Young, The Complaint (Night-Thoughts) 2 （英語 2）

Edward Young
The Complaint
Night the Second
On Time, Death, Friendship

To the Right Honorable the Earl of Wilmington

(II)

 But here, Lorenzo, the delusion lies;
That solar shadow, as it measures life,
It life resembles too: Life speeds away
From point to point, tho' seeming to stand still.
The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth:
Too subtle is the movement to be seen;
Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone.
Warnings point out our danger; Gnomons, time:
As these are useless when the sun is set;
So those, but when more glorious reason shines.
Reason should judge in all; in reason's eye,
That sedentary shadow travels hard.
But such our gravitation to the wrong,
So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish,
'Tis later with the wise, than he's aware;
A Wilmington goes flower than the Sun:
And all mankind mistake their time of day;
Ev'n age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown
In furrow'd brows. So gentle life's descent,
We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain,
We take fair days in winter, for the Spring;
And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft
Man must compute that age He cannot feel,
He scarce believes he's older for his years.
Thus, as life's latest eve, we keep in store
One disappointment sure, to crown the rest;
The disappointment of a promis'd hour.
On this, or similar, Philander! Thou
Whose mind was moral, as the Preacher's tongue;
And strong, to weild all science, worth the name;
How often we talk'd down the Summer's Sun,
And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream!
How often thaw'd and shorten'd Winter's eve,
By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth,
Best found, so sought; to the recluse more coy!
Thoughts disintangle passing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,
Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song;
Song, fashionably fruitless: such as stains
The fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires;
Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane.
 Know'st thou, Lorenzo! what a friend contains?
As Bees mixt Nectar draw from fragrant flow'rs,
So men from FRIENDSHIP, wisdom, and delight;
Twins ty'd by nature, if they part, they die.
Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach?
Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up, want air,
And spoil, like bales, unopen'd to the Sun.
Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deny'd;
Speech, thought's canal! speech, thought's criterion tool
Thought in the mine, may come forth gold, or dross;
When coin'd in word, we know its real worth.
If sterling, store it for thy future use;
'Twill buy thee benefit; perhaps, renown.
Thought, too, deliver'd, is the more possest;
Teaching, we learn; and, giving, we retain
The births of intellect; when dumb, forgot.
Speech ventilates our intellectual fire;
Speech burnishes our mental magazine;
Brightens, for ornament; and whets, for use.
What numbers, sheath'd in erudition, lie,
Plung'd to the hilts in venerable tomes,
And rusted in; who might have borne an edge,
And play'd a sprightly beam, if born to speech;
If born blast heirs of half their mother's tongue!
'Tis thought's exchange, which, like th' alternate push
Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned scum,
And defecates the students standing pool.
In contemplation is his proud resource?
'Tis poor, as proud, by converse unsustain'd.
Rude thought runs wild in contemplation's field;
Converse, the menage, breaks it to the bit
Of due restraint; and emulation's spur
Gives graceful energy, by rivals aw'd.
'Tis converse qualifies for solitude;
As exercise, for salutary rest.
By that untutor'd, contemplation raves;
And Natures fool, by Wisdom is outdone.
 Wisdom, tho' richer than Peruvian Mines,
And sweeter than the sweet Ambrosial Hive,
What is she, but the Means of Happiness?
That unobtain'd, than folly more a Fool;
A melancholy Fool, without her Bells.
Friendship, the Means of Wisdom, richly gives
The precious End, which makes our Wisdom wise.
Nature, in Zeal for human Amity,
Denies, or damps, an undivided Joy.
Joy is an import; joy is an exchange;
Joy flies monopolists: it calls for two;
Rich fruit! heav'n planted! never pluck'd by one.
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give
To social man true relish of himself.
Full on ourselves descending in a line
Pleasure's bright beam, is feeble in delight:
Delight intense, is taken by rebound;
Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.
Celestial happiness, whene'er she stoops
To visit earth, one shrine the Goddess finds,
And one alone, to make her sweet amends
For absent Heav'n—the bosom of a friend;
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,
Each other's pillow to repose divine.
Beware the counterfeit: in passion's flame
Hearts melt; but melt like ice, soon harder froze.
True love strikes root in reason; passion's foe:
Virtue alone entenders us for life:
I wrong her much—entenders us for ever:
Of Friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fair
Is virtue kindling at a rival fire,
And, emulously, rapid in her race.
O the soft enmity! endearing strife!
This carries friendship to her noon-tide point,
And gives the rivet of eternity.
From Friendship, which outlives my former Themes,
Glorious survivor of old Time, and Death!
From Friendship, thus, that flow'r of heav'nly seed,
The wise extract earth's most Hyblean bliss,
Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy.
But for whom blossoms this Elysian flower?
Abroad they find, who cherish it at home.
Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts,
An honest love, and not afraid to frown.
Tho' choice of follies fasten on the great,
None clings more obstinate, than fancy fond
That sacred friendship is their easy prey;
Caught by the wafture of a golden lure,
Or fascination of a high-born smile.
Their smiles, the great, and the coquet, throw out
For others hearts, tenacious of their own;
And we no less of ours, when such the bait.
Ye fortune's cofferers! Ye pow'rs of wealth!
Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope!
As well mere man an angel might beget.
Love, and love only, is the loan for love.
Lorenzo! pride repress; nor hope to find
A friend, but what has found a friend in Thee.
All like the purchase? few the price will pay;
And this makes friends such miracles below.
 What if (since daring on so nice a theme)
I shew thee friendship delicate, as dear,
Of tender violations apt to die?
Reserve will wound it; and distrust, destroy.
Deliberate on all things with thy friend.
But since friends grow not thick on ev'ry bough,
Nor ev'ry friend unrotten at the core;
First, on thy friend, delib'rate with Thyself;
Pause, ponder, sift; not eager in the choice,
Nor jealous of the chosen: Fixing, fix;
Judge before friendship; then confide till death.
Well, for thy friend; but nobler far for Thee;
How gallant danger for earth's highest prize!
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
"Poor is the friendless master of a world:
"A world in purchase for a friend is gain."
 So sung he (Angels hear that Angel sing!
Angels from Friendship gather half their joy)
So sung Philander, as his friend went round
In the rich Ichor, in the gen'rous blood
Of Bacchus, purple God of joyous wit.
A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye.
He drank long health, and virtue, to his friend;
His friend, who warm'd him more, who more inspir'd.
Friendship's the wine of life; but Friendship new
(Not such was his) is neither strong, nor pure.
O! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,
And elevating spirit, of a Friend,
For twenty summers ripening by my side;
All feculence of falshood long thrown down;
All social virtues rising in his soul;
As chrystal clear; and smiling, as they rise!
Here Nectar flows; it sparkles in our sight;
Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart.
High-flavour'd bliss for Gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how lost!—Philander is no more.
Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my song?
Am I too warm?—too warm I cannot be.
I lov'd him much; but now I love him more.
Like birds, whose beauties languish, half-conceal'd,
Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes
Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold;
How blessings brighten as they take their flight!
His flight Philander took; his upward flight,
If ever soul ascended. Had he dropt,
(That eagle genius!) O had he let fall
One feather as he flew; I, then, had wrote,
What Friends might flatter; prudent foes forbear;
Rivals scarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.
Yet what I can, I must: it were profane
To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
And cast in shadows his illustrious close:
Strange! the theme most affecting, most sublime,
Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung!
And yet it sleeps, by genius unawak'd,
Painim or christian; to the blush of wit.
Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!
The death-bed of the just! Is yet undrawn
By mortal hand; it merits a divine:
Angels should paint it, angels ever There;
There, on a post of honour, and of joy.
 Dare I presume, then? But Philander bids;
And glory tempts, and inclination calls—
Yet am I struck; as struck the soul, beneath
Aereal groves impenetrable gloom;
Or, in some mighty ruin's solemn shade;
Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust,
In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings;
Or, at the midnight altar's hallow'd flame.
It is religion to proceed: I pause—
And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
Is it his death-bed? No: It is his shrine:
Behold him, there, just rising to a God.
 The chamber where the good man meets his fate,
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk
Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n.
Fly, ye profane! If not, draw near with awe,
Receive the blessing, and adore the chance,
That threw in this Bethesda your disease;
If unrestor'd by This, despair your cure,
For, Here, resistless demonstration dwells;
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd dissimulation drops her masque,
Thro' life's grimace, that mistress of the scene!
Here real, and apparent, are the same.
You see the man; you see his hold on heav'n;
If sound his virtue; as Philander's, sound,
Heav'n waits not the last moment; owns her friends
On this side death; and points them out to men,
A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign pow'r!
To vice, confusion; and to virtue, peace.
 Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,
Virtue alone has Majesty in death;
And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.
Philander! he severely frown'd on Thee.
"No warning giv'n! Unceremonious fate!
"A sudden rush from life's meridian joys!
"A wrench from all we love! from all we are!
"A restless bed of pain! a plunge opaque
"Beyond conjecture! Feeble nature's dread!
"Strong reason's shudder at the dark unknown!
"A Sun extinguisht! a just opening grave!
"And Oh! the last, last; what? (can words express?
"Thought reach it?) the last—Silence of a friend!'
Where are those horrors, that amazement, where,
This hideous group of ills, which singly shock,
Demand from man?—I thought him man till now.
 Thro' nature's wreck, thro' vanquisht agonies,
(Like the star struggling thro' this midnight gloom)
What gleams of joy? what more than human peace?
Where, the frail mortal? the poor abject worm?
No, not in death, the mortal to be found.
His conduct is a legacy for all.
Richer than Mammon's for his single heir.
His comforters he comforts; Great in ruin,
With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields
His soul sublime; and closes with his fate.
 How our hearts burnt within us at the scene!
Whence, This brave bound o'er limits fixt to man?
His God sustains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God!
Man's Glory Heav'n vouchsafes to call her own.
We gaze; we weep; mixt Tears of Grief and Joy!
Amazement strikes! Devotion bursts to Flame!
Christians adore! and Infidels Believe.
 As some tall Tow'r, or lofty Mountain's Brow,
Detains the Sun, Illustrious from its Height;
While rising Vapours, and descending Shades,
With Damps, and Darkness, drown the spacious Vale:

Undampt by Doubt, Undarken'd by Despair,
Philander, thus, augustly rears his Head,
At that Black Hour, which gen'ral Horror sheds
On the low Level of th' inglorious Throng:
Sweet Peace, and Heav'nly Hope, and Humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted Soul;
Destruction gild, and crown him for the Skies,
With incommunicable Lustre, Bright.

THE END OF THE SECOND NIGHT.

（後半）

*****
https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Complaint:_or_Night-Thoughts_on_Life,_Death,_%26_Immortality/Night_II
https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/evans/N12442.0001.001

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