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The Land of Apparitions, empty Shades!

All, all on Earth is Shadow, all beyond

Is Subftance: the Reverse is Folly's Creed:
How folid all, where Change fhall be no more!
This is the Bud of Being, the dim Dawn,
The Twilight of our Day, the Vestibule;
Life's Theatre as yet is fhut, and Death,
Strong Death, alone can heave the maffy Bar,
This grofs Impediment of Clay remove,
And make us Embryos of Existence free.
From real Life, but little more remote
Is He, not yet a Candidate for Light,
The future Embryo, flumb'ring in his Sire.
Embryos we must be, till we burst the Shell,
Yon ambient azure Shell, and fpring to Life,
The Life of Gods, O Transport! and of Man.

Yet Man, fool Man! bere buries all his Thoughts; Interrs celestial Hopes without one Sigh.

Pris'ner of Earth, and pent beneath the Moon,
Here pinions all his Wishes: wing'd by Heav'n
To fly at Infinite; and reach it there,

Where Seraphs gather Immortality,

On Life's fair Tree, fast by the Throne of God.
What golden Joys ambrofial cluft'ring glow,

In HIS full Beam, and ripen for the Juft,

Where momentary Ages are no more!

Where Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death, expire!
And is it in the Flight of threescore Years,
To push Eternity from human Thought,
And fmother Souls immortal in the Duft?
A Soul immortal, fpending all her Fires,
Wafting her Strength in ftrenuous Idlenefs,
Thrown into Tumult, raptur'd, or alarm'd,
At aught this Scene can threaten, or indulge,
B 3

Refembles

Refembles Ocean into Tempeft wrought,

To waft a Feather, or to drown a Fly.

Where falls this Cenfure? It o'erwhelms myself;
How was my Heart incrusted by the World!
O how felf-fetter'd was my grov'ling Soul!

How, like a Worm, was I wrapt round and round
In filken Thought, which reptile Fancy fpun,
Till darken'd Reafon lay quite clouded o'er
With foft Conceit of endlefs Comfort here,
Nor yet put forth her Wings to reach the Skies!
Night-vifions may befriend (as fung above):
Our waking Dreams are fatal. How I dreamt
Of things impoffible? (Could Sleep do more?)
Of Joys perpetual in perpetual Change?
Of stable Pleasures on the toffing Wave?
Eternal Sunshine in the Storms of Life?
How richly were my noon-tide Trances hung
With gorgeous Tapestries of pictur'd Joys?
Joy behind Joy, in endless Perspective!
Till at Death's Toll, whofe restless iron Tongue
Calls daily for his Millions at a Meal,
Starting I woke, and found myself undone.
Where now my Phrenfy's pompous Furniture?
The cobweb'd Cottage, with its ragged Wall
Of mould'ring Mud, is Royalty to me!
The Spider's most attenuated Thread
Is Cord, is Cable, to Man's tender Tie
On earthly Blifs; it breaks at ev'ry Breeze.

O ye bleft Scenes of permanent Delight!
Full, above Measure! lafting, beyond Bound!
A Perpetuity of Bliss is Bliss.

Could you, fo rich in Rapture, fear an End,
That ghaftly Thought would drink up all your Joy,
And quite unparadife the Realms of Light.
Safe are you lodg'd above thefe rolling Spheres;

The

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The baleful Influence of whofe giddy Dance
Sheds fad Viciffitude on all beneath.

Here teems with Revolutions ev'ry Hour;
And rarely for the better; or the best,
More mortal than the common Births of Fate.
Each Moment has its Sickle, emulous

Of Time's enormous Scythe, whofe ample Sweep
Strikes Empires from the Root; each Moment plays
His little Weapon in the narrower Sphere
Of sweet domeftic Comfort, and cuts down
The fairest Bloom of fublunary Blifs.

Blifs! fublunary Blifs!-Proud Words, and vain! Implicit Treafon to divine Decree !

A bold Invasion of the Rights of Heav'n!
I clafp'd the Phantoms, and I found them Air.
O had I weigh'd it ere my fond Embrace!
What Darts of Agony had mifs'd my Heart!

Death! Great Proprietor of All! 'tis thine
To tread out Empire, and to quench the Stars.
The Sun himself by thy Permiffion fhines;

And, one Day, thou shalt pluck him from his Sphere.
Amid fuch mighty Plunder, why exhaust

Thy partial Quiver on a Mark so mean?
Why thy peculiar Rancour wreak'd' on me?
Infatiate Archer! could not One fuffice?

Thy Shaft flew thrice; and thrice my Peace was flain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon Moon had fill'd her Horn.
O Cynthia! why fo pale? Doft thou lament
Thy wretched Neighbour? Grieve to fee thy Wheel
Of ceaseless Change out-whirl'd in human Life?
How wanes my borrow'd Blifs! from Fortune's Smile,
Precarious Courtefy! Not Virtue's fure,
Self-given, folar, Ray of found Delight.

In ev'ry vary'd Posture, Place, and Hour,
How widow'd ev'ry Thought of ev'ry Joy!
B 4

Thought,

Thought, bufy Thought! too bufy for my Peace!
Thro' the dark Postern of Time long elaps'd,
Led foftly, by the Stillness of the Night,
Led, like a Murderer, (and fuch it proves!
Strays, (wretched Rover !) o'er the pleafing Paft;
In quest of Wretchedness perversely strays;
And finds all defart now; and meets the Ghosts
Of my departed Joys; a num'rous Train!
I rue the Riches of my former Fate;
Sweet Comfort's blafted Clusters I lament;
I tremble at the Bleffings once fo dear;
And ev'ry Pleasure pains me to the Heart.
Yet why complain ? or why complain for One ?
Hangs out the Sun his Luftre but for me,
The fingle Man? Are Angels all befide ?
I mourn for Millions: "Tis the common Lot;
In this Shape, or in that, has Fate entail'd
The Mother's Throes on all of Woman born,
Not more the Children, than fure Heirs of Pain.
War, Famine, Peft, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Inteftine Broils, Oppreffion, with her Heart
Wrapt up in triple Brafs, befiege Mankind.
God's Image difinherited of Day,

Here, plung'd in Mines, forgets a Sun was made.
There, Beings deathless as their haughty Lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling Oar for Life;
And plow the Winter's Wave, and reap Despair.
Some, for hard Mafters, broken under Arms,
In Battle lopt away, with half their Limbs,
Beg bitter Bread thro' Realms their Valour fav'd,
If fo the Tyrant, or his Minion, doom.
Want, and incurable Difeafe, (fell Pair!)
On hopeless Multitudes remorseless seize
At once; and make a Refuge of the Grave.
How groaning Hospitals eject their Dead!

What

What Numbers groan for fad Admission there!
What Numbers, once in Fortune's Lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold Hand of Charity!.

To fhock us more, folicit it in vain !".

Ye filken fons of Pleasure! fince in Pains
You rue more modish Vifits, vifit here,

And breathe from your Debauch: Give, and reduce
Surfeit's Dominion o'er you: But fo great
Your Impudence, you blufh at what is Right.
Happy! did Sorrow feize on fuch alone.
Not Prudence can defend, or Virtue fave;
Disease invades the chafteft Temperance;
And Punishment the Guiltless; and Alarm,
Thro' thickest Shades, purfues the fond of Peace,
Man's Caution often into Danger turns,
And his Guárd falling, crushes him to Death..
Not Happiness itfelf makes good her Name;
Our very Wishes give us not our Wish.
How diftant oft the Thing we doat on most,
From that for which we doat, Felicity ?
The Smootheft Courfe of Nature has its Pains;
And trueft Friends, thro' Error, wound our Reft,
Without Misfortune, what Calamities ?

And what Hoftilities, without a Foe?
Nor are Foes wanting to the best on Earth.

But endless is the Lift of human Ills,

And Sighs might fooner fail, than Cause to figh..
A Part how small of the terraqueous Globe

Is tenanted, by Man! the reft a Waste,

Rocks, Defarts, frozen Seas, and burning Sands!
Wild Haunts of Monsters, Poifons, Stings, and Death..
Such is Earth's melancholy Map! But, far

More fad this Earth is a true Map of Man..
So bounded are its haughty Lord's Delights

To Woe's wide Empire; where deep Troubles tofs,

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