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THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. - The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

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THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Author: Voltaire
Translator: William F. Fleming
Notes: Tobias Smollett

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

The spacious earth resounds fair virtue’s fame,
The pulpit, bar, and stage, of her declaim;
Virtue, ’tis said, can sometimes penetrate
To courts, and lurk behind the pomp of state.
Virtue’s a sacred name, we always hear
The word pronounced with a delighted ear.
Mortals will ever cultivate deceit,
And sharpers, greater sharpers still defeat:
Thus the deluded French blank tickets draw,
Tickets invented by the impostor Law,
That fool from Scotland, quite engrossed by pelf,
Who duped all mankind, and then duped himself.
What’s virtue? Say, great Brutus, dear to fame,
Exclaimed expiring, “Virtue’s but a name.”
To Zeno’s followers ’twas so little known,
They thought all virtue apathy alone.
The Eastern dervish pours to heaven his prayer,
With arms erect, and with a frantic air,
Dancing like mad, he loud invokes the skies,
And naming Mahomet in circles flies;
And when awhile he has in circles run,
He thinks the noble task of virtue done.
With hempen girdle, and unblushing face,
A monk brimful of ignorance and grace,
Does through the nose his ritual rehearse,
And sings psalms rendered ill in Latin verse:
May piety like this a blessing find,
But what good hence results to human kind?
To him true virtue never sure was known,
Who does no good but to himself alone.
When He who truths divine to mortals taught,
Was before Pilate by vile traitors brought:
“What is the truth?” the Roman Prætor cried
With all the haughty majesty of pride,
The man divine, who all truth could explain,
Made no reply but silence and disdain.
This silent eloquence may serve to show
That men were never made the truth to know.
But when a simple citizen, inspired
With love of truth, his God’s advice required;
When as a sage disciple he explored,
How God by mortal man should be adored,
The heavenly envoy, with the subject fired,
Declared the truth, the truth by God inspired,
And in one word the will divine expressed,
“Love God, and love His creatures, to be blessed.”
This is the law divine, the heavens above
Explained man’s duty when they bade to love.
The world is full of vice, the man who flies
Mankind can’t virtuous be deemed, but wise:
Man should himself and all mankind befriend.
Whither, fanatic, does thy frenzy tend?
Wherefore that jaundiced cheek, that haggard face,
Why those convulsions, that unequal pace?
Against the age you rave, and straight repair
To cant at leisure with some pious fair:
There saints run mad, with strange convulsions soar
To heaven, and God, like men possessed, adore;
There, mounted on a stage, they make loud cries,
Work miracles, and tell prophetic lies;
Thither the blind repair, relief to find,
But to their mansion back return, still blind;
The lame man leaping falls; the holy band
Lead back the wretch, a crutch in either hand;
The deaf who dull and void of sense appears,
Listens attentive, though he nothing hears:
Meantime a troupe devout with transport fired,
And by the foolish multitude admired,
Preach to weak girls, who willingly give ear,
That the last dreadful day is drawing near.
Some souls in such things much delight can find,
But don’t some duties still more strongly bind?
Why does thy friend in want and sickness lie,
Why do you to him needful aid deny?
With such as you salvation’s for the great,
The poor alone can miss a blissful state.
This judge, they say, is upright and austere,
Nothing can mollify his soul severe:
I understand he makes mankind detest
His power, since rigor always steels his breast.
But was his hand e’er known the world to bless,
Did he e’er succor virtue in distress?
Did he e’er serve, or even protect by law,
The man who stands in court with humble awe?
His rigor to the guilty has been shown,
The man’s not just who punishes alone.
The just are still benevolent. Long since,
The wicked minister of a virtuous prince
Thus dared his cursed suggestions to impart,
Timantes is a Calvinist in heart;
A work of Calvin’s at his house was seen,
Such odious heretics you should not screen;
He should in prison all his life be pent,
Or sent into perpetual banishment.
This answer straight returned the prince august,
“Timantes I have faithful found and just;
That courtier’s faults indeed to light you bring,
But you forget how well he served his king.”
This monarch’s truly noble, wise discourse
Inculcates virtue with a sermon’s force.
Shall fraud and insolent pretensions claim
Even sacred virtue’s venerable name?
Shall Germont, weak dispenser of the laws,
Who, when Sejanus raves, won’t plead my cause;
The insipid Cyrus, he whose only care
Is to be praised, and supper to prepare—
Shall these profane fair virtue’s sacred name?
Virtue with scorn rejects the senseless claim.
It is not due to these, but him who glows
With tenderness, and friendship’s duties knows;
Norman and Cochin virtuous I confess,
Whose eloquence protected orphans bless;
It is not due, vile Mannori, to thee,
Who sellest thy anger for a paltry fee,
Who eloquence converted to a trade,
And not a pleading, but a libel made.
Judge, to whose zeal right reason is the guide,
In speech de Thou, a Pucelle to decide;
A tender friend, a generous patron known.
That thou art virtuous sure all men must own.
Enjoy that title, thou whom men revere,
With wisdom thou art just, but not austere:
Thou midst the dazzling pomp of awful state,
Art loved as virtuous, not maligned as great.
An author, whose prolific pen composed
Plans various, which to mankind he proposed;
Who long wrote for ungrateful men alone,
Has coined a word to Vaugelas unknown.
This word I like, this word was made to impart
Ideas of virtue to the human heart.
You pedants, you grammarians of the schools,
Who measure syllables, and frame new rules,
To you the expression may too bold appear,
But surely it must please each virtuous ear.