The Love of This LIFE;
The AMBITION and PLEASURE, with the WIT and WISDOM, of the WORLD.
ND has all Nature, then, efpous'd my Part ?
Have I brib'd Heav'n, and Earth, to plead against
And is thy Soul Immortal?—What remains ?
All, All, LORENZO; Make Immortal, Bleft.
Unbleft Immortals! What can fhock us more?
And yet LORENZO ftill affects the World;
There, ftows his Treafure; Thence, his Title draws,
Man of the World! (for fuch wouldst thou be call'd).
And art thou proud of that inglorious Style?
Proud of Reproach? For a Reproach it was,
In antient Days; and CHRISTIAN,-in an Age,
When Men were Men, and not afham'd of Heaven,
Fir'd their Ambition, as it crown'd their Joy.
Sprinkled with Dews from the Caftalian Font,
Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer
A Purer Spirit, and a nobler Name.
Thy fond Attachments fatal, and inflam'd,
Point out my Path, and dictate to my Song:
To Thee, the World how Fair! How ftrongly ftrikes
Ambition! and gay Pleafure ftronger still!
Thy Triple Bane! the Triple Bolt, that lays
Thy Virtue dead! Be These my Triple Theme;
Nor fhall thy Wit or Wisdom, be forgot.
Common the Theme; not fo the Song; if She
My Song invokes, URANIA, deigns to fmile.
The Charm that chains us to the World, her Foe,
If the diffolves, the Man of Earth, at once,
Starts from his Trance, and fighs for other Scenes;
Scenes, where thefe Sparks of Night, these Stars, shall
Unnumber'd Suns (for all Things, as they are, [shine
The Bleft behold); and, in one Glory, pour
Their blended Blaze on Man's aftonisht Sight;
A Blaze, the leaft illuftrious Object There.
LORENZO! fince Eternal is at Hand,
To fwallow Time's Ambitions; as the vast
Leviathan, the Bubbles vain, that ride
High on the foaming Billow; what avail
High Titles, high Defcent, Attainments high,
If unattain'd, our Highest? O LORENZO!
What lofty Thoughts, thefe Elements above,.
What tow'ring Hopes, what Sallies from the Sun,,
What grand Surveys of Destiny divine,
And pompous Prefage of unfathom'd Fate,,
Should roll in Bofoms, where a Spirit burns,
Bound for Eternity! In Bofoms read
By Him, who Foibles in Archangels fees!
On human Hearts He bends a jealous Eye,.
And marks, and in Heav'n's Register inrolls,.
The Rife, and Progrefs, of each Option there ;.
Sacred to Doomsday! That the Page unfolds,
And spreads us to the Gaze of Go is and Men..
And what an Option, O LORENZO! thine?
This World! and This, unrivall'd by the Skies!
A World, where Luft of Pleasure, Grandeur, Gold,
Three Demons that divide its Realms between them,
With ftrokes alternate buffet to and fro
Man's reftless Heart, their Sport, their flying Ball;
Till, with the giddy Circle, fick, and tir'd,
It pants for Peace, and drops into Despair.
Such is the World LORENZO fets above
That glorious Promife Angels were esteem'd
Too mean to bring; a Promise, their Ador'd
Defcended to communicate, and prefs,
By Counfel, Miracle, Life, Death, on Man.
Such is the World LORENZO'S Wisdom wooes,
And on its thorny Pillow feeks Repose;
A Pillow, which, like Opiates ill-prepar'd,
Intoxicates, but not compofes; fills
The vifionary Mind with gay Chimeras,
All the wild Trail of Sleep, without the Reft;
What unfeign'd Travel, and what Dreams of Joy!
How frail, Men, Things! How momentary, Both!
Fantaftic Chace, of Shadows hunting Shades !
The Gay, the Bufy, equal, tho' unlike;
Equal in Wisdom, differently wife!
Thro' flow'ry Meadows, and thro' dreary Waftes,
One Buftling, and One Dancing, into Death.
There's not a Day, but, to the Man of Thought,
Betrays fome Secret, that throws new Reproach
On Life, and makes him fick of feeing more.
The Scenes of Bus'nefs tell us-" What are Men ;"
The Scenes of Pleasure-" What is all beside :"
There, Others we despise; and Here, Qurselves.
Amid Difguft eternal, dwells Delight?
'iis Approbation strikes the String of Joy.
Night 8. What wondrous Prize has kindled this Career, Stuns with the Din, and choaks us with the Duft, On Life's gay Stage, one Inch above the Grave? The Proud run up and down in queft of Eyes; The Senfual, in pursuit of fomething worse; The Grave, of Gold; the Politic, of Power; And All, of other Butterflies, as vain! As Eddies draw Things frivolous, and light, How is Man's Heart by Vanity drawn in ; On the fwift Circle of returning Toys,
Whirl'd, Straw-like, round and round, and then in-
Where gay Delufion darkens to Despair! [gulph'd,
"This is a beaten Track.”—Is This a Track
Should not be beaten? Never beat enough,
Till enough learnt the Truths it would inspire.
Shall Truth be filent, because Folly frowns?
Turn the World's Hiftory; what find we there,
But Fortune's Sports, or Nature's cruel Claims,
Or Woman's Artifice, or Man's Revenge,
And endless Inhumanities on Man ?
Fame's Trumpet feldom founds, but, like the Knell,
It brings bad Tidings: How it hourly blows
Man's Mifadventures round the lift'ning World!
Man is the Tale of narrative old Time;
Sad Tale; which high as Paradife begins;
As if, the Toil of Travel to delude,
From Stage to Stage, in his eternal Round,
The Days, his Daughters, as they fpin our Hours
On Fortune's Wheel, where Accident unthought
Oft, in a Moment, fnaps Life's strongest Thread,
Each, in her Turn, fome Tragic Story tells,
With, now-and-then, a wretched Farce between ;
And fills his Chronicle with human Woes.
Time's Daughters, True as thofe of Men, deceive us ; Not One, but puts fome Cheat on all Mankind:
While in their Father's Bofom, not yet Ours,
They flatter our fond Hopes; and promife much
Of Amiable; but hold him not o'er-wife,
Who dares to truft them; and laugh round the Year,
At ftill-confiding, ftill-confounded, Man,
Confiding, tho' confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by Trial, unconvinc'd by Proof,
And Ever-looking for the Never-seen.
Life to the laft, like harden'd Felons, lyes;
Nor owns itself a Cheat, till it expires.
Its little Joys go out by One and One,
And leave poor Man, at length, in perfect Night;
Night darker, than what, now, involves the Pole.
O THOU, who doft permit thefe Ills to fall,
For gracious Ends, and wouldft that Man fhould mourn!
O THOU, whose Hands this goodly Fabric fram'd,
Who know'st it beft, and wouldst that Man should know I
What is this fublunary World? A Vapour;
A Vapour all it holds; itfelf, a Vaponr,
From the damp Bed of Chaos, by thy Beam
Exhal'd, ordain'd to fwim its deftin'd Hour
In ambient Air, then melt, and disappear.
Earth's Days are number'd, nor remote her Doom
As Mortal, tho' less Transient, than her Sons;
Yet they doat on her, as the World and They
Were both Eternal, Solid; THOU, a Dream..
They doat, on What? Immortal Views apart,
A Region of Outfides! a Land of Shadows!
A fruitful Field of flow'ry Promises!
A Wilderness of Joys! perplext with Doubts,
And sharp with Thorns! A troubled Ocean, spread
With bold Adventurers, their All on Board;
No fecond Hope, if here their Fortune frowns ;
Frown foon it must. Of various Rates they fail,]
Of Enfigns various; All alike in This,
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