David Cody. Associate Professor of English, Hartwick College
The Essay on Man is a philosophical poem, written, characteristically, in heroic couplets. and published between 1732 and 1734. Pope intended it as the centerpiece of a proposed system of ethics to be put forth in poetic form: it is in fact a fragment of a larger work which Pope planned but did not live to complete. It is an attempt to justify, as Milton had attempted to vindicate, the ways of God to Man, and a warning that man himself is not, as, in his pride, he seems to believe, the center of all things. Though not explicitly Christian, the Essay makes the implicit assumption that man is fallen and unregenerate, and that he must seek his own salvation.
The “Essay” consists of four epistles, addressed to Lord Bolingbroke, and derived, to some extent, from some of Bolingbroke’s own fragmentary philosophical writings, as well as from ideas expressed by the deistic third Earl of Shaftsbury. Pope sets out to demonstrate that no matter how imperfect, complex, inscrutable, and disturbingly full of evil the Universe may appear to be, it does function in a rational fashion, according to natural laws; and is, in fact, considered as a whole, a perfect work of God. It appears imperfect to us only because our perceptions are limited by our feeble moral and intellectual capacity. His conclusion is that we must learn to accept our position in the Great Chain of Being — a “middle state,” below that of the angels but above that of the beasts — in which we can, at least potentially, lead happy and virtuous lives.
Epistle I concerns itself with the nature of man and with his place in the universe; Epistle II, with man as an individual; Epistle III, with man in relation to human society, to the political and social hierarchies; and Epistle IV, with man’s pursuit of happiness in this world. An Essay on Man was a controversial work in Pope’s day, praised by some and criticized by others, primarily because it appeared to contemporary critics that its emphasis, in spite of its themes, was primarily poetic and not, strictly speaking, philosophical in any really coherent sense: Dr. Johnson. never one to mince words, and possessed, in any case, of views upon the subject which differed materially from those which Pope had set forth, noted dryly (in what is surely one of the most back-handed literary compliments of all time) that “Never were penury of knowledge and vulgarity of sentiment so happily disguised.” It is a subtler work, however, than perhaps Johnson realized: G. Wilson Knight has made the perceptive comment that the poem is not a “static scheme” but a “living organism,” (like Twickenham ) and that it must be understood as such.
Considered as a whole, the Essay on Man is an affirmative poem of faith: life seems chaotic and patternless to man when he is in the midst of it, but is in fact a coherent portion of a divinely ordered plan. In Pope’s world God exists, and he is benificent: his universe is an ordered place. The limited intellect of man can perceive only a tiny portion of this order, and can experience only partial truths, and hence must rely on hope, which leads to faith. Man must be cognizant of his rather insignificant position in the grand scheme of things: those things which he covets most — riches, power, fame — prove to be worthless in the greater context of which he is only dimly aware. In his place, it is man’s duty to strive to be good, even if he is doomed, because of his inherent frailty, to fail in his attempt. Do you find Pope’s argument convincing? In what ways can we relate the Essay on Man to works like Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Johnson’s “The Vanity of Human Wishes” (text ), Tennyson’s In Memoriam and Eliot’s The Wasteland ?
Incorporated in the Victorian Web July 2000
Pope wrote his “Essay on Man” in rhyming verse. Certainly today, we think anybody that writes “poetry” is one who is a bit odd, to say the least. Back in the eighteenth century, it was not so strange. Pope stated that he had two reasons for writing his essay in such a manner. First, he thought that “principles, maxims, or precepts so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards.” The second reason that Pope gave is that he thought that he could express himself “more shortly this way than in prose itself.”
My copy of Pope’s “Essay on Man” runs approximately 30 pages, 30 pages of a smaller poetry book. It is broken down into four epistles.1
I here make comments about the expressions and thoughts of Pope in his essay. I have quoted at length from his essay. Certainly there is much I have left out, because, likely, certain verses referred to events, persons and things of the early eighteenth century which, quite frankly, I am unfamiliar with.
Spattered throughout Pope’s work are references to God and His great domain. Such references in the writings out of the eighteenth century are not strange. The livelihood of writers, by and large — as was with the case of all artists back then — depended almost entirely on the generosity of church and state, so it was necessary in those days that writers give due regard to religious authority. Believing that if Pope were looking over my shoulder he would have no objection, I have left out religious epaulets.
Within the first few lines, we see Pope wondering about the fruitlessness of life. We have no choice: we come to it, look out and then die. What we see as we look out on “the scene of man” is a “mighty maze!” But Pope does not think this complex of existence is “without a plan.” Man might sort through the maze because he has a marvelous mental faculty, that of reason; man can determine the nature of the world in which he lives; he can see that all things have bearings, ties and strong connections and “nice dependencies.” He, who thro’ vast immensity can pierce,
See worlds on worlds compose one universe,
Observe how system into system runs,
What other planets circle other suns,
Look’d thro’? or can a part contain the whole?
Is the great chain that draws all to agree, –
And, drawn, supports – upheld by God or thee?
In his next stanza, Pope makes reference to presumptuous man! Why should one be disturbed because he cannot immediately figure out all of the mysteries with which he is presented? It cannot be expected that one part of existence (man) should understand all the other parts, he then continues: As of thy mother Earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade.
And all that rises, rise in due degree;
Then, in the sale of reas’ning life, ‘tis plain
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man.
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
Is now a victim, and now Egypt’s god, –
Then say not Man’s imperfect, Heav’n in fault, –
Say rather Man’s as perfect as he ought:
His knowledge measur’d to his state and place,
His time a moment, and a point his space.
Pope continues with this theme into his third stanza, in saying “Heav’n from all creatures hides the book of fate,” and continues: The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas’d to the last he crops the flow’ry food,
And licks the hand just rais’d to shed his blood.
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Then giving way to his religious bent, makes reference to the “great teacher Death” and continues with his most famous lines: Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rest and expatiates in a life to come.
Next, Pope deals with native people of the uncivilized territories of the world, and how they do not get hung up on such large questions as are expressed in Pope’s essay: Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv’n,
Behind the cloud-topp’d hill, a humbler heav’n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac’d,
Some happier island in the wat’ry waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold!
To be, contents his natural desire;
He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire:
But things, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Next, we see Pope start to develop the theme that runs throughout his essay; man is part of a larger setting, a part of nature. Man depends on nature for his very substance, and yet, treats her roughly. Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, if Man’s unhappy, God’s unjust;
Ask for what end the heav’nly bodies shine,
Earth for whose use, Pride answers, “‘Tis for mine!
“For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow’r,
“Suckles each herb and spreads out ev’ry flow’r;
Pope asserts that man is ruled from within, by his reason and by his passion. Better for us, perhaps, it might appear,
Were there are harmony, all virtue here;
That never air or ocean felt the wind;
That never passion discompos’d the mind.
But all subsists by elemental strife;
And passions are the elements of life.
The gen’ral Order since the whole began
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.
Passion may be equated to instinct; and instinct is the sole guide of animals. Instinct is all that animals need as evolution has fitted each animal to his home environment, unlike man who is in want of “the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.” Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force:
All in exact proportion to the state;
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate.
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own:
Is Heav’n unkind to Man, and Man alone?
Shall he alone, whom rational we call,
Be pleas’d with nothing, if not bless’d with all?
Again, Pope emphasizes how nature “all good and wise. and what it gives, and what denies” has perfected itself and many of its creations: The spider’s tough how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois’nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
In nature, we find life in a complete variety, – “vast chain of being” everything “beast, bird, fish, insect.” Or in the full creation leave a void,
Where, one step broken, the great scale’s destroy’d:
From Nature’s chain whatever link you strike,
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
The point, I think, is that there is a fearful balance of nature in all its variety, and we dare not destroy one aspect of nature for fear of destroying the whole. All this dread order break – for whom? for thee?
Vile worm! – oh madness! pride! impiety!
In the last line of Pope’s first epistle, he bangs home the importance of the “ruling mind” of nature, that while some parts might seem to us to be absurd, it is part of the “general frame” that all of nature, including ourselves, are but “parts of one stupendous whole.” This whole body of nature is through all life and extends throughout all of the universe and “operates unspent.” Pope concludes his first epistle: Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow’r,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see
All discord, harmony not understood,
All partial evil, universal good:
And, spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite,
One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.
Pope opens his second Epistle much the same as he opened his first. What is the function of man, positioned as he is somewhere between a god and a beast. Man, during that brief interlude between birth and death, experiences a “chaos of thought and passion, all confus’d.” He finds on earth the “Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all.” Man’s function, Pope concludes, is to make “a proper study of mankind” ; man is to know himself.
What man will come to know is that he is ruled by passion; passion is the ruler and reason it’s counsellor. Alas what wonder! Man’s superior part
Uncheck’d may rise and climb from art to art;
But when his own great work is but begun,
What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
It is in the nature of man to first serve himself; but, on account of reason, to do so with the long range in view. Two Principles in human nature reign;
Self-love, to urge, and Reason, to restrain;
Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh;
Reason’s at distance, and in prospect lie:
A person is driven by passion, driven by his desire for pleasure; temptation is strong and passion is “thicker than arguments.” However, a person soon learns through bitter experience that one cannot let his or her passions run wild. Attention, habit and experience gains;
Each strengthens Reason, and Self-love restrains.
Self-love and Reason to one end aspire,
Pain their aversion, Pleasure their desire,
Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood,
Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
Passions, tho’ selfish, if their means be fair,
List under reason, and deserve her care
On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale;2
Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure’s smiling train,
Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain,
These mix’d with art, and to due bounds confin’d,
Make and maintain the balance of the mind:
Pope’s theme is again repeated: the two driving forces of man are his reason and his passion. However, passion is the king and reason but a “weak queen.” What can she more than tell us we are fools?
Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend.
A sharp accuser but a helpless friend!
Reason (“th’ Eternal Art, educing good from ill”) is not a guide but a guard. Passion is the “mightier pow’r.” Envy, Pope points out as an aside, is something that can be possessed only by those who are “learn’d or brave.” Ambition: “can destroy or save, and makes a patriot as it makes a knave.”
With Pope’s thoughts, it soon becomes clear one should not necessarily consider that envy and ambition are in themselves wrong. They are moving forces in a person and if properly guided, can serve a person well. As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade
And oft so mix, the diff’rence is too nice,
Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice.
And virtuous and vicious ev’ry man must be,
Few in the extreme, but all in the degree;
Each person is driven by self-love, but on the same occasion “each on the other to depend, a master, or a servant, or a friend, bids each on other for assistance call.” Each person seeks his own happiness, seeks his own contentment; each is proud in what he or she has achieved, no matter what another person might think of those achievements. Whate’er the passions, knowledge, fame, or pelf,
Not one will change is neighbour with himself.
The learn’d is happy nature to explore,
The fool is happy that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty given,
The poor contents him with the care of Heaven,
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing
The sot a hero, lunatic a king;
The starving chemist in his golden views
Supremely bless’d, the poet in his Muse.
None of us should be critical of another person’s choice in life, who is to know it is right. Behold the child, by nature’s kindly law,
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw:
Some livelier plaything give his youth delight,
A little louder, but as empty quite:
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age:
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before,
Till tired he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er.
Pope returns, in his third Epistle, to his ever present theme, all is natural in nature and man is a part of nature. He first observes how “plastic” nature is, how everything is dependant on one and the other, is attracted to one and the other, down even to “single atoms.” Everything “it’s neighbour to embrace.” (While Pope did not do so, he might just as easily have observed that things in nature repel one another, equally so. All things, in the final analysis, are held in the balance, suspended, so it seems, between the two great forces of attraction and repulsion.) All forms that perish other forms supply,
(By turns we catch the vital breath, and die)
Like bubbles on the sea a matter borne,
They rise, they break, and to that sea return
Nothing is foreign; parts relate to whole:
Then, Pope picks up once again his theme of the ruling principles, reason and passion. Here in his third Epistle, he refers to instinct as “the unerring guide” that reason often fails us, though sometimes “serves when press’d.” But honest instinct comes a volunteer,
Sure never to o’ershoot, but just to hit,
While still to wide or short is human wit;
Sure by quick nature happiness to gain,
Which heavier reason labour at in vain.
Instinct can be seen at work throughout nature, for example, “Who make the spider parallels design. without rule or line?” Not just the spider does things by instinct, man does. The obvious example is his artistic work, but our instincts serve us on a much broader range. Think! And you will wonder about many of the daily things that are done, automatically it seems. What, exactly, is it that prompts us to do things. Who calls the council, states the certain day,
Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way?
Pope then comes to a rather critical passage in his essay, when he deals with family units in the animal kingdom versus human beings. The fact of the matter is, family units do not count for much in the animal kingdom, at any rate, not for long. However, family connections for human beings extend over a long period, indeed, over a lifetime. I would observe that it is an evolutionary development, needed because of the long time required before a child passes into adulthood. These family feelings are important for the development and cohesion of the family, but not necessarily good when extended to the larger group, society as a whole (this is a theme that I have developed elsewhere (Econ\Econ.doc) and which someday I hope to put up on the ‘net.). Thus beast and bird their common charge attend,
The mothers nurse it, and the sires defend:
The young dismiss’d to wander earth or air,
There stops the instinct, and there ends the care;
The link dissolves, each seeks a fresh embrace,
Another love succeeds, another race.
A longer care man’s helpless kind demands;
That longer care contracts more lasting bands:
Reflection, reason, still the ties improve,
At one extend the interest, and the love;
With choice we fix, with sympathy we burn;
Each virtue in each passion takes its turn;
And still new needs, new helps, new habits rise
That graft benevolence on charities.
Still as one brood, and as another rose,
These natural love maintain’d, habitual those:
The last, scarce ripen’d into perfect man,
Saw helpless from him whom their life began:
Memory and forecast just returns engage;
That pointed back to youth, this on to age;
While pleasure, gratitude, and hope, combined,
Still spread the interest, and preserved the kind.
Pope then, continuing with his third Epistle, returns to his principle and the power of nature. Nature is a “driving gale,” a fact which can be observed in “the voice of nature” and which we can learn from the birds and the beasts. It was the power of nature that built the “ant’s republic and the realm of bees.” Pope observes “anarchy without confusion.” Their separate cells and properties maintain.
Mark what unvaried laws preserve each state;-
Laws wise as nature, and as fix’d as fate.
In vain thy reason finer webs shall draw;
Entangle justice in her net of law;
And right, too rigid, harden into wrong,
Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong.
Yet go! and thus o’er all the creatures sway;
Thus let the wiser make the rest obey;
And for those arts mere instinct could afford,
Be crown’d as monarchs, or as gods adored.
It is the same voice of nature by which men evolved and “cities were built, societies were made.” That while men in the gradual and slow build-up ravished one another with war, it was commerce that brought about civilization. Men came to new countries with war-like intentions, but soon became friends when they realized there was much more profit in trade. When love was liberty, and nature law:
Thus states were form’d; the name of king unknown,
Till common interest placed the sway in one
‘Twas Virtue only, or in arts or arms,
So, it was trade that built civilizations, and Pope observes, that it was tradition that preserves them. Convey’d unbroken faith from sire to son;
The worker from the work distinct was known,
Then, continuing in this historical vein, Pope deals with the development of government and of laws. So drives self-love, through just and through unjust
To one man’s power, ambition, lucre, lust:
The same self-love, in all, becomes the cause
Of what restrains him, government and laws:
For, what one likes if others like as well,
What serves one will, when many wills rebel?
How shall we keep, what, sleeping or awake,
A weaker may surprise, a stronger take?
His safety must his liberty restrain:
All join to guard what each desires to gain.
Forced into virtue thus by self-defence,
Ev’n kings learn’d justice and benevolence:
Self-love forsook the path it first pursued,
And found the private in the public good.
‘Twas then, the studious head or generous mind,
Follower of God or friend of human-kind,
Poet or patriot, rose but to restore
The faith and moral Nature gave before;
Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new;
If not God’s image, yet his shadow drew;
Taught power’s due use to people and to kings;
Taught not to slack nor strain its tender strings;
The less or greater set so justly true,
That touching one must strike the other too;
Till jarring int’rests of themselves create
Th’ according music of a well-mix’d state.
Such is the world’s great harmony, that springs
From order, union, full consent of things:
Where small and great, where weak and mighty made
To serve, not suffer, strengthen, not invade;
More pow’rful each as needful to the rest,
And in proportion as it blesses, blest;
Draw to one point, and to one centre bring
Beast, man, or angel, servant, lord, or king.
Pope makes a side observation that while government is necessary, its form is of less importance, what is important, is a good administration: For forms of government let fools contest;
Whate’er is best administer’d is best:
Pope then concludes in his third Epistle, emphasizing that regard for oneself and his family has to be different than regard for the whole of society, that nature “link’d the gen’ral frame and bade self-love and social be the same.”
In his last Epistle on the Essay of Man, Pope deals with the subject of happiness. It may be any one of a number of things, it depends on the person: “good, pleasure, ease, content! whatever thy name.” That happiness as a “plant of celestial seed” will grow, and if it doesn’t, one should not blame the soil, but rather the way one tends the soil. Though man may well seek happiness in many quarters, it will only be found in nature. Man should avoid extremes. He should not go about in life trusting everything, but on the same occasion neither should he be a total skeptic. Take Nature’s path, and made Opinion’s leave;
All states can reach it and all heads conceive;
Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell;
There needs but thinking right, and meaning well;
And mourn our various portions as we please,
Equal is common sense, and common ease.
To Pope, pleasure does not last, it “sicken, and all glories sink.” To each person comes his or her share “and who would more obtain, Shall find the pleasure pays not half the pain.” To be rich, to be wise: these are both laudable goals and a person looking about will always be able to find others who have riches and wisdom in varying degrees, but it cannot be concluded to any degree that they are happy. Happiness comes when one has “health, peace, and competence.” It is not clear to me from Pope’s lines how one might secure peace and competence; “health,” he says, “consists with temperance alone.”
It is in the nature of man to attempt to change things; he is never happy with things as he finds them; never happy with his fellow man; never happy with the world about him. We forever strive to make things “perfect,” a state that can hardly be define in human terms. Those that reflect on man’s condition will soon have Utopian dreams. But still this world, so fitted for the knave,
Contents us not. A better shall we have?
A kingdom of the just then let it be:
But first consider how those just agree.
The good must merit God’s peculiar care;
But who but God can tell us who they are?
It all too often appears to us that “virtue starves, while vice is fed.” One might wish for man to be a God and for earth to be a heaven, both God and heaven coming from the imaginations of man. But, Pope concludes: ‘Whatever is, is right.’ — This world, ‘tis true. Of fame, Pope says, it is but “a fancied life in others’ breath. All that we feel of it begins and ends in the small circle of our foes and friends. ” It will get you nothing but a crowd “of stupid starers and of loud huzzas.” Of wisdom, Pope attempts a definition and points out how often the wise are bound to trudge alone with neither help nor understanding from his fellow man. In parts superior what advantage lies!
Tell, for you can, what is it to be wise?
‘Tis but to know how little can be known ;
To see all others’ faults, and feel our own:
Condem’d in business or in arts to drudge,
Without a second, or without a judge:
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
And so we arrive at the last of Pope’s lines. Show’d erring Pride, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT;
That Reason, Passion, answer one great aim;
That true Self-love and Social are the same.
1 The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope which includes Dr. Johnson’s 65 page biography on Pope, Essay on Man (31 pp.); Essay on Criticism (17 pp.), Rape of the Lock (19 pp.), The Dunciad (31 pp.). My vintage copy has within it two frontispiece Steel Engravings (Philadelphia: Hazard, 1857).
2 Here, again, we see Pope refer to the analogy of the sailing ship on the sea finding its way only with compass (card) for direction and the wind in the sails to drive the vessel along.
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Essay on Man
Of the Nature and State of Man, With Respect to Himself as an Individual
I. The business of Man not to pry into God, but to study himself. His middle nature; his powers and frailties. The limits of his capacity. II. The two principles of Man: Self-love and Reason, both necessary. Self-love the stronger, and why. Their end the same. III. The Passions, and their use. The predominant passion, and its force. Its necessity, in directing men to different purposes. Its providential use, in fixing our principle, and ascertaining our virtue. IV. Virtue and Vice joined in our mixed nature; the limits near, yet the things separate, and evident: what is the office of Reason. V. How odious Vice in itself, and how we deceive ourselves into it. VI. That, however, the ends of Providence, and general goods, are answered in our passions and imperfections. How usefully these are distributed to all orders of men: how useful they are to Society; and to individuals; in every state, and every age of life.
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is Man. Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic’s pride, He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas’ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little or too much; Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall: Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl’d; The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
Go, wondrous creature! mount where Science guides; Go measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, Correct old Time, and regulate the sun; Go, soar with Plato to th’empyreal sphere, To the first good, first perfect, and first fair; Or tread the mazy round his followers trod, And quitting sense call imitating God; As eastern priests in giddy circles run, And turn their heads to imitate the sun. Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule– Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!
Superior beings, when of late they saw A mortal man unfold all Nature’s law, Admired such wisdom in a earthly shape, And show’d a NEWTON as we show an ape. Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind, Describe or fix one movement of his mind? Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, Explain his own beginning or his end? Alas! what wonder! Man’s superior part Uncheck’d may rise, and climb from art to art; But when his own great work is but begun, What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
Trace Science then, with modesty thy guide; First stip off all her equipage of pride; Deduct what is but vanity or dress, Or learning’s luxury, or idleness, Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain, Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain; Expunge the whole, or lop th’excrescent parts; Of all our vices we have created arts; Then see how little the remaining sum, Which serv’d the past, and must the times to come!
Two principles in Human Nature reign, Self-love to urge and Reason to restrain; Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call; Each works its end, to move or govern all: And to their proper operation still Ascribe all good, to their improper, ill.
Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul; Reason’s comparing balance rules the whole. Man but for that no action could attend, And but for this were active to no end: Fix’d like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot; Or meteor-like, flame lawless thro’ the void, Destroying others, by himself destroy’d.
Most strength the moving principle requires; Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires: Sedate and quiet the comparing lies, Formed but to check, delib’rate, and advise. Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh; Reason’s at distance and in prospect lie: That sees immediate good by present sense; Reason, the future and the consequence. Thicker than arguments, temptations throng; At best more watchful this, but that more strong. The action of the stronger to suspend, Reason still use, to Reason still attend. Attention habit and experience gains; Each strengthens Reason, and Self-love restrains. Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, More studious to divide than to unite; And Grace and Virtue, Sense and Reason split, With all the rash dexterity of Wit. Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. Self-love and Reason to one end aspire, Pain their aversion, Pleasure their desire; But greedy that, its object would devour; This taste the honey, and not wound the flower: Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil or our greatest good.
Modes of Self-love the passions we may call; ‘Tis real good or seeming moves them all: But since not every good we can divide, And Reason bids us for our own provide, Passions, tho’ selfish, if their means be fair, List under Reason, and deserve her care; Those that imparted court a nobler aim, Exalt their kind, and take some virtue’s name.
In lazy apathy let Stoics boast Their virtue fix’d; ‘tis fix’d as in a frost; Contracted all, retiring to the breast; But strength of mind is Exercise, not Rest: The rising tempest puts in act the soul, Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but Passion is the gale; Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.
Passions, like elements, tho’ born to fight, Yet, mix’d and soften’d, in his work unite: These ‘tis enough to temper and employ; But what composes man can man destroy? Suffice that Reason keep to Nature’s road; Subject, compound them, follow her and God. Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure’s smiling train, Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain, These mix’d with art, and to due bounds confin’d, Make and maintain the balance of the mind; The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife Gives all the strength and colour of our life.
Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes, And when in act they cease, in prospect rise: Present to grasp, and future still to find, The whole employ of body and of mind. All spread their charms, but charm not alike; On diff’rent senses diff’rent objects strike; Hence diff’rent passions more or less inflame, As strong or weak the organs of the frame; And hence one Master-passion in the breast, Like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest.
As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath, Receives the lurking principle of death, The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength: So, cast and mingled with his very frame, The mind’s disease, its Ruling Passion, came; Each vital humour, which should feed the whole, Soon flows to this in body and in soul; Whatever warms the heart or fills the head, As the mind opens and its functions spread, Imagination plies her dangerous art, And pours it all upon the peccant part.
Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse; Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse; Reason itself but gives it edge and power, As Heav’n’s bless’d beam turns vinegar more sour.
We, wretched subjects, tho’ to lawful sway, In this weak queen some fav’rite still obey: Ah! if she lend not arms as well as rules, What can she more than tell us we are fools? Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend, A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend! Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade The choice we make, or justify it made; Proud of an easy conquest all along, She but removes weak passions for the strong: So when small humours gather to a gout, The doctor fancies he has driv’n them out.
Yes, Nature’s road must ever be preferr’d; Reason is here no guide, but still a guard; ‘Tis hers to rectify, not overthrow, And treat this passion more as friend than foe: A mightier Power the strong direction sends, And sev’ral men impels to sev’ral ends: Like varying winds, by other passions toss’d, This drives them constant to a certain coast. Let Power or Knowledge, Gold or Glory, please, Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease; Thro’ life ‘tis follow’d, ev’n at life’s expense; The merchant’s toil, the sage’s indolence, The monk’s humility, the hero’s pride, All, all alike, find Reason on their side. Th’ Eternal Art educing good from ill, Grafts on this passion our best principle: ‘Tis thus the mercury of man is fix’d, Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix’d; The dross cements what else were too refin’d, And in one int’rest body acts with mind.
As fruits ungrateful to the planter’s care, On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear, The surest Virtues thus from Passions shoot, Wild Nature’s vigour working at the root. What crops of wit and honesty appear From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear! See anger, zeal, and fortitude supply; Ev’n av’rice prudence, sloth philosophy; Lust, thro’ some certain strainers well refin’d, Is gentle love, and charms all womankind; Envy, to which th’ignoble mind’s a slave, Is emulation in the learn’d or brave; Nor virtue male or female can we name, But what will grow on pride or grow on shame.
Thus Nature gives us (let it check our pride) The Virtue nearest to our Vice allied: Reason the bias turns to good from ill, And Nero reigns a Titus if he will. The fiery soul abhorr’d in Catiline, In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine: The same ambition can destroy or save, And makes a patriot as it makes a knave.
This light and darkness in our chaos join’d, What shall divide?–the God within the mind.
Extremes in Nature equal ends produce; In Man they join to some mysterious use; Tho’ each by turns the other’s bounds invade, As in some well-wrought picture light and shade; And oft so mix, the diff’rence is too nice Where ends the Virtue or begins the Vice.
Fools! who from hence into the notion fall That Vice or Virtue there is none at all. If white and black blend, soften, and unite A thousand ways, is there no black or white? Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain: ‘Tis to mistake them costs the time and pain.
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. But where th’extreme of Vice was ne’er agreed: Ask where’s the north?–at York ‘tis on the Tweed; In Scotland at the Orcades; and there At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where. No creature owns it in the first degree, But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he; E’vn those who dwell beneath its very zone, Or never feel the rage or never own; What happier natures shrink at with affright, The hard inhabitant contends is right.
Virtuous and vicious ev’ry man must be, Few in th’extreme, but all in the degree: The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise, And ev’n the best by fits what they despise. ‘Tis but by parts we follow good or ill; For Vice or Virtue, Self directs it still; Each individual seeks a sev’ral goal; But Heav’n’s great view is one, that that the Whole. That counterworks each folly and caprice; That disappoints th’effect of every vice; That, happy frailties to all ranks applied, Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, To kings presumption, and to crowds belief: That, virtue’s ends from vanity can raise, Which seeks no int’rest, no reward but praise; And builds on wants, and on defects of mind, The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind.
Heav’n forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, Till one man’s weakness grows the strength of all. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common, int’rest, or endear the tie. To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here; Yet from the same we learn, in its decline, Those joys, those love, those int’rests to resign; Taught, half by Reason, half by mere decay, To welcome Death, and calmly pass away.
Whate’er the passion–knowledge, fame or pelf– Not one will change his neighbour with himself. The learn’d is happy Nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more; The rich is happy in the plenty giv’n, The poor contents him with the care of Heav’n. See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic a king, The starving chymist in his golden views Supremely bless’d, the poet in his Muse.
See some strange comfort ev’ry state attend, And Pride bestow’d on all, a common friend: See some fit passion every age supply; Hope travels thro’, nor quits us when we die.
Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law, Pleas’d with a rattle, tickled with a straw: Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite: Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper state, And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age: Pleas’d with this bauble still, as that before, Till tired he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er.
Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays Those painted clouds that beautify our days; Each want of happiness by Hope supplied, And each vacuity of sense by Pride: These build as fast as Knowledge can destroy; In Folly’s cup still laughs the bubble joy; One prospect lost, another still we gain, And not a vanity is giv’n in vain: Ev’n mean Self-love becomes, by force divine, The scale to measure other’s wants by thine. See! and confess one comfort still must rise; ‘Tis this, Though Man’s a fool, yet God is wise.