On cold-ferv'd repetitions he fubfifts,
And in the tastelefs prefent chews the paft;
Difgufted chews, and scarce can fwallow down.
Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years

Have difinherited his future hours,

Which starve on orts, and glean their former field.
Live ever here, Lorenzo!-Shocking thought!
So fhocking, they who wifh, difown it too;
Difown from shame, what they from folly crave.
Live ever in the womb, nor fee the light?
For what live ever here?-With lab'ring step
To tread our former footsteps? Pace the round
Eternal? To climb life's worn heavy wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat,
The beaten track? To bid each wretched day
The former mock? To furfeit on the fame,
And yawn our joys? or thank a mifery

For change, tho' fad? To fee what we have feen?
Hear, till unheard, the fame old flabber'd tale?
To taste the tasted, and at each return

Lefs tafteful? O'er our palates to decant
Another vintage? Strain a flatter year,

Thro' loaded veffels, and a laxer tone?
Crazy machines to grind earth's wafted fruits!
Ill-ground, and worfe concocted! Load, not life!
The rational foul kennels of excefs!

Still streaming thorough-fares of dull debauch!
Trembling each gulp, left death fhould fnatch the bowl.
Such of our fine ones is the with refin'd!

So would they have it: elegant defire!

Why not invite the bellowing stalls, and wilds?
But fuch examples might their riot awe.

Thro' want of virtue, that is, want of thought,
(Tho' on bright thought they father all their flights)
To what are they reduc'd? to love, and hate,
The fame vain world; to cenfure, and espouse,
This painted fhrew of life, who calls them fool,
Each moment of each day; to flatter bad
Thro' dread of worfe; to cling to this rude rock,
Barren, to them, of good, and fharp with ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending storms,
And infamous for wrecks of human hope
Scar'd at the gloomy gulph, that yawns beneath.
Such are their triumphs! fuch their pangs of joy!

'Tis time, high time, to fhift this difmal scene.
This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure?
One only; but that one, what all may reach;
Virtue She, wonder-working goddess! charms
That rock to bloom; and tames the painted fhrew;
And what will more furprize, Lorenzo! gives
To life's fick, nauseous iteration, change;
And ftraitens nature's circle to a line.
Believ'st thou this, Lorenzo? lend an ear,
A patient ear, thou'lt blufh to disbelieve.
A languid, leaden iteration reigns,

And ever must, o'er those, whose joys are joys
Of fight, fmell, tafte: the cuckow-feasons fing
The fame dull note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what thofe feafons from the teeming earth,
To doating fenfe indulge. But nobler minds,

Which relish fruits unripen'd by the fun,
Make their days various; various as the dyes
On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays.
On minds of dove-like innocence poffeft,
On lighten'd minds, that bask in virtue's beams,
Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves
In that, for which they long; for which they live.
Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heav'nly hope,
Each rifing morning fees ftill higher rise;
Each bounteous dawn its novelty prefents
To worth maturing, new ftrength, luftre, fame;
While nature circle, like a chariot-wheel
Rolling beneath their elevated aims,
Makes their fair profpect fairer ev'ry hour;
Advancing virtue, in a line to blifs;

Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire!
And blifs, which Christian schemes alone infure!
And shall we then, for virtue's fake, commence
Apoftates? and turn infidels for joy?

A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer truft,

He fins against this life, who flights the next.'
What is this life? how few their fav'rite know?
Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace,
By paffionately loving life, we make
Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death.
We give to time eternity's regard;

And, dreaming, take our paffage for our port.

Life has no value, as an end, but means;

An end deplorable! a means divine!

When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worfe than nought;

A neft of pains; when held as nothing, much:
Like fome fair humʼrifts, life is most enjoy'd,
When courted leaft; most worth, when difesteem'd;
Then 'tis the feat of comfort, rich in peace;
In profpect richer far; important! awful!
Not to be mention'd, but with fhouts of praise!
Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy!
The mighty basis of eternal blifs!

Where now the barren rock? the painted fhrew?
Where now, Lorenzo! life's eternal round?
Have I not made my triple promife good?
Vain is the world; but only to the vain.
To what compare we then this varying fcene,
Whose worth ambiguous rifes, and declines?
Waxes, and wanes? (in all propitious, night
Affifts me here) compare it to the moon;
Dark in herself and indigent; but rich
In borrow'd luftre from a higher sphere.
When grofs guilt interpofes, lab'ring earth,
O'ershadow'd, mourns a deep eclipse of joy;
Her joys, at brighteft, pallid, to that font
Of full effulgent glory, whence they flow.
Nor is that glory diftant: Oh Lorenzo!
A good man, and an angel! thefe between
How thin the barrier? what divides their fate?
Perhaps a moment; or, perhaps a year;

Or, if an age, it is a moment ftill;

A moment, or eternity's forgot.

Then be, what once they were, who now are gods; Be what Philander was, and claim the skies.

Starts timid nature at the gloomy pafs?
The foft tranfition call it, and be chear'd:
Such it is often, and why not to thee?
To hope the beft is pious, brave, and wife;
And may itfelf procure, what it prefumes.
Life is much flatter'd, death is much traduc'd;
Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown.
Strange competition!'True, Lorenzo! strange!
So little life can caft into the fcale.

Life makes the foul dependent on the duft;
Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres.
Thro' chinks, ftyl'd organs, dim life peeps at light;
Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day;
All eye, all ear, the difembody'd power.
Death has feign'd evils, nature fhall not feel;
Life, ills fubftantial, wisdom cannot shun.
Is not the mighty mind, that fon of heaven!
By tyrant life dethron'd, imprifon'd, pain'd?
By death enlarg'd, ennobled, deify'd?
Death but entombs the body; life the foul.

Is death then guiltlefs? How he marks his way • With dreadful waste of what deferves to shine! Art, genius, fortune, elevated power!

• With various luftres thefe light up the world, Which death puts out, and darkens human race.' I grant, Lorenzo! this indictment just:

The fage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror!
Death humbles thefe; more barb'rous life, the man.
Life is the triumph of our mould'ring clay;
Death, of the fpirit infinite! divine!