Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

THE

DISTINCTION BETWEEN WISDOM AND
KNOWLEDGE.

THE moral poets (nor unaptly) feign

That, by lame Vulcan's help, the pregnant brain
Of sovereign Jove brought forth, and at that birth
Was borne Minerva, lady of the earth.

O strange divinity! but sung by rote;
Sweet is the tune, but in a wilder note.
The moral says, all wisdom that is given

To hood-wink'd mortals, first proceeds from heaven;
Truth's error, wisdom's but wise insolence,
And light's but darkness, not deriv'd from thence;
Wisdom's a strain transcends morality,

No virtue's absent, wisdom being by.
Virtue by constant practice is acquir'd,
This (this by sweat unpurchas'd) is inspir'd:
The masterpiece of knowledge, is to know
But what is good from what is good in show,
And there it rests: wisdom proceeds, and chooses
The seeming evil, th' apparent good refuses;
Knowledge descries alone; wisdom applies;
That makes some fools, this maketh none but wise;
The curious hand of Knowledge doth but pick
Bare simples, Wisdom pounds them, for the sick;
In my afflictions, Knowledge apprehends
Who is the author, what the cause and ends,

It finds that Patience is my sad relief,

And that the hand that caus'd can cure my grief;
To rest contented here, is but to bring
Clouds without rain, and heat without a spring:
What hope arises hence? the devils do
The very same: they know and tremble too;
But sacred Wisdom doth apply that good,
Which simple knowledge barely understood;
Wisdom concludes, and in conclusion proves
That wheresoever God corrects he loves:
Wisdom digests what Knowledge did but taste;
That deals in futures, this in things are past:
Wisdom's the card of Knowledge, which, without
That guide, at random's wreck'd on every doubt:
Knowledge, when Wisdom is too weak to guide her,
Is like a headstrong horse, that throws the rider:
Which made that great philosopher avow,
He knew so much that he did nothing know.

Job Militant, by F. Quarles, Med. xi.

THE

INSUFFICIENCY OF MONUMENTAL HONOURS TO PRESERVE THE MEMORY.

You, mighty lords, that with respected grace

Do at the stern of fair example stand,
And all the body of this populace
Guide with the turning of your hand;

Keep a right course; bear up from all disgrace;
Observe the point of glory to our land:

Hold up disgraced Knowledge from the ground;
Keep Virtue in request; give Worth her due.
Let not Neglect with barb'rous means confound
So fair a good, to bring in Night a-new:

Be not, O be not, accessary found

Unto her death, that must give life to you.

Where will

you have your virtuous name safe laid,
In gorgeous tombs, in sacred cells secure?
Do you not see those prostrate heaps betray'd
Your father's bones, and could not keep them sure?
And will you trust deceitful stones fair laid,
And think they will be to your honour truer ?

No, no; unsparing Time will proudly send
A warrant unto Wrath, that with one frown
Will all these mock'ries of vainglory rend,
And make them (as before) ungrac'd, unknown;
Poor idle honours, that can ill defend
Your memories, that cannot keep their own,

And whereto serve that wondrous trophy now
That on the goodly plain near Walton stands?
That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how,
Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands,
Nor for whose glory—it was set to show,
How much our pride mocks that of other lands.

Whereon when as the gazing passenger*

Hath greedy look'd with admiration;

* Whereon when as the gazing passenger, &c.] Pope had a similar idea in his intended Ode on the Folly of Ambition, the sketch of which is preserved in Ruffhead, p. 424.

And fain would know his birth, and what he were;
How there erected; and how long agone:
Enquires and asks his fellow traveller
What he hath heard, and his opinion:

And he knows nothing, then he turns again,
And looks and sighs; and then admires afresh,
And in himself with sorrow doth complain
The misery of dark forgetfulness:

Angry with Time that nothing should remain,
Our greatest wonder's wonder to express.

Then Ignorance, with fabulous discourse,
Robbing fair Art and Cunning of their right,
Tells how those stones were by the devil's force
From Afric brought to Ireland in a night;
And thence to Brittany, by magic course,
From giants hands redeem'd by Merlin's slight;

*

And then near Ambri plac'd, in
memory
Of all those noble Britons murther'd there

By Hengist and his Saxon treachery,
Coming to parley in peace at unaware.
With this old legend then Credulity
Holds her content, and closes up her care.

† And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame,
That standst corrupted so with Time's despite,
And giv'st false evidence against their fame
That set thee there to testify their right;

* And then near Ambri plac'd in memory, &c.] See Selden's Notes to Drayton's Poly-Olbion, Song 3, Mr. Warton's Hist. of English Poetry, Vol. I. p. 53.

+ A few lines of inferior merit are here omitted.

And art become a traitor to their name*,

That trusted thee with all the best they might;

Thou shalt stand still bely'd and slandered,
The only gazing-stock of Ignorance,
And by thy guile the wise admonished,

Shall never more desire such hopes t' advance,
Nor trust their living glory with the dead

That cannot speak, but leave their fame to chance.

Consid'ring in how small a room do lie,
And yet lie safe, (as fresh as if alive)
All those great worthies of antiquity,

Which long foreliv'd thee, and shall long survive;
Who stronger tombs found for eternity,

Than could the pow'rs of all the earth contrive.

Where they remain these trifles to upbraid,
Out of the reach of spoil, and way of rage;
Tho' Time with all his pow'r of years hath laid
Long batt'ry, back'd with undermining Age;
Yet they make head only with their own aid,
And war with his all-conqu❜ring forces wage;
Pleading the heaven's prescription to be free,
And t' have a grant t' endure as long as he.

Musophilus, by S. Daniel.

And art become a traitor to their name.] Thus Drayton, speaking of the same place:

Ill did those mighty men to trust thee with their story,
That hast forgot their names, who rear'd thee for their glory:
For all their wondrous cost, thou that hast serv'd them so,

What 'tis to trust to tombs, by thee we easily know.

Poly-Olbion, Song 3.

« AnteriorContinuar »