Ungrateful, fhall we grieve their hov'ring Shades,
Which wait the Revolution in our Hearts?

Shall we difdain their filent, soft Address;
Their pofthumous Advice, and pious Pray'r?
Senfelefs, as Herds that graze their hallow'd Graves,
Tread under-foot their Agonies and Groans;
Fruftrate their Anguish, and destroy their Deaths?
LORENZO! no; the Thought of Death indulge;
Give it its wholesome Empire! let it reign,
That kind Chaftifer of thy Soul in Joy!

Its Reign will spread thy glorious Conquefts far,
And ftill the Tumults of thy ruffled Breast;
Aufpicious Era! Golden Days, begin!

The Thought of Death, fhall, like a God, infpire.
And why not think on Death? Is Life the Theme
Of ev'ry Thought? and-Wish of ev'ry Hour?
And Song of ev'ry Joy? Surprising Truth!
The beaten Spaniel's Fondnefs not so strange..
To wave the num'rous Ills that feize on Life
As their own Property, their lawful Prey;
Ere Man has measur'd half his weary Stage,
His Luxuries have left him no Reserve,
No maiden Relishes, unbroacht Delights;
On cold-ferv'd Repetitions He fubfifts,
And in the tastelefs Prefent chews the Paft;
Difgufted chews, and scarce can fwallow down.
Like lavish Ancestors, his earlier Years
Have difinherited his future Hours,

Which starve on Orts, and glean their former Field.
Live ever Here, LORENZO!-Shocking Thought!
So fhocking, they who wish, disown it too;
Difown from Shame, what they from Folly crave.
Live ever in the Womb, nor fee the Light?
For what live ever Here?-With lab'ring Step
To tread our former Footsteps? Pace the Round

Eternal?

Eternal? To climb Life's worn, heavy Wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat,
The beaten Track? To bid each wretched Day
The former mock? To furfeit on the Same,
And yawn our Joys; or thank a Mifery

For Change, tho' fad? To fee what we have feen?
Hear, till unheard, the fame old flabber'd Tale ?
To tafte the tafted, and at each Return
Lefs tafteful? O'er our Palates to decant
Another Vintage? Strain a flatter Year,
Thro' loaded Vessels, and a laxer Tone?
Crazy Machines to grind Earth's wasted Fruits!
Ill-ground, and worse-concocted! Load, not Life!
The Rational foul Kennels of Excefs?
Still-ftreaming Thoroughfares of dull Debauch!
Trembling each Gulp, left Death fhould fnatch the Bowl.
Such of our Fine cnes is the Wish refin'd!

So would they have it: Elegant Defire!
Why not invite the bellowing Stalls, and Wilds?
But fuch Examples might their Riot awe.
Thro' Want of Virtue, that is, Want of Thought,
(Tho' on bright Thought they father all their Flights)
To what are they reduc'd? To love, and hate,
The fame vain World; To cenfure, and efpoufe,
This painted Shrew of Life, who calls them Fool
Each Moment of each Day; To flatter Bad
Thro' Dread of Worfe? To cling to this rude Rock,
Barren, to them, of Good, and sharp with Ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending Storms,
And infamous for Wrecks of human Hope—
Scar'd at the gloomy Gulph, that yawns beneath.
Such are their Triumphs! fuch their Pangs of Joy!

'Tis Time, high Time, to shift this dismal Scene. This bugg'd, this hideous State, what Art can cure? One only; but that One, what All may reach 1;

H

VIRTUE-She, wonder-working Goddefs! charms
That Rock to bloom; and tames the painted Shrew ;
And what will more furprise, LORENZO! gives
To Life's fick, naufeous Iteration, Change;
And ftraitens Nature's Circle to a Line.
Believ'ft Thou This, LORENZo? Lend an Ear,
A patient Ear, Thou'lt blush to disbelieve.
A languid, leaden Iteration reigns,

And ever muft, o'er Those, whofe Joys are Joys
Of Sight, Smell, Tafte: The Cuckow-feafons fing
The fame dull Note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what thofe Seafons from the teeming Earth,
To doating Senfe 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, neru Strength, Luftre, Fame;
While Nature's Circle, like a Chariot-wheel
Rolling beneath their elevated Aims,

Makes their fair Profpe&t fairer ev'ry Hour;
Advancing Virtue, in a Line to Blifs;
Virtue, which Christian Motives best inspire!
And Blifs, which Chriftian Schemes alone enfure!
And thall we then, for Virtue's Sake, commence
Apoftates and turn Infidels for Joy?

A Truth it is, Few doubt, but Fewer trust,
"He fins against this Life, who flights the next."
What is this Life? How Few their Fav'rite know?

Fond

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; worse 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 difesteem'd;
Then 'tis the Seat of Comfort, rich in Peace;
In Prospect richer far; Important! Awful!
Not to be mention'd, but with Shouts of Praise !
Not to be thought on, but with Tides of Joy!
The mighty Bafis of eternal Blifs!

Where now the barren Rock? the painted Shrew?
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 rises, 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 Sphere.
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 distant: 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

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 Pass?
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! Strange So Little Life can caft into the Scale.

Life makes the Soul dependent on the Duft;

Death gives her Wings to mount above the Spheres.
Thro' Chinks, ftyl'd Organs, dim Life peeps at Light 5
Death bursts 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 fubftantial, Wisdom cannot shun.
Is not the mighty Mind, that Son of Heaven 1.
By Tyrant Life dethron'd, imprifon'd, pain'd
By Death inlarg'd, ennobled, deify'd?

Death but intombs the Body; Life the Soul.

"Is Death then guiltlefs? How he marks his Way "With dreadful Waste of what deserves to fhine! "Art, Genius, Fortune, elevated Power! "With various Luftres Thefe light up the World, "Which Death puts out, and darkens human Race." grant, LORENZo! this Indictment just :

I

The Sage, 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 Spirit infinite! divine!

Death has no Dread, but what frail Life imparts;
Nor Life true Joy, but what kind Death improves.
D

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