"Sound was the Body, and the Soul serene; / Like two sweet Instruments ne'er out of Tune, / That play their several Parts."
— Blair, Robert (1699-1746)
Author
Work Title
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for M. Cooper
Date
1743
Metaphor
"Sound was the Body, and the Soul serene; / Like two sweet Instruments ne'er out of Tune, / That play their several Parts."
Metaphor in Context
Poor Man! how happy once in thy first State!
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's Hand,
He stamp'd thee with his Image, and well pleas'd
Smil'd on his last fair Work. Then all was well.
Sound was the Body, and the Soul serene;
Like two sweet Instruments ne'er out of Tune,
That play their several Parts. Nor Head, nor Heart,
Offer'd to ache: Nor was there Cause they should;
For all was pure within: No fell Remorse,
Nor anxious Castings up of what might be,
Alarm'd his peaceful Bosom: Summer Seas
Shew not more smooth, when kiss'd by Southern Winds
Just ready to expire. Scarce importun'd
The generous Soil with a luxuriant Hand
Offer'd the various Produce of the Year,
And every Thing most perfect in its Kind.
Blessed! thrice blessed Days! But Ah, how short!
Bless'd as the pleasing Dreams of Holy Men;
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.
Oh! slipp'ry State of Things! What sudden Turns?
What strange Vicissitudes, in the first Leaf
Of Man's sad History? To-day most Happy,
And 'ere To morrow's Sun has set, most Abject!
How scant the Space between these vast Extremes!
Thus far'd it with our Sire: Not long he' enjoy'd
His Paradise! Scarce had the happy Tenant
Of the fair Spot due Time to prove its Sweets,
Or sum them up; when strait he must be gone
Ne'er to return again. And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire Offence
Of erring Man? Like one that is condemn'd
Fain would he trifle Time with idle Talk,
And parley with his Fate. But 'tis in vain.
Not all the lavish Odours of the Place
Offer'd in Incense can procure his Pardon,
Or mitigate his Doom. A mighty Angel
With flaming Sword forbids his longer Stay,
And drives the Loit'rer forth; nor must he take
One last and farewel Round. At once he lost
His Glory and his God. If mortal now,
And sorely maim'd, No Wonder! Man has sinn'd.
Sick of his Bliss, and bent on new Adventures,
Evil he wou'd needs try: Nor try'd in vain.
(Dreadful Experiment! Destructive Measure!
Where the worst Thing could happen, is Success.)
(pp. 33-4, ll. 541-585)
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's Hand,
He stamp'd thee with his Image, and well pleas'd
Smil'd on his last fair Work. Then all was well.
Sound was the Body, and the Soul serene;
Like two sweet Instruments ne'er out of Tune,
That play their several Parts. Nor Head, nor Heart,
Offer'd to ache: Nor was there Cause they should;
For all was pure within: No fell Remorse,
Nor anxious Castings up of what might be,
Alarm'd his peaceful Bosom: Summer Seas
Shew not more smooth, when kiss'd by Southern Winds
Just ready to expire. Scarce importun'd
The generous Soil with a luxuriant Hand
Offer'd the various Produce of the Year,
And every Thing most perfect in its Kind.
Blessed! thrice blessed Days! But Ah, how short!
Bless'd as the pleasing Dreams of Holy Men;
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.
Oh! slipp'ry State of Things! What sudden Turns?
What strange Vicissitudes, in the first Leaf
Of Man's sad History? To-day most Happy,
And 'ere To morrow's Sun has set, most Abject!
How scant the Space between these vast Extremes!
Thus far'd it with our Sire: Not long he' enjoy'd
His Paradise! Scarce had the happy Tenant
Of the fair Spot due Time to prove its Sweets,
Or sum them up; when strait he must be gone
Ne'er to return again. And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire Offence
Of erring Man? Like one that is condemn'd
Fain would he trifle Time with idle Talk,
And parley with his Fate. But 'tis in vain.
Not all the lavish Odours of the Place
Offer'd in Incense can procure his Pardon,
Or mitigate his Doom. A mighty Angel
With flaming Sword forbids his longer Stay,
And drives the Loit'rer forth; nor must he take
One last and farewel Round. At once he lost
His Glory and his God. If mortal now,
And sorely maim'd, No Wonder! Man has sinn'd.
Sick of his Bliss, and bent on new Adventures,
Evil he wou'd needs try: Nor try'd in vain.
(Dreadful Experiment! Destructive Measure!
Where the worst Thing could happen, is Success.)
(pp. 33-4, ll. 541-585)
Categories
Provenance
Reading
Citation
Over 100 entries in ESTC (1743, 1747, 1749, 1751, 1753, 1756, 1785, 1761, 1764, 1767, 1768, 1769, 1770, 1771, 1772, 1773, 1774, 1776, 1777, 1779, 1780, 1781, 1782, 1783, 1784, 1785, 1786, 1787, 1788, 1789, 1790, 1791, 1792, 1793, 1794, 1795, 1796, 1797, 1798, 1799, 1800). Reprinted with great frequency after 1789.
Text from The Grave. A Poem. 4th ed. (London: Printed and Sold by J. Waugh, 1753).
See also The Grave. A Poem. By Robert Blair. (London: Printed for M. Cooper, 1743). <Link to ESTC><Link to 2nd edition in Google Books>
Text from The Grave. A Poem. 4th ed. (London: Printed and Sold by J. Waugh, 1753).
See also The Grave. A Poem. By Robert Blair. (London: Printed for M. Cooper, 1743). <Link to ESTC><Link to 2nd edition in Google Books>
Date of Entry
10/03/2013
