A Knave in Grain! ne'er deviate to the Right:
Shouldt Thou be Good-How infinite thy Lofs!
Guilt only makes Annihilation Gain.
Bleft Scheme! which Life deprives of Comfort, Death
Of Hope; and which VICE only recommends.
If fo; where, Infidels! your Bait thrown out
To catch weak Converts? Where your lofty Boast
Of Zeal for Virtue, and of Love to Man?
ANNIHILATION! I confefs, in Thefe.
What can Reclaim you? Dare I hope profound
Philofophers the Converts of a Song?
Yet know, Its * Title flatters you, not me;
Yours be the Praise to make my Title good;
Mine, to bless Heav'n, and triumph in your Praife.
But fince fo Peftilential your Disease,
Tho' fov'reign is the Med'cine I prescribe,
As yet, I'll neither Triumph, nor Despair :
But hope, ere long, my Midnight Dream will wake
Your Hearts, and teach your Wifdom-to be wife:
For why fhould Souls Immortal, made for Blifs,
E'er wish (and wish in vain!) that Souls could die?
What ne'er can die, Oh! grant to live; and crown
The With, and Aim, and Labour of the Skies;
Increase, and enter on the Joys of Heaven:
Thus fhall my Title pafs a facred Seal,
Receive an Imprimatur from Above,
While Angels fhout-An Infidel Reclaim'd!
To clofe, LORENZO! Spite of all my Pains,
Still feems it ftrange, that Thou shouldft live for ever?
Is it lefs ftrange, that Thou fhouldft live at all?
This is a Miracle; and That no more.
Who gave Beginning, can exclude an End.
Deny Thou art: Then, doubt if Thou shalt be.
A Miracle with Miracles inclos'd,
Is Man: And ftarts his Faith at what is Strange ?
What less than Wonders, from the Wonderful;
What less than Miracles, from GoD, can flow?
Admit a GOD-that Myftery Supreme!
That Caufe uncaus'd! All other Wonders cease;
Nothing is Marvellous for Him to do:
Deny Him-all is Mystery befides;
Millions of Myfteries! Each darker far,
Than That thy Wisdom would, unwifely, fhun.
If weak thy Faith, why chufe the Harder Side?
We nothing know, but what is Marvellous;
Yet what is Marvellous, we can't believe.
So weak our Reafon, and fo Great our God,
What moft furprifes in the Sacred Page,
Or full as Strange, or Stranger, must be True.
Faith is not Reafon's Labour, but Repose.
To Faith, and Virtue, why fo backward Man? From Hence: The Prefent ftrongly ftrikes us All; The Future, faintly: Can we, then, be Men? If Men, LORENZO! the Reverse is Right. Reafon is Man's Peculiar: Senfe, the Brute's. The Prefent is the Scanty Realm of Senfe; The Future, Reafon's Empire unconfin'd: On That expending all her Godlike Power, She Plans, Provides, expatiates, Triumphs, there; There, builds her Bleffings; There, expects her Praife; And nothing afks of Fortune, or of Men. And what is Realon? Be fhe, thus, defin'd; Reason is Upright Stature in the Soul.
Oh! be a Man ;-and ftrive to be a God.
For what? (Thou fayft): To damp the Joys of Life?" No; to give Heart and Subflance to thy Joys. That Tyrant, Hope, mark how the domineers; She bids us quit Realities, for Dreams; Safety, and Peace, for Hazard, and Alarm;
That Tyrant o'er the Tyrants of the Soul,
She bids Ambition quit its taken Prize,
Spurn the luxuriant Branch on which It fits,
Tho' bearing Crowns, to fpring at diftant Game;
And plunge in Toils and Dangers-for Repose.
If Hope precarious, and of Things, when gain'd,
Of Little Moment, and as little Stay,
Can fweeten Toils and Dangers into Joys;
What then, That Hope, which nothing can defeat,
Our Leave unafk'd? Rich Hope of boundless Bliss !
Blifs, paft Man's Power to paint it; Time's to close !
This Hope is Earth's most eftimable Prize:
This is Man's Portion, while no more than Man:
Hope, of all Paffions, moft befriends us Here;
Paffions of Prouder Name befriend us lefs.
Joy has her Tears; and Transport has her Death;
Hope, like a Cordial, innocent, tho' ftrong,
Man's Heart, at once, infpirits, and ferenes;
Nor makes him pay his Wisdom for his Joys;
'Tis All, our present State can fafely bear,
Health to the Frame! and Vigour to the Mind!
A Joy attemper'd! a chaftis'd Delight!
Like the fair Summer-Ev'ning, mild, and fweet!
'Tis Man's full Cup; his Paradise Below!
A bleft Hereafter, then, or Hop'd, or Gain'd,
Is All our Whole of Happinefs: Full Proof,
I chose no trivial or inglorious Theme.
And know, ye Foes to Song! (well-meaning Men,
Tho' quite forgotten * Half your Bible's Praise !)
Important Truths, in spite of Verse, may please:
Grave Minds you praife; nor can you praise too much ::
If there is Weight in an ETERNITY,
Let the Grave liften ;-and be graver fill..
*The Poetical Parts of it.
The MAN of the WORLD Anfwered.
In which are Confidered,
The Love of This LIFE;
The AMBITION and PLEASURE, with the WIT and WISDOM of the WORLD.
ND has all Nature then efpous'd my Part?
Have I brib'd Heav'n, and Earth, to plead against
And is thy Soul Immortal ?-What remains?
All, All, LORENZO !-Make Immortal, Bleft.
Unbleft Immortals! What can fhock us more?
And yet LORENZO ftill affects the World;
There, flows his Treafure; Thence, his Title draws,
Man of the World! (for fuch wouldst thou be call'd)
And art thou proud of that inglorious Style?
Proud of Reproach? For a Reproach it was,
In antient Days; and CHRISTIAN,-in an Age,
When Men were Men, and not asham'd of Heaven,
Fir'd their Ambition, as it crown'd their Joy.
Sprinkled with Dews from the Caftalian Font,
Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer
A purer Spirit, and a nobler Name.
Thy fond Attachments fatal, and inflam'd,
Point out my Path, and dictate to my Song:
To thee, the World how fair! How strongly strikes
Ambition! and gay Pleasure ftronger ftill!
Thy triple Bane! the triple Bolt, that lays
Thy Virtue dead! Be These my triple Theme;
Nor fhall thy Wit or Wisdom be forgot.
Common the Theme; not fo the Song; if She My Song invokes, URANIA, deigns to fmile. The Charm that chains us to the World, her Foe, If the diffolves, the Man of Earth, at once, Starts from his Trance, and fighs for other Scenes; Scenes where these Sparks of Night, thefe Stars, fhall Unnumber'd Suns (for all Things, as they are, The Bleft behold); and, in one Glory, pour Their blended Blaze on Man's astonisht Sight; A Blaze, the least illuftrious Object, There. LORENZO! fince Eternal is at Hand, To fwallow Time's Ambitions; as the vast Leviathan, the Bubbles vain, that ride High on the foaming Billow; what avail High Titles, high Defcent, Attainments high, If unattain'd our Higheft? O LORENZO! What lofty Thoughts, thefe Elements above! What tow'ring Hopes, what Sallies from the Sun, What grand Surveys of Destiny divine, And pompous Prefage of unfathom'd Fate, Should roll in Bofoms, where a Spirit burns, Bound for Eternity! In Bofoms read By Him, who Foibles in Archangels fees! On human Hearts He bends a jealous Eye, And marks, and in Heav'n's Register inrolls, The Rife, and Progrefs, of each Option, there; Sacred to Doomsday! That the Page unfolds, And spreads us to the Gaze of Gods and Men.
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