When we see

The false Octavius, and wild Antony,

Godlike Brutus, conquer thee?

What can we say but thine own tragic word,
That virtue, which had worshipped been by thee
As the most solid good, and greatest deity,
By this fatal proof became

An idol only. and a name?
Hold, noble Brutus, and restrain
The bold voice of thy generous disdain:
These mighty gulfs are yet

Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit.
The time's set forth already which shall quell
Stiff reason, when it offers to rebel;

Which these great secrets shall unseal,
And new philosophies reveal.

A few years more, so soon hadst thou not died,
Would have confounded human virtue's pride,
And shew'd thee a God crucified.

6.

[From Verses written on Several Occasions.]

STANZAS FROM THE HYMN TO LIGHT.'

Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey;

And all the year dost with thee bring

Of thousand flow'ry lights thine own nocturnal spring.
Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above
The sun's gilt tent for ever move,
And still as thou in pomp dost go

The shining pageants of the world attend thy show.
Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn
The humble glow-worms to adorn,

And with those living spangles gild

(O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field.

Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright,

And sleep, the lazy owl of night;

Ashamed and fearful to appear

They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere.

With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm,
Of painted dreams a busy swarm,

At the first opening of thine eye,

The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly.

The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts,
Creep conscious to their secret rests:
Nature to thee does reverence pay,

Ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way.

At thy appearance, grief itself is said

To shake his wings, and rouse his head,
And cloudy care has often took

A gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look.

At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold;
Thy sunshine melts away his cold.
Encourag'd at the sight of thee,

To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head
Out of the morning's purple bed,

Thy quire of birds about thee play,

And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

All the world's bravery that delights our eyes
Is but thy sev'ral liveries,

Thou the rich dye on them bestowest,

Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou goest.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st;
A crown of studded gold thou bear'st,

The virgin lilies in their white,

Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light!

FROM THE 'ODE TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY.'

From words, which are but pictures of the thought,
(Though we our thoughts from them perversely drew)
To things, the mind's right object, he1 it brought.
Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew;
He sought and gather'd for our use the true;
And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay,
He prest them wisely the mechanic way,
Till all their juice did in one vessel join,
Ferment into a nourishment divine,

The thirsty soul's refreshing wine.

Who to the life an exact piece would make,
Must not from others' work a copy take;
No, not from Rubens or Vandyke ;

Much less content himself to make it like
Th' ideas and the images which lie
In his own fancy, or his memory.

No, he before his sight must place
The natural and living face;

The real object must command

Each judgment of his eye, and motion of his hand.

From these and all long errors of the way,
In which our wandering predecessors went,
And like th' old Hebrews many years did stray
In deserts but of small extent,

Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last.

The barren wilderness he past,

Did on the very border stand

Of the blest promis'd land,

And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit,
Saw it himself, and shew'd us it.

But life did never to one man allow

Time to discover worlds, and conquer too;

Nor can so short a line sufficient be

To fathom the vast depths of nature's sea:

1 Lord Bacon.

The work he did we ought t' admire,
And were unjust if we should more require
From his few years, divided 'twixt th' excess
Of low affliction and high happiness.
For who on things remote can fix his sight,
That's always in a triumph, or a fight?

7.

[From the Discourses by Way of Essays.]

ON SOLITUDE.

Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail ye plebeian underwood!

Where the poetic birds rejoice,

And for their quiet nests and plenteous food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor muse's richest manor seat!
Ye country houses and retreat,

Which all the happy gods so love,

That for you oft they quit their bright and great
Metropolis above.

Here nature does a house for me erect,
Nature the wisest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise
That can the fair and living trees neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying

With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
Nor be myself too mute.

A silver stream shall roll his waters near,
Gilt with the sunbeams here and there,
On whose enamel'd bank I'll walk,
And see how prettily they smile, and hear
How prettily they talk.

Ah wretched, and too solitary he

Who loves not his own company!

He'll feel the weight of 't many a day Unless he call in sin or vanity

To help to bear 't away.

O Solitude, first state of human-kind!
Which blest remain'd till man did find
Even his own helper's company.

As soon as two (alas !) together join'd,
The serpent made up three.

The god himself, through countless ages thce
His sole companion chose to be,

Thee, sacred Solitude alone,

Before the branchy head of number's tree
Sprang from the trunk of one.

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part)
Dost break and tame th' unruly heart,
Which else would know no settled pace,
Making it more well manag'd by thy art
With swiftness and with grace.

Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light,
Dost like a burning-glass unite,

Dost multiply the feeble heat,

And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright
And noble fires beget.

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see
The monster London laugh at me,

I should at thee too, foolish city,

If it were fit to laugh at misery,
But thy estate I pity.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And all the fools that crowd thee so,
Even thou who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,

A solitude almost.