Shall our pale, wither'd hands, be ftill ftretch'd out,
Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age?
With av❜rice, and convulfions, grasping hard?
Grafping at air! for what has earth befide?
Man wants but little; nor that little, long;
How foon must he refign his very duft,
Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous ills;
And foon as man, expert from time, has found
The key of life, it opes the gates of death.

When in this vale of years I backward look,
And mifs fuch numbers, numbers too of fuch,
Firmer in health, and greener in their age,
And stricter on their guard, and fitter far
To play life's fubtle game, I fcarce believe
I ftill furvive: and am I fond of life,
Who fcarce can think it poffible, I live?
Alive by miracle! or, what is next,

Alive by Mead! if I am still alive,

Who long have bury'd what gives life to live,
Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought.
Life's lee is not more shallow, than impure,
And vapid, fenfe and reason fhew the door,
Call for my bier, and point me to the dust.

O thou great arbiter of life and death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial fun;
Whofe all-prolific beam late call'd me forth
From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay
The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath
The duft I tread on, high to bear my brow,

To drink the spirit of the golden day,
And triumph in exiftence: and couldft know
No motive, but my blifs; and haft ordain'd
A rife in bleffing! with the patriarch's joy,
Thy call I follow to the land unknown;
I truft in thee, and know in whom I trust;
Or life, or death, is equal; neither weighs:
All weight in this -O let me live to thee!

Though nature's terrors, thus, may be repreft;
Still frowns grim death; guilt points the tyrant's fpear.
And whence all human guilt? from death forgot.
Ah me! too long I fet at nought the fwarm
Of friendly warnings, which around me flew;
And fmil'd, unfmitten: fmall my cause to smile!
Death's admonitions, like fhafts upwards fhot,
More dreadful by delay; the longer ere
They ftrike our hearts, the deeper is their wound.
O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it ftings:

Who can appeafe its anguifh? how it burns!

What hand the barb'd, envenom'd, thought can draw?
What healing hand can pour the balm of peace,
And turn my fight undaunted on the tomb?

With joy, with grief, that healing hand I fee;
Ah! too confpicuous! it is fix'd on high.

On high? what means my phrenzy? I blaspheme; Alas! how low? how far beneath the fkies?

The fkies it form'd: and now it bleeds for me

But bleeds the balm I want-yet still it bleeds; Draw the dire fteel-Ah no!-the dreadful bleffing What heart or can fuftain, or dares forego?

There hangs all human hope; that nail fupports
The falling univerfe: that gone, we drop;
Horror receives us, and the difmal wish
Creation had been fmother'd in her birth

Darkness his curtain, and his bed the duft;
When stars and fun are dust beneath his throne!
In heav'n itself can fuch indulgence dwell?
O what a groan was there! a groan not his.
He feiz'd our dreadful right; the load fuftain'd;
And heav'd the mountain from a guilty world.

A thousand worlds, fo bought, were bought too dear. Senfations new in angels bofoms rife;

Sufpend their fong; and make a pause in blifs.

O for their fong to reach my lofty theme! Infpire me, Night! with all thy tuneful fpheres infpire; Whilst I with feraphs fhare feraphic themes,

And fhew to men the dignity of man;

Left I blafpheme my fubject with my fong.
Shall Pagan pages glow celestial flame,

And Christian languish? on our hearts, not heads,

Falls the foul infamy: My heart! awake,

What can awake thee, unawak'd by this,
Expended Deity on human weal?"

Feel the great truths, which burst the tenfold night
Of heathen error, with a golden flood

Of endless day: to feel, is to be fir'd;
And to believe, Lorenzo! is to feel.

Thou most indulgent, moft tremendous pow'r!
Still more tremendous, for thy wond'rous love!
That arms, with awe more awful, thy commands;

And foul tranfgreffion dips in fev'nfold night,
How our hearts tremble at thy love immenfe!
In love immenfe, inviolably juft!

Thou, rather than thy justice should be stain'd,
Didft ftain the crofs; and, work of wonders far
The greatest, that thy dearest far might bleed.

Bold thought! fhall I dare fpeak it, or reprefs?
Should man more execrate, or boaft, the guilt
Which rous'd fuch vengeance? which fuch love inflam'd?
(O'er guilt how montainous!) with out-ftretch'd arms,
Stern juftice, and foft-fmiling love, embrace,
Supporting, in full majefty, thy throne,
When feem'd its majefty to need fupport,
Or that, or man, inevitably loft.

What, but the fathomlefs of thought divine,
Could labour fuch expedient from despair,
And rescue both! both refcue! both exalt!
O how are both exalted by the deed!
The wond'rous deed! or fhall I call it more?
A wonder in omnipotence itself!

A mystery, no lefs to gods than men!

Not, thus, our infidels th' Eternal draw,
A. God all o'er, confummate, abfolute,
Full-orb'd, in his whole round of rays complete:
They fet at odds heav'n's jarring attributes;
And, with one excellence, another wound;
Maim Heav'n's perfection, break its equal beams,
Bid mercy triumph over-God himself,
Undeify'd by their opprobrious praife;
A God all mercy, is a God unjust,

Ye brainless wits! ye baptiz'd infidels!
Ye worse for mending! wash'd to fouler stains!
The ranfom was paid down; the fund of heav'n,
Heav'n's inexhaustible exhausted fund,

Amazing, and amaz'd, pour'd forth the price,
All price beyond: though curious to compute,
Archangels fail'd to caft the mighty fum:
Its value vaft ungrafpt by minds create,
For ever hides, and glows, in the supreme.

And was the ransom paid? It was: and paid
(What can exalt the bounty more?) for you.
The fun beheld it-no, the shocking scene
Drove back his chariot: midnight veil'd his face;
Not fuch as this; not such as nature makes;
A midnight, nature shudder'd to behold;
A midnight new! a dread eclipfe (without
Oppofing spheres) from her Creator's frown!
Sun! didft thou fly thy Maker's pain? or start
At that enormous load of human guilt,
Which bow'd his bleffed head; o'erwhelm'd his cross;
Made groan the centre, burft earth's marble womb,
With pangs, ftrange pangs! deliver'd of her dead?
Hell howl'd; and heav'n that hour let fall a tear;
Heav'n wept,that men might smile! heav'n bled,that man
Might never die!—

And is devotion virtue? 'tis compell'd:

What heart of ftone, but glows at thoughts like these? Such contemplations mount us; and should mount The mind still higher; nor ever glance on man, Unraptur'd, uninflam'd.-Where roll my thoughts