CONSCIENCE.

Guilt still alarms, and conscience, ne’er asleep, Wounds with incessant strokes, not loud but deep; While the vexed mind her own tormentor flies, A scorpion scourge unmark’d by human eyes! Trust me no tortures that the poets feign, Can match the fierce, the unutterable pain He feels, who day and night, devoid of rest, Carries his own accuser in his breast. Juvenal.

Study conscience, more than thou wouldst fame; Though both be good, the latter yet is worst, And ever is ill got, without the first. Ben Jonson.

For though the plain judge, Conscience, makes no show, But silently to her dark session comes, Not as red law does to arraignment go, Or war to execution, with loud drums; Though she on hills sets not her gibbets high, Where frightful law sets hers; nor bloody seems, Like war in colours spread, yet secretly She does her work, and many men condemns; Chokes in the seed what law, till ripe, ne’er sees; What law would punish, Conscience can prevent; And so the world from many mischiefs frees; Known by her cures, as law by punishment. Sir William Davenant.

So gnaws the grief of conscience evermore, And in the heart it is so deeply grave, That they may never sleep nor rest therefor, Nor think one thought but on the dread they have. Earl of Dorset.

The soul’s rough file that smoothness does impart; The hammer that does break the stony heart! The worm that never dies! the “thorn within,” That pricks and pains! the whip and scourge of sin! The voice of God in man! that without rest Does softly cry within a troubled breast— “To all temptations is that soul set free That makes not to itself a curb of me.” Sir E. Sherburne.

For him a waking bloodhound, yelling loud, (That in his bosom long had sleeping laid, A guilty conscience lurking after blood,) Pursued eagerly, nor ever stayed, Till the betrayer’s self it had betrayed; Oft changed he place in hope away to wind, But change of place could never change his mind, Himself he flies to lose, but follows but to find. Giles Fletcher.

There is a kind of conscience some men keep, Is like a member that’s benumbed with sleep; Which, as it gathers blood, and wakes again, It shoots, and pricks, and feels as big as ten. Quarles.

The swelling of an outward fortune can Create a prosperous, not a happy, man; A peaceful conscience is the true content, And wealth is but her golden ornament. Quarles.

Divine authority, within man’s breast, Brings every thought, word, action, to the test; Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains, As reason, or as passion takes the reins. Heaven from above, and Conscience from within, Cries in his startled ear,—Abstain from sin. Cowper.

From behind her secret stand, The sly informer minutes every fault, And her dread diary with horror fills. Not the gross act alone employs her pen; She reconnoitres fancy’s airy band, Our dawning purposes of heart explores, And steals our embryos of iniquity. Young.

’Tis ever thus With noble minds; if chance they slide to folly, Remorse stings deeper, and relentless conscience Pours more of gall into the bitter cup Of their severe repentance. Mason.

Knowledge or wealth to few are given, But mark how just the ways of heaven: True joy to all is free. Nor wealth nor knowledge grant the boon, ’Tis thine, O Conscience! thine alone— It all belongs to thee. Mickle.

What terrestial woe can match The self-convicted bosom, which hath wrought The bane of others, or enslaved itself With shackles vile? Not poison, nor sharp fire, Nor the worst pangs that ever monkish hate Suggested, or despotic rage imposed, Were at that season an unwished exchange; When the soul loathes herself, when flying thence, To crowds, on every brow she sees pourtrayed Fell demons, hate or scorn, which drive her back To solitude, her Judge’s voice divine, To hear in secret, haply sounding through The troubled dreams of midnight, and still, still Demanding for his violated laws Fit recompense; or charging her own tongue To speak the award of justice on herself. Akenside.

Conscience distasteful truths may tell, But mark her sacred lessons well, With her whoever lives at strife, Loses his better friend for life. Anon.

Conscience, tremendous conscience, in his fits Of inspiration, whencesoe’er it came, Rose like a ghost, inflicting fear of death On those who feared not death in fiercest battle, And mocked him in their martyrdoms of torments; That secret, swift, and silent messenger, Broke on them in their lonely hours;—in sleep, In sickness; haunting them with dire suspicions Of something in themselves that would not die— Of an existence elsewhere, and hereafter; Of which tradition was not wholly silent, Yet spake not out; its dreary oracles Confounded superstition to conceive, And baffled scepticism to reject, What fear of death is like the fear beyond it? J. Montgomery.

Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard Threading the ominous silence of that fear, Gentle and terrorless, as if a bird, Wakened by some volcano’s glare, should cheer The murk air with his song; yet every word In the cathedral’s farthest arch seemed near, As if it spoke to every one apart, Like the clear voice of conscience to each heart. Lowell.

Lest too powerful passions should propel Headlong to acts immoral, nor allow Time for slow Reason to deduce a rule To curb their mad career, Conscience kind heaven Appointed her assistant; Conscience quick To heed the call of duty, to discern ’Twixt right and wrong, and bias to the best. William Gibson.

Oh, that folk would well consider What it is to lose a name, What this world is altogether, If bereft of honest fame. Poverty ne’er brings dishonour, Hardship ne’er breeds sorrow’s smart, If bright conscience takes upon her To shed sunshine round the heart. Hector Mc’ Neill.