"Tis thine.

And art thou greater than before?
Then thou before waft fomething less than Man.
Has thy new Poft betray'd thee into Pride?
That treach'rous Pride betrays thy Dignity;
That Pride defames Humanity, and calls

The Being mean, which Staffs or Strings can raise.
That Pride, like hooded Hawks, in Darkness foars,
From Blindness bold, and tow'ring to the Skies.
'Tis born of Ignorance, which knows not Man
An Angel's Second; nor his Second long.
A NERO quitting his Imperial Throne,
And courting Glory from the tinkling String,
But faintly fhadows an immortal Soul,
With Empire's Self, to Pride, or Rapture, fir'd.
If nobler Motives minifter no Cure,
Ev'n Vanity forbids thee to be vain.

High Worth is elevated Place: 'Tis more ;
It makes the Poft ftand Candidate for Thee;
Makes more than Monarchs, makes an honest Man;
Tho' no Exchequer it commands, 'tis Wealth;
And tho' it wears no Ribbon, 'tis Renown ;
Renown, that would not quit thee, tho' difgrac'd,
Nor leave thee pendent on a Master's Smile.
Other Ambition Nature interdicts;

Nature proclaims it most absurd in Man,
By pointing at his Origin, and End;

Milk, and a Swathe, at firft, his whole Demand;
His whole Domain, at laft, a Turf, or Stone;
To whom, between, a World may seem too small.

Souls truly great dart forward on the Wing
Of just Ambition, to the grand Result,
The Curtain's Fall; there, fee the buskin'd Chief
Unfhod behind this momentary Scene;
Reduc'd to his own Stature, low or high,
As Vice, or Virtue, finks him, or fublimes
And laugh at this fantastic Mummery,
This antic Prelude of grotefque Events,
Where Dwarfs are often ftilted, and betray

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A Littleness of Soul by Worlds o'er-run,

And Nations laid in Blood. Dread Sacrifice

To Chriftian Pride! which had with Horror shockt
The darkest Pagans, offer'd to their Gods.

O Thou moft Chriftian Enemy to Peace!
Again in Arms? Again provoking Fate ?
That Prince, and That alone, is truly Great,
Who draws the Sword reluctant, gladly fheaths
On Empire builds what Empire far outweighs,
And makes his Throne a Scaffold to the Skies.

;

Why this fo rare? Because forgot of all The Day of Death; that venerable Day, Which fits as Judge; that Day, which fhall pronounce On all our Days, abfolve them, or condemn. LORENZO, never fhut thy Thought against it; Be Levees ne'er fo full, afford it Room, And give it Audience in the Cabinet. That Friend confulted, Flatteries apart, Will tell thee fair, if Thou art Great, or Mean.

To doat on aught may leave us, or be left,
Is That Ambition? Then let Flames defcend,
Point to the Centre their inverted Spires,
And learn Humiliation from a Soul,

Which boasts her Lineage from celestial Fire.
Yet These are they, the World pronounces wife.
The World, which cancels Nature's Right and Wrong,
And cafts new Wisdom: Ev'n the grave Man lends
His folemn Face, to countenance the Coin.
Wifdom for Parts is Madness for the Whole.
This ftamps the Paradox, and gives us leave.
To call the Wifeft weak, the Richest poor,
The most Ambitious, Unambitious, Mean;
In Triumph, mean; and abject on a Throne.
Nothing can make it lefs than mad in Man,
To put forth all his Ardor, all his Art,
And give his Soul her full unbounded Flight,
But reaching Him, who gave her Wings to fly.
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When

When blind Ambition quite mistakes her Road,
And downwards pores, for that which shines above,
Subftantial Happiness, and true Renown;
Then, like an Idiot gazing on the Brook,
We leap at Stars, and fasten in the Mud;
At Glory grafp, and fink in Infamy.

Ambition! pow'rful Source of Good and Ill!
Thy Strength in Man, like Length of Wing in Birds,.
When difengag'd from Earth, with greater Eafe,
And fwifter Flight, transports us to the Skies:
By Toys entangled, or in Guilt bemir'd,

It turns a Curfe; it is our Chain, and Scourge,
In this dark Dungeon, where confin'd we lie,
Close-grated by the fordid Bars of Sense;
All Profpect of Eternity shut out;
And, but for Execution, ne'er fet free.

"Not in me,"

With Error in Ambition juftly charg'd,
Find we LORENZO wifer in his Wealth?
What if thy Rental I reform ? and draw
An Inventory new to fet thee right?
Where, thy true Treafure? Gold fays,
And, "Not in me," the Di'mond. Gold is poor;
India's infolvent: Seek it in Thyfelf,
Seek in thy naked Self, and find it There;
In Being fo defcended, form'd, endow'd;
Sky-born, fky-guided, fky-returning Race!
Erect, Immortal, Rationa', Divine!

In Senfes, which inherit Earth, and Heavens ;
Enjoy the various Riches Nature yields;
Far nobler; give the Riches they enjoy;

Give Tafte to Fruits; and Harmony to Groves;
Their radiant Beams to Gold, and Gold's bright Sire;
Take in, at once, the Landfchape of the World,
At a fmall Inlet, which a Grain might close,
And half create the wond'rous World they fee.
Our Senfes, and our Reafon, are divine.
But for the magic Organ's pow'rful Charm,
Earth were a rude, uncolour'd Chaos ftill.

Obje&s

Oljects are but th' Occafion; ours th' Exploit ;
Ours is the Cloth, the Pencil, and the Paint,
Which Nature's admirable Pictures draws;
And beautifies Creation's ample Dome.
Like Milton's Eve, when gazing on the Lake,
Man makes the matchlefs Image, Man admires.
Say then, Shall Man, his Thoughts all fent abroad,
Superior Wonders in Himfelf forgot,

His Admiration waste on Objects round,

When Heav'n makes Him the Soul of all he fees?
Abfurd! not rare! fo Great, fo Mean, is Man.

What Wealth in Senfes fuch as thefe! What Wealth
In Fancy, fir'd to form a fairer Scene

Than Senfe furveys! In Mem'ry's firm Record,
Which, fhould it perish, could this World recall
From the dark Shadows of o'erwhelming Years!
In Colours fresh, originally bright

Preserve its Portrait, and report its Fate!
What Wealth in Intellect, that fov'reign Power!
Which Senfe, and Fancy, fummons to the Bar;
Interrogates, approves, or reprehends;
And from the Mass thofe Underlings import,
From their Materials fifted, and refin'd,
And in Truth's Balance accurately weigh'd,
Forms Art, and Science, Government, and Law;
The folid Bafis, and the beauteous Frame,
The Vitals, and the Grace of Civil Life!
And Manners (fad Exception!) set aside,
Strikes out, with Master-hand, a Copy fair
Of His Idea, whofe indulgent Thought
Long, long, ere Chaos teem'd, plann'd human Blifs.

What Wealth in Souls that foar, dive, range around,
Difdaining Limit, or from Place, or Time;
And hear at once, in Thought extensive, hear
Th' Almighty Fiat, and the Trumpet's Sound!
Bold, on Creation's Outfide walk, and view
What was, and is,, and more than e'er fhall be ;
Commanding, with Omnipotence of Thought,

Creations

Creations new in Fancy's Field to rife!

Souls, that can grasp whate'er th' Almighty made,
And wander wild, through Things impoffible!
What Wealth, in Faculties of endless Growth,
In quenchless Paffions violent to crave,
In Liberty to chufe, in Pow'r to reach,
And in Duration (how thy Riches rife!)
Duration to perpetuate--boundless Bliss !

Afk you, what Power refides in feeble Man
That Bliss to gain? Is Virtue's, then, unknown?
Virtue, our present Peace, our future Prize.
Man's unprecarious, natural Eftate,
Improveable at Will, in Virtue, lies;
Its Tenure fure; its Income is divinę.

High-built Abundance, Heap on Heap! for what?
To breed new Wants, and beggar us the more;
Then, make a richer Scramble for the Throng?
Soon as this feeble Pulfe, which leaps fo long
Almost by Miracle, is tir'd with Play,
Like Rubbish from difploding Engines thrown,
Our Magazines of hoarded Trifles fly;
Fly diverfe; fly to Foreigners, to Foes;
New Masters court, and call the former Fool
(How justly!) for Dependence on their Stay.
Wide fcatter, firft, our Play-things, then, our Duft.

Doft court Abundance for the fake of Peace?
Learn, and lament, thy felf-defeated Scheme:
Riches enable to be richer ftill;

And, Richer fill, what Mortal can refift?
Thus Wealth (a cruel Task-mafter!) injoins
New Toils, fucceeding Toils, an endless Train!
And murders Peace, which taught it firft to fhine.
The Poor are half as wretched, as the Rich;
Whose proud and painful Privilege it is,
At once, to bear a double Load of Woe ;
To feel the Stings of Envy, and of Want,
Outrageous Want! both Indies cannot cure.

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