Why lefs pre-eminent in Rank, than Pain?
His Immortality alone can tell;
Full ample Fund to balance all amifs,
And turn the Scale in Favour of the Juft,
His Immortality alone can folve
That darkest of Enigmas, human Hope;
Of all the darkeft, if at Death we die.
Hope, eager Hope, th' Affaffin of our Jay,
All prefent Bleffings treading under-foot,
Is fcarce a milder Tyrant than Defpair.
With no paft Toils content, ftill planning new,
Hope turns us o'er to Death alone for Eafe.
Poffeffion, why, more tasteless than Purfuit?
Why is a Wish far dearer than a Crown?
That With accomplish'd, why, the Grave of Blifs?
Because, in the great Future bury'd deep,
Beyond our Plans of Empire, and Renown,
Lies all that Man with Ardor fhould purfue;
And HE who made him, bent him to the Right.
Man's Heart th' ALMIGHTY to the Future fets,
By fecret and inviolable Springs;
And makes his Hope his fublunary Joy.
Man's Heart eats all Things, and is hungry ftill;
"More, more!" the Glutton cries: For fomething New So rages Appetite, if Man can't Mount,
He will Defcend. Heftarves on the Poffeft
Hence, the World's Mafter, from Ambition's Spire,
In Caprea plung'd; and div'd beneath the Brute.
In that rank Sty why wallow'd Empire's Son
Supreme? Because he could no higher fly;
His Riot was Ambition in Despair.
Old Rome confulted Birds; LORENZO! thou
With more Succefs, the Flight of Hope furvey;
Of restless Hope, for ever on the Wing.
High-perch'd o'er ev'ry Thought that Falcon fits,
To fly at all that rises in her Sight;
And, never stooping, but to mount again
Next Moment, fhe betrays her Aim's Mistake,
And owns her Quarry lodg'd beyond the Grave,
There fhould it fail us (It must fail us there,
If Being fails), more mournful Riddles rife,
And Virtue vies with Hope in Mystery.
Why Virtue? Where its Praife, its Being, fled?
Virtue is true Self-intereft purfu'd:
What true Self-intereft of quite-mortal Man
To close with all that makes him happy here.
If Vice (as fometimes) is our Friend on Earth,
Then Vice is Virtue; 'tis our fovʼreign Good.
In Self-applause is Virtue's golden Prize;
No Self-applaufe attends it on thy Scheme:
Whence Self-applause? From Confcience of the Right.
And what is Right, but Means of Happiness?
No Means of Happiness when Virtue yields;
That Bafis failing, falls the Building too,
And lays in Ruin ev'ry virtuous Joy.
The rigid Guardian of a blameless Heart, So long rever'd, fo long reputed wife, Is weak; with rank Knight-errantries o'er-run. Why beats thy Bofom with illuftrious Dreams. Of Self-exposure, laudable, and great? Of gallant Enterprize, and glorious Death? Die for thy Country?-Thou Romantic Fool! Seize, feize the Plank thyfelf, and let her fink: Thy Country! what to Thee?-The Godbead; what? (I fpeak with Awe!) tho' He fhould bid thee bleed? If, with thy Blood, thy final Hope is spilt, Nor can Omnipotence reward the Blow, Be deaf; preferve thy Being; difobey.
Nor is it Difobedience: Know, LORENZO!
Whate'er th' ALMIGHTY's fubfequent Command,
His firft Command is this:-" Man, love thyfelf."
In this alone, Free-agents are not free.
Existence is the Bafis, Blifs the Prize;
If Virtue cofts Existence, 'tis a Crime;
Bold Violation of our Law fupreme,
Black Suicide; tho' Nations, which confult
Their Gain, at thy Expence, refound Applaufe,
Since Virtue's Recompence is doubtful, Here,
İf Man dies wholly, well may we demand,
Why is Man fuffer'd to be Good in vain ?
Why to be Good in vain, is Man injoin'd?
Why to be Good in vain, is Man betray'd?
Betray'd by Traitors lodg'd in his own Breast,
By sweet Complacencies from Virtue felt?
Why whispers Nature Lyes on Virtue's Part?
Or if blind Instinct (which affumes the Name
Of facred Confcience) plays the Fool in Man,
Why Reafon made Accomplice in the Cheat?
Why are the Wifeft loudeft in her Praife?
Can Man by Reafon's Beam be led aftray?
Or, at his Peril, imitate his God?
Since Virtue fometimes ruins us on Earth,
Or Both are true; or Man furvives the Grave.
Or Man furvives the Grave, or own, LORENZO,
Thy Boast fupreme, a wild Abfurdity.
Dauntless thy Spirit; Cowards are thy Scorn.
Grant Man immortal, and thy Scorn is just.
The Man immortal, rationally brave,
Dares rush on Death- beca.fe he cannot die.
But if Man lofes All, when Life is loft,
He lives a Coward, or a Fool expires.
A daring Infidel (and fuch there are,
From Pride, Example, Lucre, Rage, Revenge,
pure beroical Defect of Thought),
Of all Earth's Madmen, most deferves a Claim.
When to the Grave we follow the Renown'd
For Valour, Virtue, Science, all we love,
And all we praise; for Worth, whofe Noon-tide Beam, Enabling us to think in higher Style,
Mends our Ideas of Ethereal Powers;
Dream we, that Luftre of the moral World
Goes out in Stench, and Rottenness the Close?
Why was he wife to know, and warm to praise,
Aud ftrenuous to tranferibe, in human Life,
The Mind ALMIGHTY? Could it be, that Fate,
Just when the Lineaments began to shine,
And dawn the DEITY, fhould fnatch the Draught,
With Night eternal blot it out, and give
The Skies Alarm, left Angels too might die?
If Human Souls, why not Angelic too
Extinguish'd? and a folitary GOD,
O'er ghaftly Ruin, frowning from his Throne?
Shall we this Moment gaze on GOD in Man?
The next, lofe Man for ever in the Duft?
From Duft we difengage, or Man mistakes;
And There, where leaft his Judgment fears a Flaw.
Wisdom and Worth, how boldly he commends!
Wisdom and Worth, are facred Names; Rever'd,
Where not Embrac'd; Applauded! Deify'd!
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