Of Discretion. From Proverbial Philosophy

For what then was I born? — to fill the circling year with daily toil for daily bread, with sordid pains and pleasures? —
To walk this chequered world, alternate light and darkness,
The day-dreams of deep thought followed by the night dreams of fancy? —
To be one in a full procession? — to dig my kindred clay?—
To decorate the gallery of art? — to clear a few acres of forest?—
For more than these, my soul, thy God hath lent thee life.
Is then that noble end to feed this mind with knowledge.
To mix for mine own thirst the sparkling wine of wisdom,
To light with many lamps the caverns of my heart,
To reap, in the furrows of my brain, good harvest of right reasons? —
For more than these, my soul, thy God hath lent thee life.
Is it to grow stronger in self-government, to check the chafing will.
To curb with tightening rein the mettled steeds of passion.
To welcome with calm heart, far in the voiceless desert,
The gracious visitings of heaven that bless my single self?—
For more than these, my soul, thy God hath lent thee life.
To aim at thine own happiness, is an end idolatrous and evil;
In earth, yea in heaven, if thou seek it for itself, seeking thou shalt not find.
Happiness is a road-side flower, growing on the highway of Usefulness;
Plucked, it shall wither in thy hand; passed by, it is fragrance to thy spirit:
Love not thine own soul, regard not thine own weal,
Trample the thyme beneath thy feet; be useful, and be happy!
Thus unto fair couclusions argueth generous youth,
And quickly he starteth on his course, knight-errant to do good.
His sword is edged with arguments, his vizor terrible with censures;
He goeth full mailed in faith, and zeal is flaming at his heart.
Yet one thing he lacketh, the Mentor of the mind,
The quiet whisper of Discretion — Thy time is not yet come.
For he smiteth an oppressor; and vengeance for that smiting
Is dealt in doubled stripes on the faint body of the victim
He is glad to give and to distribute; and clamorous pauperism feasteth,
While honest labour, pining, hideth his sharp ribs:
He challengeth to a fair field that subtle giant Infidelity,
And, worsted in the unequal fight, strengtheneth the hands of error;
He hasteth to teach and preach, as the war-horse rusheth to the battle.
And to pave a way for truth, would break up the Apennines of prejudice:
He wearieth by stale proofs, where none looked for a reason,
And to the listening ear will urge the false argument of feeling.
So hath it often been, that, judging by results.
The hottest friends of truth have done her deadliest wrong.
Alas! for there are enemies without, glad enough to parley with a traitor,
And a zealot will let down the drawbridge, to prove his own prowess:
Yea, from within will he break away a breach in the citadel of truth.
That he may fill the gap, for fame, with his own weak body.
Zeal without judgment is an evil, though it be zeal unto good;
Touch not the ark with unclean hand, yea, though it seem to totter.
There are evil who work good, and there are good who work evil,
And foolish hackers of wisdom have brought on her many reproaches.
Truth hath more than enough to combat in the minds of all men,
For the mist of sense is a thick veil, and sin hath warped their wills;
Yet doth an officious helper awkwardly prevent her victory,—
These thy wounded hands were smitten in the house of friends: —
To point out a meaning in her words, he will blot those words with his finger;
And winnow chaff into the eyes, before he hath wheat to show:
He will heap sturdy logs on a faint expiring fire,
And with a room in flames, will cast the casement open;
By a shoulder to the wheel downhill harasseth the labouring beast.
And where obstruction were needed, will harm by an ill-judged thrusting-on.

A vessel foundereth at sea, if a storm have unshipped the rudder;
And a mind with much sail shall require heavy ballast.
Take a lever by the middle, thou shalt seem to prove it powerless,
Argue for truth indiscreetly, thou shalt toil for falsehood
There is plenty of room for a peaceable man in the most thronged assembly;
But a quarrelsome spirit is straitened in the open field;
Many a teacher, lacking judgment, hindereth his own lessons
And the savoury mess of pottage is spoiled by a bitter herb:
The garment woven of a piece is rashly torn by schism,
Because its unwise claimants will not cast lots for its possession.

Discretion guide thee on thy way, noble-minded youth,
Help thee to humour infirmities, to wink at innocent errors,
To take small count of forms, to bear with prejudice and fancy:
Discretion guard thine asking, discretion aid thine answer,
Teach thee that well-timed silence hath more eloquence than speech,
Whisper thee, thou art Weakness, though thy cause be Strength,
And tell thee, the key-stone of an arch can be loosened with least labour from within.
The snows of Hecla lie around its troubled smoking Geysers;
Let the cool streams of prudence temper the hot spring of zeal:
So shalt thou gain thine honourable end, nor lose the midway prize:
So shall thy life be useful, and thy young heart happy.


Transcribed from the 25th edition "Proverbial Philosophy by Martin Farquhar Tupper" by Mick Puttock, August 2011 (Spelling, punctuation and grammer left mostly unchanged from the 25th edition)