H

EAVN gives the needful, but neglected, Call.
What Day, what Hour, but knocks at human

To wake the Soul to Senfe of future Scenes ?

Deaths ftand, like Mercurys, in ev'ry Way;
And kindly point us to our Journey's End.

[Hearts,

POPE, who couldit make Immortals! art Thou dead?
I give thee Joy: Nor will I take my Leave;
So foon to follow. Man but dives in Death;
Dives from the Sun, in fairer Day to rife;
The Grave, his fubterranean Road to Blifs.
Yes, infinite Indulgence plann'd it fo;
Thro' various Farts our glorious Story runs ;
Time gives the Preface, endless Age unrolls
The Volume (ne'er unroll'd!) of human Fate.
This, Earth and Skies * already have proclaim'd.
The World's a Prophecy of Worlds to come;
And who, what GOD foretels (who fpeaks in Things,
Still louder than in Words) fhall dare deny ?
If Nature's Arguments appear too weak,
Turn a new Leaf, and stronger read in Man.
Jf Man fleeps on, untaught by what he fees,
Can he prove Infidel to what he feels?
He, whose blind Thought Futurity denies,
Unconscious, bears, BELLEROPHON! like thee,
His own Indictment; he condemns himself;
Who reads his Bofom, reads immortal Life;
Or, Nature, there, impofing on her Sons,
Has written Fables; Man was made a Lye.

*Night the Sixth,、

Why

Why Difcontent for ever harbour'd there?
Incurable Consumption of our Peace!
Refolve me, why, the Cottager, and King,
He whom Sea.fever'd Realms obey, and he
Who fteals his whole Dominion from the Wafte,
Repelling Winter Blafts with Mud and Straw,
Difquieted alike, draw Sigh for Sigh,
In Fate fo diftant, in Complaint fo near?

Is it, that Things Terreftrial can't content?
Deep in rich Pafture, will thy Flocks complain?
Not fo; but to their Mafter is deny'd

To share their fweet Serene. Man, ill at Eafe,
In this, not his own Place, this foreign Field,
Where Nature fodders him with other Food,
Than was ordain'd his Cravings to fuffice,
Poor in Abundance, famifh'd at a Feast,
Sighs on for fomething more, when most enjoy'd.
Is Heav'n then kinder to thy Flocks, than Thee?
Not fo; thy Pafture richer, but remote;

In part, remote; for that remoter Part

Man bleats from Inftinct, tho', perhaps, debauch'd
By Senfe his Reafon fleeps, nor dreams the Caufe.
The Caufe how obvious, when his Reason wakes!
His Grief is but his Grandeur in Disguise;

And Difcontent is Immortality.

Shall Sons of Æther, fhall the Blood of Heaven,
Set up their Hopes on Earth, and ftable here,
With brutal Acquiefcence in the Mire?
LORENZO! no! they fhall be nobly pain'd;
The glorious Foreigners, diftreft, fhall figh
On Thrones; and Thou congratulate the Sigh:
Man's Mifery declares him born for Blifs;
His anxious Heart afferts the Truth I fing,
And give the Sceptic in his Head the Lye.

Our

Our Heads, our Hearts, our Paffions, and our Powers, Speak the fame Language; call us to the Skies; Unripen'd These in this inclement Clime,

Scarce rife above Conjecture, and Mistake;
And for this Land of Trifles Thofe too ftrong
Tumultuous rife, and tempeft human Life:
What Prize on Earth can pay us for the Storm?
Meet Objects for our Paffions Heav'n ordain'd,
Objects that challenge all their Fire, and leave
No Fault, but in Defect: Bleft Heav'n 1 avert
A bounded Ardor for unbounded Blifs !
O for a Bliss unbounded! Far beneath
A Soul immortal, is a mortal Joy.
Nor are our Pow'rs to perish immature;
But, after feeble Effort here, beneath
A brighter Sun, and in a nobler Soil,
Tranfplanted from this fublunary Bed,

Shall flourish fair, and put forth all their Bloom.
Reafon progreffive, Inftinct is complete ;
Swift Inflinct leaps; flow Reafon feebly climbs.
Brutes foon their Zenith reach; their little All
Flows in at once; in Ages they no more
Could know, or do, or covet, or enjoy.

Were Man to live coëval with the Sun,
The Patriarch-Pupil would be learning still;
Yet, dying, leave his Leffon half-unlearnt.
Men perish in Advance, as if the Sun

Should fet ere Noon, in Eastern Oceans drown'd ;
If fit, with Dim, Illuftrious to compare,

The Sun's Meridian, with the Soul of Man.

To Man, why, Step-dame Nature! fo fevere?
Why thrown afide thy Mafter-piece half-wrought,
While meaner Efforts thy last Hand enjoy?

Or, if abortively poor Man muft die,

Nor reach, what reach he might, why die in Dread?

Why

Why curft with Forefight? Wife to Misery?
Why of his proud Prerogative the Prey?
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 darkest, if at Death we die.
Hope, eager Hope, th' Affaffin of our Joy,
All prefent, Bleffings treading under-foot,
Is fcarce a milder Tyrant than Despair.
With no paft Toils content, ftill planning new,
Hope turns us o'er to Death alone for Eafe.
Poffeffion, why more taftelefs 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 pursue;
And HE who made him, bent him to the Right.
Man's Heart th' ALMIGHTY to the Future sets,
By fecret and inviolable Springs ;

And makes his Hope his fublunary Joy.

Man's Heart eats all Things, and is hungry ftill;

143

More, more!" the Glutton cries: For fomething New So rages Appetite, if Man can't Mount,

He will Defcend. He ftarves 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

Of reftlefs 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, the betrays her Aim's Mistake,
And owns her Quarry lodg'd beyond the Grave.
There should 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 Praise, its Being, fled?
Virtue is true Self-intereft purfu'd:

What true Self-interest 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 foreign Good.
In Self-applaufe is Virtue's golden Prize;
No Self-applaufe attends it on thy Scheme:
Whence Self-applaufe? 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, so long reputed wife,
Is weak; with rank Knight-errantries o'er-run.
Why beats thy Bofom with illuftrious Dreains
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 Godhead, what?
(I fpeak with Awe!) tho' He fhould bid thee bleed;
If, with thy Blood, thy final Hope is fpilt,
Nor can Omnipotence reward the Blow,
Be deaf; preferve thy Being; difobey.

Nor