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With infolence, and impotence of thought,
Inftead of racking fancy, to refute,

Reform thy manners, and the truth enjoy-
But fhall I dare confefs the dire refult?
Can thy proud reafon brook fo black a brand?
From purer manners, to fublimer faith,

Is Nature's unavoidable afcent;

An honeft deift, where the gospel fhines,
Matur'd to nobler, in the Chriflian ends,
When that bleft change arrives, e'en caft afide
This fong fuperfluous; life immortal strikes
Conviction, in a flood of light divine.

A Chriftian dwells like Uriel*, in the fun;
Meridian evidence puts doubt to flight;
And ardent hope anticipates the fkies.
Of that bright fun, LORENZO ! fcale the sphere;
'Tis eafy; it invites thee; it defcends

From heav'n to woo, and waft thee whence it came;

Read, and revere the facred page; a page

Where triumphs immortality; a page

Which not the whole creation could produce;
Which not the conflagration fhall destroy.
In Nature's ruins not one letter loft,
"Tis printed in the mind of g ods for ever.

In proud difdain of what e'en gods adore,
Doft fmile?-Poor wretch! thy guardian-angel weeps ;
Angels, and men, affent to what I sing;

Wits fimile and thank me for my midnight dream.
How vicious hearts fume phrenzy to the brain!
Parts push us on to pride, and pride to shame;
Pert infidelity is wit's cockade,

Το

grace the brazen brow that braves the skies, By lofs of being, dreadfully fecure.

LOPENZO! if thy doctrine wins the day,

And drives my dreams, defeated, from the field;
If this is all, if earth a final scene;

Take heed; ftand faft; be fure to be a knave;

* See Milton's Paradife Loft.

A knave in grain! ne'er deviate to the right:
Should't 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 these.

What can reclaim you? dare I hope profound
Philofophers the converts of a fong?

Yet know, its title flatters you, not me.
Yours be the praise to make my title good;
Mine to blefs Heav'n, and triumph in your praise.
But fince fo peftilential your disease,

Though fov'reign is the med'cine I preferibe,
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 should fouls immortal, made for blifs,
E'er wish (and wish in vain!) that fouls could die?
What ne'er can die, oh! grant to live; and crown
The wish, and aim, and labour of the Skies ;~~
Increafe, and enter on the joys of Heav'n..
Thus fhall my title pafs a facred feal,

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 should't live for ever ?.
Is it lefs ftrange, that thou should'st 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 starts his faith at what is firange!
What lefs than wonders, from the Wonderful?
What lefs than miracles, from GOD, can flow?

*The Infidel Reclaim'd.

Admit a GOD that mystery fupreme !

That caufe uncaus'd! all other wonders ceafe ;
Nothing is marvellous for Him to do:
Deny Him-all is mystery befides;
Millions of mysteries! each darker far
Than that, thy wisdom would, unwifely, fhun.
If weak thy faith, why choose the harder fide?
We nothing know, but what is marvellous;
Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
So weak our reason, and fo great our God,
What moft furprizes in the facred page,
Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true.
Faith is not Reafon's labour, but repofe.

To faith, and virtue, why fo backward, man?
From hence—The prefent strongly ftrikes us all;
The future, faintly. Can we, then, be men?
If men, LORENZO! the reverse is right.
Reafon is man's peculiar ; fenfe, the brute's.
The prefent is the feanty realm of fenfe;
The future, Reafon's empire unconfin'd:
On that expending all her godlike pow?r,
She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there;
There, builds her bleffings; there expects her praise;
And nothing afks of fortune, or of men.

And what is Reafon? Be the thus defin'd:
Reafon is upright flature in the foul.

Oh! be a man and ftrive to be a God.

"For what? (thou fay'ft :) To damp the joys of No; to give heart and fubftance to thy joys. [life:" That tyrant, Hope; mark, how she domineers! She bids us quit realities, for dreams; Safety and peace, for hazard and alarm ; That tyrant o'er the tyrants of the foul, She bids ambition quit its taken prize, Spurn the luxuriant branch on which it fits, Though bearing crowns, to fpring at difiant game; And plunge in toils, and dangers for repofe. If hope precarious, and if things, when gain'd, Of little moment, and as little fay,

Can fweeten toils and dangers into joys;

What then, that hope, which nothing can defeat,
Our leave unafk'd? Rich hope of boundless blifs!
Blifs, paft man's pow'r to paint it ; time's, to close !
This hope is earth's molt 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, though strong,
Man's heart, at once, infpirits and ferenes;
Nor makes him pay his wifdom for his joys;
'Tis all our present ftate can safely bear,
Health to the frame ! and vigour to the mind!
A joy attemper'd! a chaftis'd delight!
Like the fair fummer-evening mild, and fweet!
'Tis man's full cup; his paradife below!

A bleft hereafter; then or bop'd or gain'd,
Is all; our whole of happiness; Full proof,
I chofe no trivial or inglorious theme.
And know, ye foes to fong

(well-meaning men, Tho' quite forgotten half your Bible s praile!) Important truths, in fpite of verfe, may pleafe.

Grave minds you praise; nor can you praise too much; If there is weight in an ETERNITY,

Let the liften; and be graver ftill.

grave

*The poetical parts of it.

THE

COMPLAINT..

NIGHT THE EIGHTH.

VIRTUE's APOLOGY:

OR,

THE MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED..

IN WHICH ARE CONSIDERED,

THE LOVE OF THIS LIFE:

THE AMBITION AND PLEASURE, WITH THE WIT AND WISDOM OF THE WORLD.

A

ND has all Nature, then efpous'd my part?
Have I brib'd heav'n and earth, to plead a
gainst thee!

And is thy foul immortal?—What remains?
All, all, LORENZO :—Make immortal blest.
Unbleft immortals !-What can fhock us more?
And yet LORENZO ftill affects the world;

There, ftows his treasure; thence, his title draws.
Man of the world! (for fuch wouldst thou be call'd)
And art thou proud of that inglorious ftyle?
Proud of reproach? for a reproach it was,
In ancient days; and CHRISTIAN,—in an age,
When men were men, and not afham'd of Heav'n,
Fird 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 fpirit, and a nobler name.

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