Of life? to hang his airy nest on high,
On the slight timber of the topmost bough,
Rock'd at each breeze, and menacing a fall?
Granting grim Death at equal distance there,
Yet peace begins just where ambition ends.
What makes man wretched? happiness denied?
Lorenzo! no; 'tis Happiness disdain'd!

She comes too meanly dress'd to win our smile,
And calls herself Content, a homely name!
Our flame is transport, and Content our scorn!
Ambition turns, and shuts the door against her,
And weds a toil, a tempest, in her stead;
A tempest to warm transport near of kin.
Unknowing what our mortal state admits,
Life's modest joys we ruin while we raise,
And all our ecstasies are wounds to peace;
Peace, the full portion of mankind below.

And since thy peace is dear, ambitious youth! Of fortune fond! as thoughtless of thy fate! As late I drew Death's picture, to stir up Thy wholesome fears; now, drawn in contrast, see Gay Fortune's, thy vain hopes to reprimand. See, high in air the sportive goddess hangs, Unlocks her casket, spreads her glittering ware, And calls the giddy winds to puff abroad Her random bounties o'er the gaping throng. All rush rapacious; friends o'er trodden friends, Sons o'er their fathers, subjects o'er their kings, Priests o'er their gods, and lovers o'er the fair, (Still more ador'd) to snatch the golden show'r. Gold glitters most where virtue shines no more; As stars from absent suns have leave to shine. O what a precious pack of votaries,

Unkennell'd from the prisons and the stews,

Pour in, all opening in their idol's praise!
All, ardent, eye each wafture of her hand,
And, wide-expanding their voracious jaws,
Morsel on morsel swallow down unchew'd,
Untasted, through mad appetite for more;
Gorg'd to the throat, yet lean and ravenous still:
Sagacious all to trace the smallest game,
And bold to seize the greatest. If (blest chance!)
Court-zephyrs sweetly breathe; they launch, they
O'er just, o'er sacred, all-forbidden ground, [fly,
Drunk with the burning scent of place or pow'r,
Staunch to the foot of Lucre-till they die.

Or, if for men you take them, as I mark
Their manners, thou their various fates survey.
With aim mismeasur'd and impetuous speed,
Some, darting, strike their ardent wish far off,
Through fury to possess it: some succeed,
But stumble, and let fall the taken prize.
From some, by sudden blasts, 'tis whirl'd away,
And lodg'd in bosoms that ne'er dream'd of gain.
To some it sticks so close, that, when torn off,
Torn is the man, and mortal is the wound.
Some, o'er-enamour'd of their bags, run mad;
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
Together some (unhappy rivals!) seize,
And rend abundance into poverty;

Loud croaks the raven of the law, and smiles; Smiles, too, the goddess; but smiles most at those (Just victims of exorbitant desire!)

Who perish at their own request, and, whelm'd
Beneath her load of lavish grants, expire.
Fortune is famous for her numbers slain;
The number small which happiness can bear,
Though various for awhile their fates, at last

One curse involves them all: at Death's approach
All read their riches backward into loss,
And mourn in just proportion to their store.
And Death's approach (if orthodox my song)
Is hasten'd by the lure of Fortune's smiles.
And art thou still a glutton of bright gold?
And art thou still rapacious of thy ruin?
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow;
A blow which, while it executes, alarms,
And startles thousands with a signal fall.
As when some stately growth of oak, or pine,
Which nods aloft and proudly spreads her shade,
The sun's defiance, and the flock's defence,
By the strong strokes of labouring hinds subdu'd,
Loud groans her last; and, rushing from her height,
In cumbrous ruin thunders to the ground;
The conscious forest trembles at the shock,
And hill, and stream, and distant dale, resound.
These high-aim'd darts of Death, and these alone,
Should I collect, my quiver would be full;
A quiver which, suspended in mid air,

Or near Heaven's archer, in the zodiac, hung,
(So could it be) should draw the public eye,
The gaze and contemplation of mankind!
A constellation awful, yet benign,

To guide the Gay through life's tempestuous wave,
Nor suffer them to strike the common rock;
"From greater danger to grow more secure,
And, wrapt in happiness, forget their fate.'
Lysander, happy past the common lot,
Was warn'd of danger, but too gay to fear.
He woo'd the fair Aspasia; she was kind.
In youth,form,fortune, fame, they both were bless'd:
All who knew, envied; yet in envy lov'd:

Can Fancy form more finish'd happiness?
Fix'd was the nuptial hour. Her stately dome
Rose on the sounding beach. The glittering spires
Float in the wave, and break against the shore;
So break those glittering shadows, human joys.
The faithless morning smil'd: he takes his leave
To re-embrace, in ecstasies, at eve:

The rising storm forbids: the news arrives;
Untold she saw it in her servant's eye.
She felt it seen, (her heart was apt to feel)
And drown'd, without the furious ocean's aid,
In suffocating sorrows shares his tomb.
Now round the sumptuous bridal monument
The guilty billows innocently roar,

And the rough sailor passing, drops a tear.
A tear?-can tears suffice?-but not for me.
How vain our efforts! and our arts how vain!
The distant train of thought I took, to shun,
Has thrown me on my fate.-These died together;
Happy in ruin! undivorc'd by death!

Or ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
Narcissa! Pity bleeds at thought of thee;
Yet thou wast only near me, not myself.
Survive myself?—that cures all other woe.
Narcissa lives; Philander is forgot.

O the soft commerce!-O the tender ties,
Close twisted with the fibres of the heart!
Which, broken, break them, and drain off the soul
Of human joy, and make it pain to live.→
And is it then to live? When such friends part,
'Tis the survivor dies.-My heart! no more.

END OF NIGHT FIFTH.

NIGHT VI.

THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED.

IN TWO PARTS.

Containing the Nature, Proof, and Importance, of Immortality.

PART I.

WHERE, AMONG OTHER THINGS,

GLORY AND RICHES ARE PARTICULARLY CONSIDERED.

TO THE RIGHT HON. HENRY PELHAM,

First Lord Commissioner of the Treasury, and Chancellor of the Exchequer.

PREFACE.

FEW ages have been deeper in dispute about religion than this. The dispute about religion, and the practice of it, seldom go together. The shorter, therefore, the dispute, the better. I think it may be reduced to this single question, 'Is man immortal, or is he not? If he is not; all our disputes are mere amusements, or trials of skill. In this case, truth, reason, religion, which give our discourses such pomp and solemnity, are (as will be shown) mere empty sounds, without any meaning in them: but if man is immortal, it will behove him to be very serious about