Poème sur le désastre de Lisbonne (French Edition)
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Toleration and other essays/Poem on the Lisbon Disaster
Skip to content Skip to search. Physical Description 33 p. Subjects Lisbon Earthquake, Portugal, -- Poetry. Notes Text and translation on facing pages. Limited edition of copies. Of the special issue, on Ragston paper, copies are signed and numbered 1 to ; the remaining copies are unnumbered and unsigned.
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And o'er this ghastly chaos you would say The ills of each make up the good of all! And as, with quaking voice, Mortal and pitiful, ye cry, "All's well," The universe belies you, and your heart Refutes a hundred times your mind's conceit. All dead and living things are locked in strife. Confess it freely—evil stalks the land, Its secret principle unknown to us.
Can it be from the author of all good?
Are we condemned to weep by tyrant law Of black Typhon or barbarous Ahriman? But how conceive a God supremely good, Who heaps his favours on the sons he loves, Yet scatters evil with as large a hand? What eye can pierce the depth of his designs?
Rousseau criticized Voltaire for seeking to apply science to spiritual questions, and he argued that evil is necessary to the existence of the universe and that particular evils form the general good. Tranquil spectators of your brothers' wreck, Unmoved by this repellent dance of death, Who calmly seek the reason of such storms, Let them but lash your own security; Your tears will mingle freely with the flood. Add not such cruel outrage to their pain. But in a while An eagle tears the vulture into shreds;. God I respect, yet love the universe. Nor why the guiltless suffer all this woe In common with the most abhorrent guilt. For Voltaire, people might well hope for a happier state, but to expect more was contrary to reason.
From that all-perfect Being came not ill: And came it from no other, for he's lord: O stern and numbing truth! O wondrous mingling of diversities! A God came down to lift our stricken race: He visited the earth, and changed it not! One sophist says he had not power to change; "He had," another cries, "but willed it not: In time he will, no doubt.
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God either smites the inborn guilt of man, Or, arbitrary lord of space and time, Devoid alike of pity and of wrath, Pursues the cold designs he has conceived. Or else this formless stuff, recalcitrant, Bears in itself inalienable faults; Or else God tries us, and this mortal life Is but the passage to eternal spheres.
Yet, when this dreadful passage has been made, Who will contend he has deserved the crown? Whatever side we take we needs must groan; We nothing know, and everything must fear.
Nature is dumb, in vain appeal to it; The human race demands a word of God. Without him man, to doubt and error doomed, Finds not a reed that he may lean upon. From Leibnitz learn we not by what unseen Bonds, in this best of all imagined worlds, Endless disorder, chaos of distress, Must mix our little pleasures thus with pain;. Nor why the guiltless suffer all this woe In common with the most abhorrent guilt. Like learned doctors, nothing do I know. Plato has said that men did once have wings And bodies proof against all mortal ill; That pain and death were strangers to their world.
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How have we fallen from that high estate! Man crawls and dies: The world's the empire of destructiveness. This frail construction of quick nerves and bones Cannot sustain the shock of elements; This temporary blend of blood and dust Was put together only to dissolve; This prompt and vivid sentiment of nerve Was made for pain, the minister of death: Thus in my ear does nature's message run. Plato and Epicurus I reject. And turn more hopefully to learned Bayle. With even poised scale Bayle bids me doubt. He, wise and great enough to need no creed, Has slain all systems—combats even himself: Like that blind conqueror of Philistines, He sinks beneath the ruin he has wrought.