The closeness of the reasoning, and the freedom of the verses cannot be
enough admired. I believe it would be difficult if not impossible to
reason so shortly and yet so clearly in prose. Pope says the thoughts
in his Essay on Man are in less compass for their being in verse. The
poetical language admits of elisions and other varieties we cannot have
in prose. This poem is followed by another, before which is a design of
the winds blowing the flame of the taper, with this motto, “_The wind
passeth over it, and it is gone!_”
No sooner is this lighted Taper set
Upon the transitory stage
Of eye-bedark’ning night,
But it is straight subjected to the threat
Of envious winds, whose wasteful rage
Disturbs her peaceful light,
And makes her substance waste, and makes her flame less bright.
No sooner are we born, no sooner come
To take possession of this vast,
This soul-afflicting earth,
But danger meets us at the very womb;
And sorrow with her full-mouth’d blast
Salutes our painful birth
To put out all our joys, and puff out all our mirth.
Nor infant innocence, nor childish tears,
Nor youthful wit, nor manly pow’r,
Nor politic old age,
Nor virgins pleading, nor the widows pray’rs,
Nor lowly cell, nor lofty tow’r,
Nor prince, nor peer, nor page,
Can ’scape this common blast, nor curb her stormy rage.
* * * * *
Tost to and fro, our frighted thoughts are driv’n
With ev’ry puff, with ev’ry tide
Of life-consuming care;
Our peaceful flame, that would point up to heav’n
Is still disturb’d and turn’d aside;
And ev’ry blast of air
Commits such waste in man, as man cannot repair.
* * * * *
What may this sorrow-shaken life present
To the false relish of our taste
That’s worth the name of sweet?
Her minute’s pleasure’s choak’d with discontent,
Her glory soil’d with ev’ry blast—
How many dangers meet
Poor man betwixt the biggin and the winding sheet!