Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake
William Whitehead (1715–1785)The Enthusiast. An Ode
O
’Twas ere the blooming sweets of May
Had lost their freshest hues,
When every flower and every hill
In every vale had drunk its fill
Of sunshine and of dews.
When spring gives up the reins of time
To summer’s glowing hand,
And doubting mortals hardly know
By whose command the breezes blow
Which fan the smiling land.
Which clothed a lawn’s aspiring head,
I urged my devious way,
With loitering steps regardless where,
So soft, so genial was the air,
So wondrous bright the day.
O’er all the blue expanse above,
Unbroken by a cloud!
And now beneath delighted pass,
Where winding through the deep-green grass
A full-brimmed river flowed.
To thee, serenest solitude,
Burst forth th’ unbidden lay;
‘Begone vile world! the learned, the wise,
The great, the busy, I despise,
And pity even the gay.
’Tis here, divine philosophy,
Thou deign’st to fix thy throne!
Here contemplation points the road
Through nature’s charms to nature’s God!
These, these are joys alone!
Ye human hopes, and human fears,
Ye pleasures and ye pains!’
While thus I spake, over my soul
A philosophic calmness stole,
A stoic stillness reigns.
Fear, anger, pity, shame and pride,
No more my bosom move;
Yet still I felt, or seemed to feel
A kind of visionary zeal
Of universal love.
’Twas Reason whispered in my ear
These monitory strains:
‘What mean’st thou, man? wouldst thou unbind
The ties which constitute thy kind,
The pleasures and the pains?
Who spreads the gay or solemn scene
To contemplation’s eye,
Fixed every movement of the soul,
Taught every wish its destined goal,
And quickened every joy.
He bids them war external wage,
And combat each his foe:
Till from dissensions concords rise,
And beauties from deformities,
And happiness from woe.
A bliss which leans not to mankind?
Presumptuous thought and vain!
Each bliss unshared is unenjoyed,
Each power is weak unless employed
Some social good to gain.
With those exalted joys compare
Which active virtue feels,
When on she drags, as lawful prize,
Contempt and indolence, and vice,
At her triumphant wheels?
To man, whilst virtue’s glorious deeds
Employ his toilsome day,
This fair variety of things
Are merely life’s refreshing springs,
To soothe him on his way.
In vain thou sing’st if none admire,
How sweet soe’er the strain.
And is not thy o’erflowing mind,
Unless thou mixest with thy kind,
Benevolent in vain?
If not thy bliss, thy excellence,
Thou yet hast learned to scan;
At least thy wants, thy weakness know,
And see them all uniting show
That man was made for man.’