A languid, leaden, iteration reigns,
And ever muft, o'er those, whose joys are joys
Of fight, smell, tafte: the cuckow-seasons fing
The fame dull note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what those seasons, from the teeming earth,
To doating sense indulge. But nobler minds,
Which relish fruits unripen'd by the fun,
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. 385
Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope,
Each ifing morning fees ftill higher rife;
Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents
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 every hour;
Advancing virtue, in a line to bliss ;
Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire!
And bliss, which Christian schemes alone enfure? 395 And fhall we then, for virtue's fake, commence
Apoftates; and turn infidels for joy?
A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer truft,
"He fins againft this life, who flights the next."
What is this life? How few their favourite know! 400
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 humourifts, life is most enjoy'd,
When courted leaft; most worth, when disesteem'd :
Then 'tis the feat of comfort, rich in peace;
In profpect 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 basis of eternal blifs!
Where now the barren rock? the painted fhrew?
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 lustre from a higher sphere.
When grofs guilt interpofes, labouring earth,
O'erfhadow'd, mourns a deep eclipse of joy;
Her joys, at brightest, 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 still;
A moment, or eternity's forgot.
Then be, what once they were, who now are gods;
Be what Philander was, and claim the fkies.
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 beft, is pious, brave, and wife;
And may itfelf 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 fcale.
Life makes the foul dependent on the duft;
Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres.
Through chinks, ftyl'd organs, dim life peeps at light; 450
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 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 guiltless? How he marks his way "With dreadful wafte of what deferves to shine! 460 "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 thefe; more barbarous life, the man. Life is the triumph of our mouldering 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. 470
No blifs has life to boaft, 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 fenfe; and ferve at boards,
Where every ranger of the wilds, perhaps
Each reptile, juftly claims our upper hand.
Luxurious feast! 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 repose in festive bowers,
Where nectars sparkle, angels minister,
And more than angels share, and raife, and crown,
And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of blifs. 485
What need I more? O death, the palm is thine.
Then welcome, death! thy dreaded harbingers,
Age, and disease; disease, though long my guest;
That plucks my nerves, thofe tender strings of life;
Which, pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell, 490
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 harveft, rich
And ripe what though 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 dismal groan,
Are flender tributes low-tax'd nature pays
For mighty gain: the gain of each, a life!
But O! the laft the former fo tranfcends,
Life dies, compar'd; Life lives beyond the grave. 510
And feel I, death! no joy from thought of thee?
Death, the great counsellor, who man inspires
With every nobler thought, and fairer deed!
Death, the deliverer, who refcues man!
Death, the rewarder, who the rescued crowns!
Death, that abfolves my birth; a curfe without it!
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 fubject, ftill fubfift unhurt;
One, in my foul; and one, in her great Sire;
Though the four winds were warring for my duft.
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