Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PLEASURES, SELECTION, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Long hast thou slumber'd, o my sounding lyre
Last Line: Their life -- their love -- their sinless pleasures find!


Long hast thou slumber'd, O my sounding Lyre!
Now Muses wake thee, now thy song inspire;
Now will they tune each soft melodious string,
And in thy lay their sweetest numbers fling.
O lift thy voice on high, and start the soul!
From sinful Pleasure's dark and foul control,
Point her to those whose holy breath imparts
The life of joy to men of virtuous hearts.
Paint thou, the One in colors dark and dire,
Against her charms, the youthful mind inspire
With holy hate; the Other then portray
In robes celestial, such as Prophets say
The angels wore when from the courts above,
They came to men with messages of Love.

Wilt thou my thoughts dictate, O holy One!
Who tun'd the harp of Jesse's royal son:
Him didst thou teach in melting strains to pour
His sacred songs o'er Zion's hallowed shore.
O that, like his, my humble notes may rise,
With sweet acceptance to the list'ning skies!
Show how the paths of Vice in ruin end,
While Virtue's footsteps up to glory tend.
Pleasures of Vice are those which most pursue,
Regarding all their promis'd joys as true;
Nor will they heed the warning voice that cries,
The soul which sins, that soul in mis'ry lies.
But, like the headlong horse or stubborn mule,
Despise all truth, contemn all righteous rule,
Delight in sin as swine delight in mire,
Till hell itself entomb their souls in fire!
Thus does the Drunkard, in the sparkling bowl,
Pursue the joys which charm his brutish soul;
But soon he feels the serpent's fang is there,
The gall of wo, the demon's awful stare:
For in the visions of his crazied soul,
The furies dance and horrid monsters roll.

Some find their pleasure in tobacco wads,
Delight in them as goats in chewing cuds;
Others believe they find it quite enough,
In smoking cigars, or in taking snuff.
The glutton and the greasy epicure,
Believe they have it -- for they tell us so --
In eating venison, turtle-soup and clams,
Beef a la mode and lobsters, ducks and hams;
In puddings, pound-cakes, pies and cold ice cream;
In black-strap, brandy, claret, and champagne.
O who could think that men, to whom is given
Such souls as will outlive the stars of heaven,
Could hope to find in such a low employ,
The sweet pulsations of a real joy!

But dandies find it in their curled hair,
Greas'd with pomatum or the oil of bear;
In fine mustaches, breast-pins, golden chains;
In brass-capt boot-heels, or in walking canes.
Some ladies find it in their boas and muffs,
In silks and satins, laces, muslin-stuffs
Made into dresses, pointed, long and wide,
With flounces deep, and bran-bustles beside,
All neat and flowing in Parisian grace;
With small sunshades to screen their smiling face;
Then up the streets, like pea-fowls bright and gay,
They promenade on every sunny day.
Some seek for pleasure in the giddy dance,
Where Fashion smiles, and Beauty's siren glance
The soul delights and fills light bounding hearts
With dreams of love, -- such dreams as sin imparts;
Not the pure streams that flow, my God, from thee:
The streams of bliss -- the love of purity.
In cock-fights others find it; some, in dice;
Some in the chambers of lascivious vice.
The vile blasphemer seeks it in his shame,
Who sport like devils with the Holy Name.
O hapless wretches! fool'd and self deceiv'd!
Angel's weep o'er you! God himself is griev'd!
Ye act more silly than the man at noon,
Who should mistake a razor for a spoon!

Immortal man, be wise! and know thou this:
Pleasure in God alone, is perfect bliss;
'Tis Virtue -- holy Virtue! Child of Love!
With the pure spirit of the peaceful dove --
That nymph of light! in whose bright face divine,
All the sweet graces of God's Spirit shine.
'Tis she who can a charm of joy bestow
On all the pleasures man can find below;
Her potent fiat, from the womb of night,
Starts into being the beauteous forms of light;
Turns ill to good, and anguish into joy;
With god-like thoughts the mind of man employ;
In earth's dark vale, by angry thunders riven,
Creates the fruits, and sheds the light of heaven!

I sing of Pleasure flowing now from God,
Pleasure derived from all his works abroad;
Streaming thro' earth, and air, thro' boundless skies;
In birds and beasts, and flowers of softest dies.
'Tis felt whene'er the eyes survey the fields,
In verdant Spring, or when bright summer yields
Her fragrant flowers, and her shady groves
Are vocal with the moans of turtle-doves,
The notes of soaring larks or mimic jays --
The mocking bird's inimitable lays.
Sweetest of songsters! O, whene'er she sings,
The heart of man doth bound -- the welkin rings
With bliss, -- the feather'd minstrels, mute with joy,
Feel that deep silence is their best employ.
E'en Philomel herself must yield the palm,
In silent homage to superior charm.

'Tis felt in scenes where hills and mountains rise,
Like rugged columns, to the bending skies,
While murm'ring fountains gushing from their sides
Roll towards the seas, in deep'ning, wid'ning tides,
Or rushing on o'er beds of jutting rocks,
Dash down the abyss in thund'ring cataracts --
With glitt'ring sprays impregn the humid air,
And paint the bow of smiling heaven there.

When Music pours her dulcet strains around,
And woman's voice commingles with the sound,
Sweet as the notes that did the Orphean lyre,
With tenderness, the cruel brutes inspire;
And mountains, vales and rocks, and radiant plains,
Were vocal with the minstrel's melting strains.
O then we feel a pleasure quite divine,
Pour'd in the heart, by each harmonious line.
Wrapt in a flame of pure desire, we burn,
Like holy incense in a golden urn;
And sigh and wish, with feelings keen and strong,
To hear the sonnets of an angel's tongue!

Men talk of Love! But few do ever feel
The speechless raptures which its joys reveal.
They mistake Love, that pure celestial thing,
Whose end is God, and in Him has its spring,
For grovelling lust, that vile, that filthy dame,
Whose bosom ne'er can feel the sacred flame --
Hence when they look'd for peace, fierce strife arose
And for the loving kiss, gave cruel blows.
The hearth domestic is the field of blood --
The smile of joy, dark sorrow's bitter flood.

But they who seek the nymph that came from heav'n --
Which only can to chasten'd hearts be given --
Shall find in her embrace a fount of joy,
Like heaven's pure nectar, free from each alloy;
Thought meeting thought, and love returning love,
As the sweet fondlings of the peaceful dove;
In smiling children, like the roses sweet,
The virtuous wife her husband's wishes meet,
And from the altars of their sacred home,
Their sweet devotions scale the starry dome.

Here Science brings her treasures, more than gold;
Here Hist'ry tells her mighty deeds of old,
And Poetry, that child of love and song,
Whose angel-mind to worlds of light belong,
Attunes his harp -- and with his tongue of fire,
The youthful ones, with wisdom does inspire.
Religion, too, that goddess from the skies,
From whose bright visage every evil flies,
She sheds her hallowing influence all around,
And makes each heart with pure emotions bound.

Here love is seen in forms divinely sweet;
Here husband, wife, and brothers, sisters, meet
As angels do, to bless each one, and guide
Where saving Faith and holy Love preside.
O! where's the scene below which pictures heav'n?
A bright oasis in Earth's desert giv'n,
Where angels, looking from the skies, descend
And with man's joy, heav'n's sacred raptures blend?
'Tis here! 'tis here! a family whose love
Are the sweet fetters of the world above!

O save me from the home whence Christ is driv'n!
Where the bright bonds of peace are spurn'd and riv'n!
The Holy Ghost despis'd, the Bible scorn'd,
And pure Religion into laughter turn'd,
Nor less from that where Fashion is the god,
The Wife, her joy and solace find abroad --
The children's morals, like a barren field,
No luscious fruits nor flow'rs of virtue yield,
Where novels, romance, gossip, hold their sway,
And vile theatres close the sinful day.
The fell miasma which from fens arise,
Like fumes of vengeance 'neath the torrid skies,
I dread far less than such a home as this,
Where prayer is banish'd and each form of bliss.
O save me from the wife whose pleasures tell
Her final doom must be the flames of hell!

O holy Virtue! such thy Pleasures are!
They banish sorrow and they banish fear.
Thy gifts are crowns! Thy palaces are gold!
Rising in grandeur, glorious to behold;
Thy gates are precious stones! thy rivers, love!
Thy fruits, the glories of the climes above.
No fang of asp -- no scorpion's sting is there --
No breath of sin pollutes the limpid air.
There is not heard the voice of stormy strife,
And Death ne'er treads that land of endless Life!

Thy paths are paths of peace, whose tow'ring height
Leads up to regions of unclouded light!
Beyond the stars that gild the realms above,
In the bright Eden of eternal love!
There the sweet voices of the Cherubim,
In notes melodious, chant the immortal hymn;
There life-crown'd Saints attune their golden lyres
To such sweet songs as God himself inspires,
And in thy grace, O Saviour of mankind!
Their life -- their love -- their sinless pleasures find!





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net