A languid, leaden, iteration reigns,
And ever muft, o'er thofe, whofe joys are joys
Of fight, fmell, tafte: The cuckow-feafons fing
The fame dull note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what those seafons, from the teeming earth,
To doating fenfe indulge. But nobler minds,
Which relish fruits unripen'd by the sun,
Make their days various; various as the dyes
On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays.
On minds of dove-like innocence poffeft,
On lighten'd minds, that bask in virtue's beams,
Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves
In that, for which they long; for which they live.
Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heav'nly hope,
Each rifing morning fees ftill higher rife ;
Each bounteous dawn its novelty prefents
To worth maturing, new ftrength, luftre, fame;
While nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel
Rolling beneath their elevated aims,
Makes their fair profpect fairer ev'ry hour;
Advancing virtue, in a Line to bliss;
Virtue, which Chriftian motives best inspire!
And bliss, which Christian schemes alone enfure!
And shall we then, for virtue's fake, commence
Apoftates? And turn infidels for joy?
A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer truft,
"He fins against this life, who flights the next."
What is this life? How few their fav'rite know ?
Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace,
By paffionately loving life, we make
Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death.
We give to Time Eternity's regard;
And, dreaming, take our paffage for our port.
Life has no value as an end, but means;
An end deplorable! a means divine !
When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worfe than nought;
A neft of pains; when held as nothing, much:
Like fome fair hum'rifts, life is most enjoy'd,
When courted leaft; moft worth, when difefteem'd ;
Then 'tis the feat of comfort, rich in peace;
In prospect richer far; important! awful!
Not to be mention'd, but with fhouts of praife!
Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy!
The mighty bafis of eternal blifs!
Where now the barren rock? the painted forew?
Where now LORENZO! life's eternal round?
Have I not made my triple promise good?
Vain is the world; but only to the vain.
To what compare we then this varying scene,
Whose worth ambiguous rifes, and declines?
Waxes, and wanes? (In all propitious, Night
Affifts me here) compare it to the moon ;
Dark in herself, and indigent; but rich
In borrow'd luftre from a higher fphere.
When grofs guilt interpofes, lab'ring earth,
O'erfhadow'd, mourns a deep eclipfe of joy;
Her joys, at brighteft, pallid, to that font
Of full effulgent glory, whence they flow.
Nor is that glory diftant: Oh LORENZO !
A good man, and an angel! these between
How thin the barrier? What divides their fate?
Perhaps a moment, or perhaps a year;
Or, if an age, it is a moment ftill;
A moment, or eternity's forgot.
Then be, what once they were, who now are gods;
Be what PHILANDER was, and claim the skies.
Starts timid nature at the gloomy país?
The foft tranfition call it; and be chear'd:
Such it is often, and why not to Thee?
To hope the best, is pious, brave, and wife;
And may itself procure, what it prefumes.
Life is much flatter'd, death is much traduc'd ;
Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown.
"Strange Competition !"-True, LORENZO! ftrange!
So little Life can caft into the scale.
Life makes the foul dependent on the duft;
Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres.
Thro' chinks, ftyl'd organs, dim life peeps at light;
Death burfts th' involving cloud, and all is day;
All eye, all ear, the difembody'd power.
Death has feign'd evils, nature shall not feel;
Life, ills substantial, wifdom cannot fhun.
Is not the mighty mind, that fon of heaven!
By tyrant life dethron'd, imprifon'd, pain'd?
By death enlarg'd, ennobled, deify'd?
Death but intombs the body; life the foul.
“Is death then guiltlefs? How he marks his way "With dreadful wafte of what deferves to fhine! "Art, genius, fortune, elevated power! "With various luftres thefe light up the world,
"Which death puts out, and darkens human race."
I grant, LORENZO! this indictment juft:
The fage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror !
Death humbles these; more barb'rous life, the man.
Life is the triumph of our mould'ring clay;
Death, of the fpirit infinite! divine!
Death has no dread, but what frail life imparts;
Nor life true joy, but what kind death improves.
No blifs has life to boast, till death can give
Far greater; life's a debtor to the grave,
Dark lattice! letting in eternal day.
LORENZO! blush at fondness for a life,
Which fends celeftial fouls on errands vile,
To cater for the fense; and ferve at boards,
Where ev'ry ranger of the wilds, perhaps
Each reptile, juftly claims our upper hand.
Luxurious feaft a foul, a foul immortal,
In all the dainties of a brute bemir'd!
LORENZO! blush at terror for a death,
Which gives thee to repofe in feftive bowers,
Where nectars fparkle, angels minifter,
And more than angels fhare, and raife, and crown,
And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.
What need I more? O death, the palm is thine.
Then welcome, death! thy dreaded harbingers,
Age, and difeafe; difeafe, tho' long my guest;
That plucks my nerves, thofe tender ftrings of life;
Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the bell,
That calls my few friends to my funeral;
Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear,
While reafon and religion, better taught,
Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb
With wreath triumphant. Death is victory;
It binds in chains the raging ills of life:
Luft and ambition, wrath and avarice,'
Dragg'd at his chariot wheel, applaud his power.
That ills corrofive, cares importunate,
Are not immortal too, O death! is thine.
Our day of diffolution!-name it right;
'Tis our great pay-day; 'tis our harvest, rich
And ripe: What tho' the fickle, fometimes keen,
Juft fcars us as we reap the golden grain ?
More than thy balm, O Gilead! heals the wound.
Birth's feeble cry, and death's deep difmal groan,
Are flender tributes low-taxt nature pays
For mighty gain: The gain of each, a life!
But the laft the former fo tranfcends,
Life dies, compar'd; Life lives beyond the grave.
And feel I, death! no joy from thought of thee?
Death, the great counfellor, who man infpires
With ev'ry nobler thought, and fairer deed!
Death, the deliverer, who refcues man!
Death, the rewarder, who the refcu'd crowns!
Death, that abfolves my birth; a curfe without it f
Rich death, that realizes all my cares,
Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a chimera!
Death, of all pain the period, not of joy ;
Joy's fource, and subject, still subsist unhurt;
One, in my foul; and one, in her great Sire;
Tho' the four winds were warring for my duft.
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