Pope [pp. 713-716]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
PUBLISHED MONTHLY, AT FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM-THOMAS W. WHITE, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
VOL. VI. RICHMOND, NOVEMBER, 1840. NO. 11.
BE TRUE TO THYSELF.
BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.
BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.
That system of compensation which is thought
by many to balance the apparent inequalities of
human destiny, is strikingly illustrated in the case
of Alexander Pope. Born in obscurity, he achieved
a great reputation-extremely feeble in frame, his
mind was singularly energetic-cut off by deformity from many accomplishments, he gave to his
intellectual efforts an unrivalled elegance. Who
would have imagined, in contemplating the delicate
and misshapen child, that life, by any possibility,
could prove any thing to him but a weary experience, whose monotony would be totally unrelieved? Yet glance at the adventures of his poetical career, and in number and variety they will be
found equal to those of many a hale knight or wild
votary of fashion. At what a tender age he renounced the dictation of masters, assumed the reins
of education, and resolutely launched into the profession of a poet! How soon he was engaged in a
quarrel with Ambrose Phillips, and what a long satirical contest ensued with Dennis and Cibber! Then
followed his intimacy with Lady Montague; their
fierce encounters of wit; their friendship, correspondence, and mutual enmity. These and similar scenes
of literary animosity, were brightened by friendly
intercourse with Gay, Swift, and Bolingbroke: and
relieved by long periods of study and composition,
visits to noblemen, short journeys, and domestic
duties. And thus the weak and diminutive poet
managed to rise above the dull existence his organization seemed to ensure, and to find abundance
of interest in the excitement of critical warfare
and the pursuit of poetical renown. It is a wonderful evidence of the power of mind, that this
blighted germ of humanity-who was braced in
canvass in order to hold himself upright-put to
bed and undressed all his life like a child-often
unable to digest the luxuries he could not deny
himself, or to keep his eyes open at the honorable
tables to which his talents alone gave him accessshould yet be the terror of his foes, the envy of his
rivals, and the admiration of his friends. He could
not manage the sword he so ostentatiously displayed in society, but he wielded a pen whose caustic satire was amply adequate to minister either to
his self-defence or revenge. lie was'sent into
this breathing world but half made up,' and calls
his existence' a long disease;' but Nature atoned
for the unkindness, by endowing him with a.judgment marvellous for its refined correctness. He
could not enjoy with his neighbors the healthful ex
Belshazzar was seated at night in his hall,
And thousands around him obeyed at his call;
In the midst streamed from fountains the ruby red wine,
For the throne of the King was the Bacchanal's shrine;
When the sentence was written in letters of flame,
'Thou art weighed and found wailting!' and splendor and
fame
In the balance of Justice were counted as naughtHe was false to himself and his ruin was wrought.
A ruler as strong, the Recluse of Ferney,*
O'er the Empire of Mind held a limitless sway,
And far as the light of Intelligence shone
Still the great and the noble his influence own;
But his soul wras a sepulchre, dreary and dim,
And fearful their end all who trusted in him:
Against virtue and truth he unceasingly warred,
He was false to himself and himself he abhorred.
The young and the bold wander forth from their homes;
The student pores over the black-lettered tomes,
The mariner braves, to win silver and gold,
The fierce torrid sun and the terrible cold,
And the soldier, the statesman, the poet, all pine
On their brows the perennial laurel to twine;
But when all is gained, when the strife is all past,
If false to themselves, oh what win they at last!
The poor man, the fettered, the slave in the mines,
Down deep in the earth where the sun never shines,
Yea, he whom the bigot has doomed to expire
In agony over the slow-mounting fire,
Feels upspringing within him a fountain of joy
Which no pain and no peril can ever destroy;
The world did not give and it cannot divestIle is true to himself, and by Truth he is blest.
The base, craven-hearted, quail under the blow
The strong give the weak and the proud give the low,
But he who can back on a true spirit fall,
No wrong can excite and no danger appal;
'The vision of others is bound by the sky,
But he far beyond it a homne can descry,
And he knows that by Truth he its glories shall winHe who's false to himself can ne'er enter therein.
Hold fast on thyself! what though perils assail,
And thou standest.alone in the pitiless gale,
Thou art lord of one soul, thou art king of one realm,
Which no strong arm can conquer, no wave overwhelm,
That shall last and grow brighter as nations decay,
That shall flourish, still young, when the stars fade away,
If true to thyself, thou thyself dost controlOH, THERE IS NO EMPIRE SO GREAT AS THE SOUL!
VOL. VI-90
POPE.
IVew Yor7c, O,t. I,'40.
* Voltaire.