would not look so grim;
The dying embers dwindle in the grate-I think too that I have sate up too late:
And therefore, though 't is by no means my way To rhyme at noon- when I have other things To think of, if I ever think- I say I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, And prudently postpone, until mid-day, Treating a topic which, alas! but brings Shadows;- but you must be in my condition Before you learn to call this superstition.
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.
