err'd to what we are.
Yet this self-love Lorenzo makes his choice;
And, in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy.
How is his want of happiness betray'd, 899
By disaffection to the present hour!
Imagination wanders far afield:
The future pleases: why? the present pains.--
"But that's a secret." Yes, which all men know;
And know from thee, discover'd unawares.
Thy ceaseless agitation, restless roll
From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause;
What is it?--'tis the cradle of the soul,
From Instinct sent, to rock her in disease,
Which her physician, Reason, will not cure.
A poor expedient! yet thy best; and while 910
It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.
Such are Lorenzo's wretched remedies!
The weak have remedies; the wise have joys.
Superior wisdom is superior bliss.
And what sure mark distinguishes the wise?
Consistent wisdom ever wills the same;
Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing.
Sick of herself, is Folly's character,
As Wisdom's is, a modest self-applause.
A change of evils is thy good supreme; 920
Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest.
Man's greatest strength is shown in standing still.
The first sure symptom of a mind in health,
Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
False pleasure from abroad her joys imports;
Rich from within, and self-sustain'd, the true.
The true is fix'd, and solid as a rock;
Slippery the false, and tossing, as the wave.
This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain;
That, like the fabled, self-enamour'd boy,[48] 930
Home-contemplation her supreme delight;
She dreads an interruption from without, 932
Smit with her own condition; and the more
Intense she gazes, still it charms the more.
No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth
There breathes not a more happy than himself:
Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on all;
And love o'erflowing makes an angel here.
Such angels, all, entitled to repose
On Him who governs fate. Though tempest frowns, 940
Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven!
To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!
With inward eyes, and silent as the grave,
They stand, collecting every beam of thought,
Till their hearts kindle with divine delight:
For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of old
In Israel'