Poem by John Dyer

Written at Ocriculum, in Italy, 1725

Deep in a lonely wild, with brakes perplexed,
And trunks of aged pines, and caves, and brooks;
Among recumbent, ivy-grown remains
Of once a city populous and proud,
Long I reclined; and, with laborious hand,
Figured, in picture, of the solemn scene
The gloomy image: studious to excel,
Of praise and fame ambitious: till her shade,
Wide o'er the nodding towers, and Tiber's stream
(Rolling beneath his willows, deep and dark)
Evening extended; and, at length, fatigue
Weighed down the droused sense, when, lo! appeared
(Or awful rose before the mental eye,
In vision promptive oft of sacred truths)
The semblance of a seer. His open brow
Calm wisdom smoothed. A veil of candid hue
Hung on his silver hairs; his form erect
A Tyrian robe o'erflowed, in comely folds
Amply declining. To me full he turned,
With outraised arm, his aspect — Eloquence
Spoke in the graceful act, and uttered these
In numbers solemn: — " Late thy toils, obscure,
Painful and perilous: thy date on earth
How frail! how fleeting! has thy reason weighed?
Shall the next rising sun mature the work
Which now afflicts thee patient? Shalt thou raise
(Fond hope!) in this fugacious scene, renown
Sacred, immortal, as the poets feign,
Erring? Alas, the various breath shall cease,
That, yet a little while, perchance, may float,
With idle sounds, about the listless grave.
Poor retribution! Vain, mistaken man,
Ev'n now the step of Time is at thy heels,
And thee, and these thy paintings, and thy lyre,
Briefly will sweep away. Around, behold,
To age corrosive, all submit their forms:
The Parian statue, and the brazen bust,
The dome superb, the column of huge size,
Prone on the ground, beneath the wandering weed;
And shall the tender light and shade survive
Of the soft flowing pencil? Lo, that heap!
Can its dust tell thee once it rose a bath?
Where are her silver urns? Where murmur now
Her cool refreshing waters? Of yon tomb,
Deep sunk in earth, with mouldering sculpture graced,
Observe the proud inscription, how it bears
But half a tale: — or turn thy curious eye
To yonder obelisk, in ancient days
By earthquake fall'n, a cedar's stately length,
Thebaic stone, from waste ev'n yet secure,
With hieroglyphic deep inwrought — but all
With vain intent, where nations pass away,
Where language dies. And now the veil of night
Sables the vault of Heaven; the busy now
Retire to rest, with these the bitter fruits
Of their mistaken labours, care, and pain,
And weariness, and sickness, and decay;
Such as to-morrow shall their portion be,
To-morrow and to-morrow; wretched man!
Were it not better in the arms of ease
To lie supine? or give the soul a loose,
And frolic join, in song and riant dance,
The sons of luxury? Pernicious voice!
Which soon with soothing sound may sweetly lure
Thy weary nature, yielding. O beware!
Fly the false note, as did, in fable old,
Laertes' son, on Scylla's baleful coast,
The Syren's incantations: there remains
Another path: not all to folly tend:
Hear, and be wise; another path obscure,
Narrow, despised, frequented by the few,
Where sober Truth conducts the peaceful step,
And, ever tuneful in the brightening scene, —
Hear, and be wise, — the silent audience charms.
There shall the song reveal whate'er is meet
Of thine own essence, of that conscious part
(Diffused within thy frame), by which thou dost
Or good, or evil; great, immortal gift!
All marvellous! where matter has no share!
Unutterable essence. There the song
Shall tell thee, wrapt in pleasing fearful thought,
In humble wonder, how thy form arose
Without thy wisdom from the secret womb;
How it acquires increase, suffers waste;
By will not thine: by laws, to thee unknown,
Incessant — till the hour of fate performs
Its dissolution, and, to life divine,
Opens the speedy passage, soon revealed,
Awful existence! Then declare, then say,
What thought, what solemn business of the soul
Shall entertain the pure eternal state!
Hence, weigh thy own esteem — and yet beyond —
Marvel, within thyself to meditate
That Being, whence the issues of thy life
Perpetual flow; in thee He dwells, nor aught
So small exists which He doth not pervade;
Nor swells immensity of space beyond
His boundless presence; nor to Him obscure
Broods in the silent breast profoundest thought;
His own works knows He not? Him who can tell!
What eye discern! what earthly-musing thought
The pure immediate essence may conceive!
Language inadequate! Howe'er, as men,
By reflex mild, behold the lamp of day
Shorn of his radiance in the level flood;
So, in the veil of His creation wide,
So, shrouded in His boundless tabernacle,
With lowliest reverence view the Infinite
Majesty — o'er the blue vast above,
In those bright orbs, innumerable worlds!
And o'er this various globe, earth, ocean, air,
Him, in his works, behold! How beauteous, all!
How perfect each in its peculiar state!
How therefore wise, how just, how gracious, He!
As far as nature weak may imitate,
So be thou just, and wise, and fill thy life
With deeds of good; not with vain-glorious arts
Attempered to short pomp, th' erroneous praise
Of men vain-seeking, but humane and meek,
Content and cheerful, with religious care,
(In due regard to thy contingent state)
Weighing what best may be performed, and what forbore.
Thus shalt thou taste the bliss they seek on earth,
Vainly they seek on earth, unspotted fame,
Untroubled joy, and frequent ecstasy,
Through blessed eternity, in visions, fair,
Brighter than human fancy may behold.
— Wait thy destined task: —
The day shall tell the lesson of thy life. "

1. To Aaron Hill, Esq.
2. An Epistle to a Famous Painter
3. An Epistle to a Friend in Town
4. To Aurelia
5. Bedford Level

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