Why this fo rare? Because forgot of all The day of death; that venerable day,

Which fits as judge; that day, which fhall pronounee
On all our days, abfolve them, or condemn.
LORENZO, never fhut thy thought against it;
Be levees ne'er fo full, afford it room,

And give it audience in the cabinet.
That friend confulted, flatteries apart,
Will tell thee fair, if thou art great, or mean.
To doat on aught may leave us, or be left,
Is that ambition? Then let flames defcend,
Point to the centre their inverted spires,
And learn humiliation from a foul,

Which boasts her lineage from celestial fire.
Yet these are they, the world

pronounces wife
The world, which cancels Nature's right and wrong,
And cafts new wisdom: Ev'n the grave man lends
His folemn face to countenance the coin.
Wisdom for parts, is madness for the whole.
This ftamps the paradox, and gives us leave
To call the wifeft weak, the richest poor,
The most ambitious, unambitious mean;
In triumph mean, and abject on a throne.
Nothing can make it lefs than mad in man,
To put forth all his ardour, all his art,
And give his foul her full unbounded flight,
But reaching Him, who gave her wings to fly.
When blind Ambition quite mistakes her road,
And downward pores, for that which shines above,
Subftantial happiness, and true renown;
Then like an idiot gazing on the brook,
We leap at ftars, and faften in the mud;
At glory grafp, and fink in infamy.

Ambition! pow'rful source of good and ill!
Thy ftrength in man, like length of wing in birds,
When difengag'd from earth, with greater ease,
And fwifter flight, tranfports us to the skies.;
By toys entangled, or in guilt bemir'd
It turns a curfe,; it is our chain, and scourge

In this dark dungeon, where confin'd we lie,
Clofe-grated by the fordid bars of fense;
All profpect of eternity fhut out;
And but for exécution ne'er fet free.
With error is ambition juftly charg'd,
Find we LORENZO wiser in his wealth?
What if thy rental I reform ? and draw
An inventory new, to fet thee right?

Where thy true treasure ? Gold fays, " Not in me :"
And, "Not in me," the Diamond. " Gold is poor;"
India's infolvent. Seek it in thyfelf;

Seek in thy naked felf, and find it there;
In being fo defcended, form'd, endow'd ;
Sky-born, fky-guided, fky-returning race!
Erect, immortal, rational, divine!

In fenfes which inherit earth and heav'ns ;
Enjoy the various riches Nature yields;
Far nobler, give the riches they enjoy;
Give tafte to fruits, and harmony to groves;
Their radiant beams to gold's bright fire;
Take in at once, the landfcape of the world,
At a small inlet, which a grain might close,
And half create the wondrous world they fee.
Our fenfes, as our reafon, are divine.

But for the magic organ's powerful charm,
Earth were a rude, uncolour'd chaos, ftill.
Objects are but th' occafion; our's th' exploit ;
Our's is the cloth, the pencil, and the paint,
Which Nature's admirable picture draws,
And beautifies creation's ample dome.
Like Milton's Eve, when gazing on the lake,
Man makes the matchlefs image, man admires.
Say then, fhall man, his thoughts all fent abroad,
Superior wonders in himself forgot,

His admiration wafte on objects round,

When Heav'n makes him the foul of all he fees?
Abfurd not rare! fo great, so mean, is man.

What wealth in fenfes fuch as thefe! what wealth In Fancy, fir'd to form a fairer scene

Than Senfe furveys! In Mem'ry's firm record,
Which, fhould it perish, could this world recal
From the dark shadows of o'erwhelming years;
In colours fresh originally bright,

Preferves its portrait, and report its fate;
What wealth in intellect, that fov'reign pow'r !
Which Senfe and Fancy fummons to the bar ;.
Interrogates, approves, or reprehends;
And from the mafs thofe underlings import,
From their materials fifted and refin'd,
And in Truth's ballance accurately weigh'd,.
Forms art, and fcience, government, and laws;
The folid basis, and the beauteous frame,
The vitals, and the grace of civil life!
And manners (fad exception!) fet afide,.
Strikes out, with master-hand, a copy fair
Of His idea, whofe indulgent thought,.
Long, long ere chaos teem'd, plann'd human blifs.
What wealth, in fouls that foar, dive, range around
Difdaining limit, or from place or time;

And hear at once, in thought extensive, hear
Th' Almighty fiat, and the trumpet's found!
Bold, on creation's oufide walk, and view
What was, and is, and more than e'er fhall be ;:
Commanding with omnipotence of thought,
Creations new in Fancy's field to rife!

Souls, that can grafp whate'er th' Almighty made,
And wander wild through things impoffible!
What wealth, in faculties of endless growth,
In quenchlefs paffions violent to crave,
In liberty to choose, in power to reach,
And in duration (how thy riches rife?)
Duration to perpetuate-

-Boundlefs blifs!:

Afk you, what porver refides in feeble man
That blifs to gain ?is virtue, then unknown?
Virtue, our prefent peace, our future prize.
Man's unprecarious, natural estate,
Improveable at will, in virtue lies;
Its tenure fure ; its income is divine.

High-built abundance, heap on heap! for what?
To breed new wants, and beggar us the more;
Then make a richer fcramble for the throng.
Soon as this feeble pulse, which leaps fo long
Almoft by miracle, is tir'd with play,
Like rubbish from difploding engines thrown,
Our magazines of hoarded trifles fly;
Fly diverfe; fly to foreigners, to foes;
New mafters court, and call the former, fools
(How justly!) for dependence on their stay;
Wide fcatter, firft, our play-things; then, our duft. ·
Doft court abundance for the fake of peace?
Learn, and lament, thy felf-defeated scheme;
Riches enable to be richer still; ·

And, richer ftill, what mortal can refift?'
Thus Wealth (a cruel task-mafter!) enjoins
New toils, fucceeding toils, an endlefs train!
And murders peace, which taught it firft to fhine..
The poor are half as wretched as the rich;
Whofe proud and painful privilege it is,
At once, to bear a double load of woe;
To feel the ftings of Envy, and of Want,
Outrageous want! both Indies cannot cure.
A competence is vital to content.
Much wealth is corpulence, if not disease:
Sick, or incumber'd, is our happiness.

A

competence is all we can enjoy."

O be content, where Heav'n can give no more!!
More like a flash of water from a lock,

Quickens our fpirit's movement for an hour;
But foon its force is spent, nor rise our joys
Above our native temper's common stream.
Hence difappointment lurks in every prize,
As bees in flowers; and ftings us with fuccefs.
The rich man, who denies it proudly feigns;
Nor knows the wife are privy to the lie.
Much learning fhews how little mortals know;
Muca wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy ;
At beft, it babies us with endless toys,

And keeps us children till we drop to duft.
As monkeys at a mirror stand amaz'd,
They fail to find what they fo plainly fee;
Thus men, in fhining riches, fee the face
Of happiness, nor know it is a fhade;

But gaze, and touch, and peep, and touch again,
And wish, and wonder it is absent still.

How few can rescue opulence from want!
Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor;
Who lives to Fancy, never can be rich.
Poor is the man in debt; the man of gold,
In debt to Fortune, trembles at her power.
The man of Reason smiles at her and death.
O what a patrimony, this! A being
Of fuch inherent ftrength and majelty,

Not worlds poffeft can raise it; worlds destroy'd
Can't injure; which holds on its glorious courfe,
When thine, O Nature! ends; too bleft to mourn
Creation's obfequies. What treasure, this
The monarch is a beggar to the man.
Immortal! Ages pait, yet nothing gone!
Morn without eve? a race without a goal!
Unfhorten'd by progreffion infinite!
Futurity for ever future! Life

Beginning ftill, where computation ends!
'Tis the defcription of a Deity!

'Tis the defcription of the meanest flave!

The meanest flave dares then LORENZO fcorn?
The meanest flave thy fou'reign glory thares.
Proud youth! faftidious of the lower world!
Man's lawful pride includes humility!
Stoops to the loweft; is too great to find

Inferiors all immortal; brothers all !

:

Proprietors eternal of thy love.

Immortal! What can ftrike the fenfe so strong, As this the foul? it thunders to the thought; Reafon amazes; Gratitude o'erwhelms ! No more we flumber on the brink of fate; Rous'd at the found, th' exulting foul afcends,