Like him they fable under Ætna whelm'd,
The goddess burfts in thunder, and in flame;
Loudly convinces, and feverely pains.
Dark dæmons I difcharge, and hydra-ftings;
The keen vibrations of bright truth—is hell :
Juft definition! tho' by fchools untaught.
Ye deaf to truth! perufe this parfon'd page,
And truft, for once, a prophet, and a priest ;
'Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.'
LORENZO! to recriminate is juft.
Fondness for fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain who writes for praise.
Praise no man e'er deferv'd, who fought no more.
As just thy fecond charge. I grant the mufe
Has often blufh'd at her degen'rate fons,
Retain'd by fenfe to plead her filthy caufe;
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And fubtilize the grofs into refin'd:
As if to magic numbers pow'rful charm
'Twas given, to make a civet of their song
Obfcene, and fweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our fwine enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obfcure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure, and of pride.
These share the man; and these distract him too;
Draw diff'rent ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But pleasure, lark-like, nefts upon the ground.
Joys fhar'd by brute-creation, pride refents;
Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy,
And both at once: a point how hard to gain!
But, what can't wit, when ftung by ftrong defire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprize.
Since joys of fense can't rife to reafon's tafte;
In fubtle fophiftry's laborious forge,
Wit hammers out a reafon new, that stoops
To fordid scenes, and meets them with applause.
Wit calls the Graces the chafte zone to loose;
Nor less than a plumb god to fill the bowl:
A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells,
A thousand opiates fcatters, to delude,
To fafcinate, inebriate, lay afleep,
And the fool'd mind of man delightfully confound.
Thus that which shock'd the judgment, fhocks no more:
That which gave pride offence, no more offends.
Pleafure and pride, by nature mortal foes,
At war eternal, which in man fhall reign,
By wit's addrefs, patch up a fatal peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, curfed art! wipes off the indebted blush
From nature's cheek, and bronzes ev'ry fhame.
Man fmiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,
And infamy stands candidate for praise.
All writ by man in favour of the foul,
Thefe fenfual ethics far, in bulk, tranfcend.
The flow'rs of eloquence, profufely pour'd
O'er spotted vice, fill half the letter'd world.
Can pow'rs of genius exercise their page,
And confecrate enormities with fong?
But let not these inexpiable ftrains
Condemn the muse that knows her dignity;
Nor meanly stops at time, but holds the world
As 'tis, in nature's ample field, a point,
A point in her esteem; from whence to start,
And run the round of universal space,
To vifit being universal thère,
And being's fource, that utmost flight of mind!
Yet, fpite of this fo vaft circumference,
Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great.
Sing Syrens only? do not angels fing?
There is in poefy a decent pride,
Which well becomes her when she speak to profe, Her younger fifter; haply, nct more wife.
Think't thou, Lorenzo! to find paftimes here? No guilty paffion blown into a flame, No foible flatter'd, dignity disgrac'd, No fairy field of fiction, all on flow'r, No rainbow colours, here, or filken tale : But folemn counfels, images of awe, Truths, which eternity lets fall on man With double weight, thro' thefe revolving fpheres, This death-deep filence, and incumbent fhade : Thoughts, fuch as fhall revifit your last hour Vifit uncall'd, and live when life expires; And thy dark pencil, Midnight! darker ftill In melancholy dipt, embrowns the whole.
Yet this, ev'n this, my laughter-loving friends!
Lorenzo! and thy brothers of the fraile !
If, what imports you moft, can most engage,
Shall fteal your ear, and chain you to my fong.
Or if you fail me, know, the wife fhall tafte
The truths I fing; the truths I fing fhall feel;
And, feeling, give affent; and their affent
Is ample recompence; is more than praise.
But chiefly thine, O LITCHFIELD! nor mistake;
Think not unintroduc'd I force my way;
Narciffa, not unknown, not unally'd,
By virtue, or by blood, illuftrious youth!
To thee, from blooming amaranthine bow'rs,
Where all the language harmony, defcends
Uncall'd, and afks admittance for the Mufe:
A Mufe that will not pain thee with thy praise;
Thy praise fhe drops, by nobler ftill inspir'd.
O thou! bleft Spirit! whether the fupreme,
Great antemundane Father! in whofe breaft
Embryo creation, unborn being, dwelt,
And all its various revolutions roll'd
Prefent, tho' future; prior to themselves;
Whofe breath can blow it into nought again;
Or from his throne fome delegated pow'r,
Who, studious of our peace, doft turn the thought
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