A Paradox in Praise of Ambition

SOul of the World! Spark of Promethean Fire!
Sick of this lower Orb, my Breast inspire!
Mount me upon thy Wings!
To blow thy Thundring Trumpet Fame,
To be the Herald of thy Name,
And tune thy speaking Strings!
Let me for ever at thy Altars wait,
Know what it is to be divinely Great.

Thou art the whole Creation's Mystick Sun,
And thou art all its Beauties drawn in one!
For when thy Glory's set,
Thick Clouds must intercept the Light,
Black Darkness, and eternal Night
Their old Dominion get,
When thou art banish'd from thy Royal Throne,
Confusion must her First-born Chaos own.

Thou dost our groveling Souls from Earth transport,
From sordid Earth, with Jove to keep our Court:
Thou dost of God partake
A Particle of heavenly Air,
The Badge of Honour that we wear
For our Distinction sake:
Else Bruits might claim preeminence over Man,
Nay Bruits would suffer by th' Comparison.

Thy Engine mounts our noble thoughts on high,
Deucalion's Stones have learnt the art to flie:
Thou dost our Metal prove,
Thou hast the everlasting Springs
On which all great and mighty things
In their right order move;
Thy Spirit does life unto our Souls dispence,
Thy Center's every-where, but no-where thy Circumference.

Nor can our leaden Faculties aspire
To one great Action, till thy Vestal Fire
On our blind Reasons shine;
From Sleep our dull Affections raise,
Free Passions from a misty maze,
Our drossie part refine.
Whatever's wonderful, from thee must come,
Must be conceiv'd in thy Omniscient Womb.

What is it that I hear Caesar thy Heir,
Caesar, Soul of thy Soul, devoutly swear,
This Light shall either see
Caesar degraded to a Tomb,
Or Caesar Pontifex of Rome,
A Slave, or Monarch He.
Here Soveraign Prince, or there a Soveraign Shade,
Where amongst Nothings, no Distinction's made.

It was a thought worthy of thy own Spirit,
Nor was Rome over answerable for his Merit.
She could not put him by,
For over-rul'd by Power Divine,
They all their Hearts and Voices joyn,
And Caesar, Caesar cry.
It was the breathing of a Soul inspir'd,
With a true Principle of Honour fir'd.

Thus Calchas baffled in Prophetick strife,
Redeem'd his Honour by his loss of life.
And thus in Robes of State,
When ransack'd Rome was all on fire,
The Senate only did desire,
Like Gods, to meet their Fate.
Thus Hannibal could Death it self command,
Resolv'd to fall by none but his own hand.

Stoicks in vain a Rigorous Life defend,
And to renounce all Passions would pretend:
Whilst they submit to thine,
Thee Soveraign over Nature own,
As a just Tribute to thy Throne,
Bodies and Souls resign.
See Cato, for his Honour bleeding lie,
Brutus, the Best of men, for Glory die.

Of Alexander, what should I rehearse?
Who took a Journy through the Universe,
Did all things there subdue;
Kingdoms against Kingdoms hurl'd,
At one stroak conquer'd all the World,
And shock'd ev'n Nature too:
At last with Tears cram'd into a small Tomb,
Complaining in these narrow streights for want of room.

And now methinks ten thousand Heroes throng,
To hear and bear a part in this my Song;
Where in the Front I spy
Hercules by his Pillars stand;
Scaevola with his wither'd hand;
Codrus and Decius vy:
With Palms the Royal Champions all in white
In a Procession go, a Glorious Sight!

What thô th' Rebellious Giants groaning lie,
Stretcht out under a vast Eternity?
What thô that hateful name
Catiline greedy to be Great,
Make nothing to devour a State?
Their's was a Bastard Flame.
For pure Ambition nothing will suggest,
Nothing but what will stand ev'n Virtue's Test:

Nor a dishonourable Scaffold climb,
To build to Heaven, to compass her design;
Nor when in quest of Fame,
To quench her never-dying Thirst,
Take draughts of Poison till she burst,
And so procure a Name.
From a base Thought or Action she will fly,
Too near akin to Virtue to comply.

When Heav'n first made our active Souls of Fire,
Heaven design'd those flames should all aspire.
Can we be so unjust,
Our divine Natures to debase?
Crawl with the Serpent on our Face,
And lick our Native Dust?
Our Souls as heavy as our Corps of Clay,
Not unlike Worms, were we not worse than they.

But above all our Tribe with thee possest,
Indulge thy brooding motions in their breast.
In thy wing'd Chariot rise,
The glorious works of God survey,
The Regions of eternal Day,
And Flowery Paradise:
Sometimes above take an immortal flight,
Or pass through Tempe's Valleys of Delight.

Thou with the influence of thy fruitful Beams
Reflect'st a warmth on Helicon's cold streams:
By thee, the heavenly Quire
All their harmonious Anthems sing,
Apollo without thee's no King,
Thou breathest on his Lyre.
By thee the Palm prest down, still higher shoots,
Till Heaven her Branches kiss, and Hell her roots.

Full of thy Power I can no more contain,
But the excess of Pleasure turns to pain;
Alas what shall I do?
Still but a younger Son of Fame,
Nor that—a Cypher of a Name,
A Dwarfish Poet too?
How shall I Nature underhand engage,
Not thus to measure out my Portion by my Age?

What Manure is't will ripen Barren Brains?
How shall I spin out Sense in Waller's strains?
Oh! that I could but draw
All those beauteous Charms that lie
Under the Veil of Poetrie,
And could strain Nature's Law,
To comprehend all Wisdom, and all Wit,
Nor, by thy light, upon the Rocks of Error split!

What shall I do to be for ever known,
And make Perfection's Quintessence my own!
But all my thought's in vain,
I only can my self apply
To Caesar's fatal Remedy,
I flag in every strain,
And like the Nightingale must e'en expire,
Vanquish'd, and dumb on the Victorious Lyre.