Bleft be that Hand divine, which gently laid
My Heart at Reft, beneath this humble Shed.
The World's a ftately Bark, on dangerous Seas,
With Pleasure feen, but boarded at our Peril :
Here, on a fingle Plank, thrown fafe ashore,
I hear the Tumult of the distant Throng,
As that of Seas remote, or dying Storms;
And meditate on Scenes, more filent ftill;
Purfue my Theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Here, like a Shepherd gazing from his Hut,
Touching his Reed, or leaning on his Staff,
Eager Ambition's fiery Chace I fee;

I fee the circling Hunt of noify Men,

Burft Law's Inclosure, leap the Mounds of Right,
Pursuing, and purfu'd, each other's Prey ;
As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles;
Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all.

Why all this Toil for Triumphs of an Hour?
What, tho' we wade in Wealth, or foar in Fame?
Earth's highest Station ends in, "Here he lies :"
And "Duft to Duft" concludes her noblest Song.
If this Song lives, Pofterity fhall know

One, tho' in Britain born, with Courtiers bred,
Who thought e'en Gold might come à Day too late;
Nor on his fubtle Death-bed plann'd his Scheme
For future Vacancies in Church or State;
Some Avocation deeming it--to die;
Unbit by Rage canine of dying rich;

Guilt's Blunder! and the loudeft Laugh of Hell.
O my Coëvals! Remnants of yourselves!
Poor human Ruins, tott'ring o'er the Grave!
Shall we, fhall aged Men, like aged Trees,
Strike deeper their vile Root, and clofer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched Soil?
Shall our pale, wither'd Hands, be ftill stretch'd out,

D 4

Trembling

Trembling, at once, with Eagernefs and Age?
With Av'rice, and Convulfions, grasping hard?
Grafping at Air! for what has Earth befide?
Man wants but Little; nor that Little, long;
How foon must he refign his very Dust,
Which frugal Nature lent him for an Hour!
Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous Ills;
And foon as Man, expert from Time, has found
The Key of Life, it opes the Gates of Death.

When in this Vale of Years I backward look,
And mifs fuch Numbers, Numbers too of fuch,
Firmer in Health, and greener in their Age,
And ftricter on their Guard, and fitter far
To play Life's fubtle Game, I fcarce believe
I ftill furvive: And am I fond of Life,

Who scarce can think it poffible, I live?
Alive by Miracle! or, what is next,
Alive by MEAD! If I am still alive,

Who long have bury'd what gives Life to live,
Firmnefs of Nerve, and Energy of Thought..
Life's Lee is not more shallow, than impure,
And vapid; Senfe and Reafon fhew the Door,
Call for my Bier, and point me to the Duft.

O Thou great Arbiter of Life and Death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun ;,
Whofe all-prolific Beam late call'd me forth
From Darkness, teeming Darkness, where I lay.
The Worm's Inferior, and, in Rank, beneath
The Duft I tread on, high to bear my Brow,
To drink the Spirit of the golden Day,
And triumph in Existence; and couldst know.
No Motive, but my Bliss; and haft ordain'd
A Rife in Bleffing! with the Patriarch's Joy,
Thy Call I follow to the Land unknown ;
I trust in Thee, and know in whom I trust;

Or Life or Death, is equal; neither weighs:
All Weight in this-O let me live to Thee!

Tho' Nature's Terrors, thus, may be repreft; Still frowns grim Death; Guilt points the Tyrant's Spear And whence all human Guilt? From Death forgot. Ah me! too long I fet at Nought the Swarm Of friendly Warnings, which around me flew ; And fmil'd, unfmitten: Small my Cause to smile! Death's Admonitions, like Shafts upward shot, ◄ More dreadful by Delay; the longer ere They ftrike our Hearts, the deeper is their Wound.. O think how deep, LORENZO! bere it ftings: Who can appeafe its Anguifh? How it burns! What Hand the barb'd, invenom'd, Thought can draw? What healing Hand can pour the Balm of Peace ? And turn my Sight undaunted on the Tomb? With Joy,-with Grief, that healing Hand I fee; Ah! too confpicuous! It is fix'd on high.

On high? What means my Phrenzy? I blafpheme;
Alas! how low! how far beneath the Skies!
The Skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me-
But bleeds the Balm I want-yet ftill it bleeds.
Draw the dire Steel-Ah no!-the dreadful Bleffing
What Heart or can fuftain, or dares forego?
There hangs all human Hope; that Nail fupports
The falling Univerfe: That gone, we drop;
Horror receives us, and the dismal Wish
Creation had been fmother'd in her Birth-

Darkness His Curtain, and His Bed the Duft;
When Stars and Sun are Duft beneath his Throne!
In Heav'n itself can fuch Indulgence dwell?

O what a Groan was there! A Groan not His.
He feiz'd our dreadful Right; the Load fuftain'd;
And heav'd the Mountain from a guilty World.

A thousand Worlds, so bought, were bought too dear.

Senfations new in Angels Bofoms rife ;

Sufpend their Song; and make a Pause in Bliss.

O for their Song to reach my lofty Theme!
Infpire me, Night! with all thy tuneful Spheres infpire;
Whilft I with Seraphs fhare feraphic Themes,
And fhew to Men the Dignity of Man;
Left I blafpheme my Subject with my Song.
Shall Pagan Pages glow celeftial Flame,

And Chriflian languifh? On our Hearts, not Heads,
Falls the foul Infamy: My Heart! awake.
What can awake thee, unawak'd by this,

Expended Deity on human Weal?”

Feel the great Truths, which burft the tenfold Night
Of Heathen Error, with a golden Flood

Of endless Day: To feel, is to be fir'd;
And to believe, LORENZO! is to feel.

Thou moft indulgent, moft tremendous Pow'r!
Still more tremendous, for thy wond'rous Love!
That arms, with Awe more aweful, thy Commands;
And foul Tranfgreffion dips in fev'nfold Night,
How our Hearts tremble at thy Love immense!
In Love immenfe, inviolably Juft!

Thou, rather than thy Justice fhould be ftain'd,
Didit ftain the Cross; and, Work of Wonders far
The greateft, that thy Deareft far might bleed.

Bold Thought! Shall I dare speak it, or repress?
Should Man more execrate, or boast, the Guilt

Which rous'd fuch Vengeance? which fuch Love inflam'd?
O'er Guilt (how mountainous !) with out-ftretcht Arms,
Stern Juftice, and foft-fmiling Love, embrace,
Supporting, in full Majefty, thy Throne,
When feer'd its Majesty to need Support,.
Or That, or Man, inevitably loft.
What, but the Fathomlefs of Thought divine,
Could labour fuch Expedient from Despair,

And

And refcue both! Both refcue! Both exalt!
O how are both exalted by the Deed!
The wond'rous Deed! or fhall I call it more?
A Wonder in Omnipotence itself!

A Mystery, no lefs to Gods than Men!
Not, thus, our Infidels th' Eternal draw,
A God all o'er, confummate, abfolute,
Full-orb'd, in his whole Round of Rays complete :
They fet at Odds Heav'n's jarring Attributes;
And, with one Excellence, another wound;
Maim Heav'n's Perfection, break its equal Beams,
Bid Mercy triumph over-God himself,
Undeify'd by their opprobrious Praife:
A God All Mercy, is a God unjuft.

Ye brainless Wits! ye baptiz'd Infidels!
Ye worse for mending! wash'd to fouler Stains!
The Ranfom was paid down; the Fund of Heav'n.
Heav'n's inexhauftible exhaufted Fund,

Amazing, and amaz'd, pour'd forth the Price,
All Price beyond: Tho' curious to compute,
Archangels fail'd to caft the mighty Sum:
Its Value vast ungrafpt by Minds Create,
For ever hides, and glows in, the Supreme.
And was the Ransom paid? It was: and paid
(What can exalt the Bounty more?) for You.
The Sun beheld it-No, the fhocking Scene
Drove back his Chariot: Midnight veil'd his Face;
Not fuch as This; not fuch as Nature makes;
A Midnight, Nature fhudder'd to behold;
A Midnight new! a dread Eclipse (without
Oppofing Spheres) from her Creator's Frown!
Sun! didft thou fly thy Maker's Pain? Or ftart
At that enormous Load of human Guilt,

Which bow'd his bleffed Head; o'erwhelm'd his Crofs; Made groan the Centre; burft Earth's marble Womb,