Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION: BOOK 3, by MARK AKENSIDE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: What wonder therefore, since the endearing ties Last Line: And form to his, the relish of their souls. Subject(s): Imagination; Philosophy & Philosophers; Reason; Fancy; Intellect; Rationalism; Brain; Mind; Intellectuals | ||||||||
WHAT wonder therefore, since the endearing ties Of passion link the universal kind Of man so close, what wonder if to search This common nature through the various change Of sex, and age, and fortune, and the frame Of each peculiar, draw the busy mind With unresisted charms? The spacious west, And all the teeming regions of the south Hold not a quarry, to the curious flight Of knowledge, half so tempting or so fair, As man to man. Nor only where the smiles Of love invite; nor only where the applause Of cordial honour turns the attentive eye On virtue's graceful deeds. For since the course Of things external acts in different ways On human apprehensions, as the hand Of nature temper'd to a different frame Peculiar minds; so haply where the powers Of fancy neither lessen nor enlarge The images of things, but paint in all Their genuine hues, the features which they wore In nature: their opinion will be true, And action right. For action treads the path In which opinion says he follows good, Or flies from evil; and opinion gives Report of good or evil, as the scene Was drawn by fancy, lovely or deform'd: Thus her report can never there be true Where fancy cheats the intellectual eye With glaring colours and distorted lines. Is there a man, who at the sound of death Sees ghastly shapes of terror conjured up, And black before him; nought but death-bed groans And fearful prayers, and plunging from the brink Of light and being, down the gloomy air, An unknown depth? Alas! in such a mind, If no bright forms of excellence attend The image of his country; nor the pomp Of sacred senates, nor the guardian voice Of justice on her throne, nor aught that wakes The conscious bosom with a patriot's flame; Will not opinion tell him, that to die, Or stand the hazard, is a greater ill Than to betray his country? and in act Will he not choose to be a wretch and live? Here vice begins then. From the enchanting cup Which fancy holds to all, the unwary thirst Of youth oft swallows a Circæan draught, That sheds a baleful tincture o'er the eye Of reason, till no longer he discerns, And only guides to err. Then revel forth A furious band that spurn him from the throne; And all is uproar. Thus ambition grasps The empire of the soul: thus pale revenge Unsheaths her murderous dagger; and the hands Of lust and rapine, with unholy arts, Watch to o'erturn the barrier of the laws That keeps them from their prey: thus all the plagues The wicked bear, or o'er the trembling scene The tragic muse discloses, under shapes Of honour, safety, pleasure, ease or pomp, Stole first into the mind. Yet not by all Those lying forms which fancy in the brain Engenders, are the kindling passions driven To guilty deeds; nor reason bound in chains, That vice alone may lord it: oft adorn'd With solemn pageants, folly mounts the throne, And plays her idiot-antics, like a queen. A thousand garbs she wears; a thousand ways She wheels her giddy empire.Lo! thus far With bold adventure, to the Mantuan lyre I sing of nature's charms, and touch well-pleased A stricter note: now haply must my song Unbend her serious measure, and reveal In lighter strains how folly's awkward arts Excite impetuous laughter's gay rebuke; The sportive province of the comic Muse. See in what crowds the uncouth forms advance! Each would outstrip the other, each prevent Our careful search, and offer to your gaze, Unask'd, his motley features. Wait awhile, My curious friends! and let us first arrange In proper order your promiscuous throng. Behold the foremost band; of slender thought, And easy faith; whom flattering fancy soothes With lying spectres, in themselves to view Illustrious forms of excellence and good, That scorn the mansion. With exulting hearts They spread their spurious treasures to the sun, And bid the world admire! but chief the glance Of wishful envy draws their joy-bright eyes, And lifts with self-applause each lordly brow. In number boundless as the blooms of spring, Behold their glaring idols, empty shades By fancy gilded o'er, and then set up For adoration. Some in learning's garb, With formal band, and sable-cinctured gown, And rags of mouldy volumes. Some elate With martial splendour, steely pikes and swords Of costly frame, and gay Phoenician robes Inwrought with flowery gold, assume the port Of stately valour: listening by his side There stands a female form: to her, with looks Of earnest import, pregnant with amaze, He talks of deadly deeds, of breaches, storms, And sulphurous mines, and ambush: then at once Breaks off, and smiles to see her look so pale, And asks some wondering question of her fears. Others of graver mien; behold, adorn'd With holy ensigns, how sublime they move, And bending oft their sanctimonious eyes Take homage of the simple-minded throng; Ambassadors of heaven! Nor much unlike Is he whose visage, in the lazy mist That mantles every feature, hides a brood Of politic conceits; of whispers, nods, And hints deep omen'd with unwieldy schemes, And dark portents of state. Ten thousand more Prodigious habits and tumultuous tongues Pour dauntless in, and swell the boastful band. Then comes the second order; all who seek The debt of praise, where watchful unbelief Darts through the thin pretence her squinting eye On some retired appearance, which belies The boasted virtue, or annuls th' applause That justice else would pay. Here side by side I see two leaders of the solemn train Approaching: one a female old and gray, With eyes demure, and wrinkle-furrow'd brow, Pale as the cheeks of death; yet still she stuns The sickening audience with a nauseous tale; How many youths her myrtle-chains have worn, How many virgins at her triumphs pined! Yet how resolved she guards her cautious heart; Such is her terror at the risks of love, And man's seducing tongue! The other seems A bearded sage, ungentle in his mien, And sordid all his habit; peevish want Grins at his heels, while down the gazing throng He stalks, resounding in magnific praise The vanity of riches, the contempt Of pomp and power. Be prudent in your zeal, Ye grave associates! let the silent grace Of her who blushes at the fond regard Her charms inspire, more eloquent unfold The praise of spotless honour: let the man Whose eye regards not his illustrious pomp And ample store, but as indulgent streams To cheer the barren soil and spread the fruits Of joy, let him by juster measures fix The price of riches and the end of power. Another tribe succeeds; deluded long By fancy's dazzling optics, these behold The images of some peculiar things With brighter hues resplendent, and portray'd With features nobler far than e'er adorn'd Their genuine objects. Hence the fever'd heart Pants with delirious hope for tinsel charms; Hence oft obtrusive on the eye of scorn, Untimely zeal her witless pride betrays! And serious manhood, from the towering aim Of wisdom, stoops to emulate the boast Of childish toil. Behold yon mystic form, Bedeck'd with feathers, insects, weeds and shells! Not with intenser view the Samian sage Bent his fix'd eye on heaven's intenser fires, When first the order of that radiant scene Swell'd his exulting thought, than this surveys A muckworms's entrails or a spider's fang. Next him a youth, with flowers and myrtles crown'd, Attends that virgin form, and blushing kneels, With fondest gesture, and a suppliant's tongue, To win her coy regard: adieu, for him The dull engagements of a bustling world! Adieu the sick impertinence of praise! And hope, and action! for with her alone, By streams and shades, to steal these sighing hours, Is all he asks, and all that fate can give! Thee too, facetious Momion, wandering here, Thee, dreaded censor, oft have I beheld, Bewilder'd, unawares: alas! too long Flush'd with thy comic triumphs and the spoils Of sly derision! till on every side Hurling thy random bolts, offended truth Assign'd thee here thy station, with the slaves Of folly. Thy once formidable name Shall grace her humble records, and be heard In scoffs and mockery bandied from the lips Of all the vengeful brotherhood around, So oft the patient victims of thy scorn. But now, ye gay! to whom indulgent fate, Of all the muse's empire hath assign'd The fields of folly, hither each advance Your sickles; here the teeming soil affords Its richest growth. A favourite brood appears; In whom the demon, with a mother's joy, Views all her charms reflected, all her cares At full repaid. Ye most illustrious band! Who, scorning reason's tame, pedantic rules, And order's vulgar bondage, never meant For souls sublime as yours, with generous zeal, Pay vice the reverence virtue long usurp'd, And yield deformity the fond applause Which beauty wont to claim; forgive my song, That for the blushing diffidence of youth, It shuns the unequal province of your praise. Thus far triumphant in the pleasing guile Of bland imagination, folly's train Have dared our search: but now a dastard kind Advance reluctant, and with faltering feet Shrink from the gazer's eye: enfeebled hearts Whom fancy chills with visionary fears, Or bends to servile tameness with conceits Of shame, of evil, or of base defect, Fantastic and delusive. Here the slave Who droops abash'd when sullen pomp surveys His humbler habit; here the trembling wretch Unnerved and struck with terror's icy bolts, Spent in weak wailings, drown'd in shameful tears, At every dream of danger: here subdued By frontless laughter and the hardy scorn Of old, unfeeling vice, the abject soul, Who blushing half resigns the candid praise Of temperance and honour; half disowns A freeman's hatred of tyrannic pride; And hears with sickly smiles the venal mouth With foulest license mock the patriot's name. Last of the motley bands on whom the power Of gay derision bends her hostile aim, Is that where shameful ignorance presides. Beneath her sordid banners, lo! they march, Like blind and lame. Whate'er their doubtful hands Attempt, confusion straight appears behind, And troubles all the work. Through many a maze, Perplex'd they struggle, changing every path, O'erturning every purpose; then at last Sit down dismay'd, and leave the entangled scene For scorn to sport with. Such then is the abode Of folly in the mind; and such the shapes In which she governs her obsequious train. Through every scene of ridicule in things To lead the tenor of my devious lay; Through every swift occasion, which the hand Of laughter points at, when the mirthful sting, Distends her sallying nerves and chokes her tongue: What were it but to count each crystal drop Which morning's dewy fingers on the blooms Of May distil? Suffice it to have said, Whate'er the power of ridicule displays Her quaint-eyed visage, some incongruous form, Some stubborn dissonance of things combined, Strikes on the quick observer: whether pomp, Or praise, or beauty, mix their partial claim Where sordid fashions, where ignoble deeds, Where foul deformity are wont to dwell; Or whether these with violation loathed, Invade resplendent pomp's imperious mien, The charms of beauty or the boast of praise. Ask we for what fair end, the Almighty Sire In mortal bosom wakes this gay contempt, These grateful stings of laughter, from disgust Educing pleasure? Wherefore but to aid The tardy steps of reason, and at once By this prompt impulse urge us to depress The giddy aims of folly? Though the light Of truth slow-dawning on the inquiring mind, At length unfolds, through many a subtile tie, How these uncouth disorders end at last In public evil! yet benignant heaven, Conscious how dim the dawn of truth appears To thousands; conscious what a scanty pause From labours and from care, the wider lot Of humble life affords for studious thought To scan the maze of nature: therefore stamp'd The glaring scenes with characters of scorn, As broad, as obvious, to the passing clown, As to the letter'd sage's curious eye. Such are the various aspects of the mind Some heavenly genius, whose unclouded thoughts Attain that secret harmony which blends The ethereal spirit with its mould of clay; O! teach me to reveal the grateful charm That searchless nature o'er the sense of man Diffuses, to behold, in lifeless things, The inexpressive semblance of himself, Of thought and passion. Mark the sable woods That shade sublime yon mountain's nodding brow; With what religious awe the solemn scene Commands your steps! as if the reverend form Of Minos or of Numa should forsake The Elysian seats, and down the embowering glade Move to your pausing eye! Behold the expanse Of yon gay landscape, where the silver clouds Flit o'er the heavens before the sprightly breeze: Now their gay cincture skirts the doubtful sun; Now streams of splendour, through their opening veil Effulgent, sweep from off the gilded lawn The aerial shadows; on the curling brook, And on the shady margin's quivering leaves With quickest lustre glancing; while you view The prospect, say, within your cheerful breast Plays not the lively sense of winning mirth With clouds and sunshine checker'd, while the round Of social converse, to the inspiring tongue Of some gay nymph amid her subject train, Moves all obsequious? Whence is this effect, This kindred power of such discordant things? Or flows their semblance from that mystic tone To which the new-born mind's harmonious powers At first were strung? Or rather from the links Which artful custom twines around her frame? For when the different images of things By chance combined have struck the attentive soul With deeper impulse, or connected long, Have drawn her frequent eye; howe'er distinct The external scenes, yet oft the ideas gain From that conjunction an eternal tie, And sympathy unbroken. Let the mind Recall one partner of the various league, Immediate, lo! the firm confederates rise, And each his former station straight resumes: One movement governs the consenting throng, And all at once with rosy pleasure shine, Or all are sadden'd with the glooms of care. 'Twas thus, if ancient fame the truth unfold, Two faithful needles, from the informing touch Of the same parent-stone, together drew Its mystic virtue, and at first conspired With fatal impulse quivering to the pole: Then, though disjoined by kingdoms, though the main Roll'd its broad surge betwixt, and different Stars Beheld their wakeful motions, yet preserved The former friendship, and remember'd still The alliance of their birth: whate'er the line Which one possess'd, nor pause, nor quiet knew The sure associate, ere with trembling speed He found its path, and fix'd unerring there. Such is the secret union, when we feel A song, a flower, a name, at once restore Those long-connected scenes where first they moved The attention: backward through her mazy walks Guiding the wanton fancy to her scope, To temples, courts, or fields; with all the band Of painted forms, of passions and designs Attendant: whence, if pleasing in itself, The prospect from that sweet accession gains Redoubled influence o'er the listening mind. By these mysterious ties the busy power Of memory her ideal train preserves Entire; or when they would elude her watch, Reclaims their fleeting footsteps from the waste Of dark oblivion; thus collecting all The various forms of being, to present, Before the curious aim of mimic art, Their largest choice: like spring's unfolded blooms Exhaling sweetness, that the skilful bee May taste at will, from their selected spoils To work her dulcet food. For not the expanse Of living lakes in summer's noontide calm, Reflects the bordering shade, and sun-bright heavens With fairer semblance; not the sculptured gold More faithful keeps the graver's lively trace, Than he whose birth the sister powers of art Propitious view'd, and from his genial star Shed influence to the seeds of fancy kind; Than his attemper'd bosom must preserve The seal of nature. There alone unchanged Her form remains. The balmy walks of May There breathe perennial sweets: the trembling chord Resounds for ever in the abstracted ear Melodious: and the virgin's radiant eye, Superior to disease, to grief, and time, Shines with unbating lustre. Thus at length Endow'd with all that nature can bestow, The child of fancy oft in silence bends O'er these mix'd treasures of his pregnant breast With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves To frame he knows not what excelling things; And win he knows not what sublime reward Of praise and wonder. By degrees, the mind Feels her young nerves dilate: the plastic powers Labour for action: blind emotions heave His bosom: and with loveliest frenzy caught, From earth to heaven he rolls his daring eye, From heaven to earth Anon ten thousand shapes Like spectres trooping to the wizard's call, Flit swift before him. From the womb of earth, From ocean's bed they come: the eternal heavens Disclose their splendours, and the dark abyss Pours out her births unknown. With fixed gaze He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares Their different forms; now blends them, now divides, Enlarges and extenuates by turns; Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands, And infinitely varies. Hither now, Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim, With endless choice perplex'd. At length his plan Begins to open. Lucid order dawns; And as from Chaos old the jarring seeds Of nature at the voice divine repair'd Each to his place, till rosy earth unveil'd Her fragrant bosom, and the joyful sun Sprung up the blue serene; by swift degrees Thus disentangled, his entire design Emerges. Colours mingle, features join, And lines converge: the fainter parts retire; The fairer eminent in light advance: And every image on its neighbour smiles. Awhile he stands, and with a father's joy Contemplates. Then with Promethean art, Into its proper vehicle he breathes The fair conception; which, embodied thus, And permanent becomes to eyes or ears An object ascertain'd: while thus inform'd, The various organs of his mimic skill, The consonance of sounds, the featured rock, The shadowy picture and impassion'd verse, Beyond their proper powers attract the soul By that expressive semblance, while in sight Of nature's great original we scan The lively child of art; while line by line, And feature after feature we refer To that sublime exemplar whence it stole Those animating charms. Thus beauty's palm Betwixt them wavering hangs: applauding love Doubts where to choose; and mortal man aspires To tempt creative praise. As when a cloud Of gathering hail with limpid crusts of ice Inclosed and obvious to the beaming sun, Collects his large effulgence; straight the heavens With equal flames present on either hand The radiant visage: Persia stands at gaze, Appall'd; and on the brink of Ganges doubts The snowy-vested seer, in Mithra's name, To which the fragrance of the south shall burn, To which his warbled orisons ascend. Such various bliss the well-tuned heart enjoys, Favour'd of heaven! while plunged in sordid cares, Th' unfeeling vulgar mocks the boon divine: And harsh austerity, from whose rebuke Young love and smiling wonder shrink away Abash'd and chill of heart, with eager frowns Condemns the fair enchantment. On my strain, Perhaps even now, some cold, fastidious judge Casts a disdainful eye; and calls my toil, And calls the love and beauty which I sing, The dream of folly. Thou, grave censor! say, Is beauty then a dream, because the glooms Of dulness hang too heavy on thy sense, To let her shine upon thee? So the man Whose eye ne'er open'd on the light of heaven Might smile with scorn while raptured vision tells Of the gay-colour'd radiance flushing bright O'er all creation. From the wise be far Such gross unhallow'd pride; nor needs my song Descend so low; but rather now unfold, If human thought could reach, or words unfold, By what mysterious fabric of the mind, The deep-felt joys and harmony of sound Result from airy motion; and from shape The lovely phantoms of sublime and fair. By what fine ties has God connected things When present in the mind, which in themselves Have no connexion? Sure the rising sun O'er the cerulean convex of the sea, With equal brightness and with equal warmth Might roll his fiery orb: nor yet the soul Thus feel her frame expanded, and her powers Exulting in the splendour she beholds; Like a young conqueror moving through the pomp Of some triumphal day. When join'd at eve, Soft-murmuring streams and gales of gentlest breath Melodious Philomela's wakeful strain Attemper, could not man's discerning ear Though all its tones the sympathy pursue; Nor yet this breath divine of nameless joy, Steal through his veins and fan the awaken'd heart, Mild as the breeze, yet rapturous as the song. But were not nature still endow'd at large With all which life requires, though unadorn'd With such enchantment? Wherefore then her form So exquisitely fair? her breath perfumed With such ethereal sweetness? whence her voice Inform'd at will to raise or to depress The impassion'd soul? and whence the robes of light Which thus invest her with more lovely pomp Than fancy can describe? Whence but from thee, O source divine of ever-flowing love, And thy unmeasured goodness? Not content With every food of life to nourish man, By kind illusions of the wondering sense Thou mak'st all nature beauty to his eye, Or music to his ear: well-pleased he scans The goodly prospect; and with inward smiles Treads the gay verdure of the painted plain; Beholds the azure canopy of heaven, And living lamps that over-arch his head With more than regal splendour: bends his ears To the full choir of water, air, and earth; Nor heeds the pleasing error of his thought, Nor doubts the painted green or azure arch, Nor questions more the music's mingling sounds Than space, or motion, or eternal time; So sweet he feels their influence to attract The fixed soul; to brighten the dull glooms Of care, and make the destined road of life Delightful to his feet. So fables tell, The adventurous hero, bound on hard exploits, Beholds with glad surprise, by secret spells Of some kind sage, the patron of his toils, A visionary paradise disclosed Amid the dubious wild: with streams, and shades, And airy songs, the enchanted landscape smiles, Cheers his long labours and renews his frame. What then is taste, but these internal powers Active, and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a discerning sense Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow? But God alone, when first his active hand Imprints the secret bias of the soul. He, mighty Parent! wise and just in all, Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain Who journeys homeward from a summer day's Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold The sunshine gleaming, as through amber clouds, O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween, His rude expression and untutor'd airs, Beyond the power of language, will unfold The form of beauty smiling at his heart How lovely! how commanding! But though heaven In every breast hath sown these early seeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair culture's kind parental aid, Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. Nor yet will every soil with equal stores Repay the tiller's labour; or attend His will obsequious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel. Different minds Incline to different objects: one pursues The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild; Another sighs for harmony, and grace, And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground; When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky; Amid the mighty uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakespeare looks abroad From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs, All on the margin of some flowery stream To spread his careless limbs amid the cool Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain Resound, soft warbling, all the live-long day: Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves; And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn. Such and so various are the tastes of men. Oh! bless'd of heaven, whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the Siren! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant honour can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store Of nature fair imagination culls To charm the enliven'd soul! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only: for the attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair-inspired delight: her temper'd powers Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd The world's foundation, if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves; the sun's unwearied course, The elements and seasons, all declare From what the eternal Maker has ordain'd The powers of man: we feel within ourselves His energy divine: he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being; to be great like him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself Hold converse; grown familiar, day by day With his conceptions, act upon his plan; And form to his, the relish of their souls. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AGAINST EXCESS OF SEA OR SUN OR REASON by WILLIAM MEREDITH PROVISION FOR THE HIGHER OZONE BODY by WILL ALEXANDER THE BOOK OF THE DEAD MAN (#65) by MARVIN BELL THE MACHINATIONS OF THE MIND by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR WHY FOOL AROUND? by STEPHEN DOBYNS POPHAM OF THE NEW SONG: 1 by NORMAN DUBIE THE VIRTUOSO; IN IMITATION OF SPENCER'S STYLE AND STANZA by MARK AKENSIDE |
|