'Are all, then, fools? Lorenzo cries.-Yes, all, But fuch as hold this doctrine (new to thee ;) 'The mother of true wisdom is the will;'
The nobleft intellect, a fool without it.
World-wisdom much has done, and more may do,
In arts and sciences, in wars and peace;
But art and fcience, like thy wealth, will leave thee,
And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.
This is the most indulgence can afford;
Thy wisdom all can do, but-make thee wife.'
Nor think this cenfure is fevere on thee;
Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.
NIGHT THE NINTH AND LAST.
CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,
1. A Moral Survey of the Nocturnal Heavens. II. A Night Addrefs to the DEITY.
One of his Majesty's principal Secretaries of State.
-Fatis contraria fata rependens. VIRG.
As when a traveller, a long day past
In painful fearch of what he cannot find,
At night's approach, content with the next cot,
There ruminates, a while, his labour loft;
Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords,
And chants his fonnet to deceive the time,
Till the due feafon calls him to repofe :
Thus I, long-travell'd in the ways of men,
And dancing, with the reft, the giddy maze,
Where difappointment fmiles at hope's career
Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray,
At length have hous'd me in an humble fhed;
Where future wand'ring banish'd from my thought,
And waiting, patient, the fweet hour of reft;
I chafe the moments with a ferious fong.
Song fooths our pains; and age has pains to footh.
When age, care, crime, and friends embrac'd at heart,
Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade,
Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire;
Canft thou, O Night! indulge one labour more?
One labour more indulge! then fleep, my strain !
Till, haply, wak'd by Kaphael's golden lyre,
Where night, death, age, care, crime, and for row cease
To bear a part in everlasting lays;
Though far, far higher fet, in aim, I trust,
Symphonious to this humble prelude here.
Has not the mufe afferted pleasures pure,
Like thofe above; exploding other joys?
Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh;
And tell me, haft thou cause to triumph ftill?
I think thou wilt forbear a boast fo bold.
But if beneath the favour of mistake,
Thy fmile's fincere; not more fincere can be
Lorenzo's fmile, than my compaffion for him.
The fick in body call for aid; the fick
In mind are covetous of more difeafe;
And when at worst, they dream themfelves quite well.
To know ourselves difeas'd, is half our cure.
When nature's blush by cuftom is wip'd off,
And confcience, deaden'd by repeated ftrokes,
Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes;
The curfe of curfes is, our curfe to love;
To triumph in the blackness of our guilt
(As Indians glory in the deepest jet ;)
And throw afide our fenfes with our peace.
But, grant no guilt, no fhame, no leaft alloy;
Grant joy and glory, quite unfully'd, fhone;
Yet ftill it ill deferves Lorenzo's heart.
No joy, no glory, glitters in thy fight,
But, through the thin partition of an hour,
I fee its fables wove by deftiny;
And that in forrow bury'd; this, in shame
While howling furies ring the doleful knell ;
And confcience, now fo foft thou fcarce canft hear
Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.
Where the prime actors of the last year's fcenes;
Their port fo proud, their buskin and their plume;
How many fleep, who kept the world awake
With luftre, and with noife! Has death proclaim'd
A truce, and hung his fated lance on high?
'Tis brandifh'd ftill; nor fhall the present year
Be more tenacious of her human leaf,
Or fpread of feeble life a thinner fall.
But needlefs monuments to wake the thought;
Life's gayeft fcenes fpeak man's mortality;
Though in a style more florid, full as plain,
As maufoleums, pyramids, and tombs.
What are our nobleft ornaments, but deaths
Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint, or marble,
The well-ftain'd canvass, or the featur'd stone?
Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the fcène.
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.
'Profefs'd diverfions! cannot these escape?"
Far from it: these present us with a shroud ;
And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave.
As fome bold plunderers, for bury'd wealth,
We ranfack tombs for pastime: from the duft
Call up the fleeping hero; bid him tread
The fcene for our amusement; how like gods
We fit; and wrapt in immortality,
Shed gen'rous tears on wretches born to die;
Their fate deploring, to forget our own!
What, all the pomps and triumphs of our lives,
But legacies in bloffom? our lean foil,
Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities,
From friends interr'd beneath; a rich manure!
Like other worms, we banquet on the dead;
Like other worms, fhall we crawl on, nor know
Our prefent frailties, or approaching fate?
Lorenzo fuch the glories of the world!
What is the world itself? thy world? A grave.
Where is the duft that has not been alive?
The fpade, the plough, disturb our ancestors;
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
The globe around earth's hollow furface shakes,
And is the ceiling of her fleeping fons.
O'er devastation we blind revels keep;
Whole bury'd towns. fupport the dancer's heel.
The moift of human frame the fun exhales;
Winds fcatter, through the mighty void, the dry;
Earth repoffeffes part of what the gave,
And the freed fpirit mounts on wings of fire;
Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils;
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