Thy fond attachments, fatal, and inflam'd Point out my path, and dictate to my song. To thee, the world how fair! how ftrongly strikes Ambition! and gay pleasure ftronger still! Thy triple bane! the triple bolt, that lays Thy virtue dead: Be these my triple theme; Nor fhall thy wit, or wifdom, be forgot.

Common the theme; not fo the fong; if the My fong invokes, URANIA, deigns to fmile. The charm that chains us to the world, her foe, If fhe diffolves, the man of earth, at once,

Starts from his trance, and fighs for other scenes; Scenes, where thefe fparks of night, the fars fhall

fhine

Unnumber'd funs, (for all things, as they are,
The bleft behold); and, in one glory, pour
Their blended blaze on man's aftonish'd fight;
A blaze--the leaft illustrious object there,
LORENZO! fince eternal is at hand,
To fwallow Time's ambitions; as the vaft
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 fallies from the fun,
What grand furveys of destiny divine,
And pompous prefage of unfathom'd fate,
Should roll in bofoms where a fpirit 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 regifter enrols
The rife and progrefs of each option there;
Sacred to doomfday! That the page unfolds,
And spread us to the gaze of gods and men.

And what an option, O' LORENZO! thine!
This world! and this, unrivall'd by the skies!
A world, where luft of pleasure, grandeur, gold,

Three demons that divide its realm between them, With ftrokes alternate buffet to and fro

Man's restless heart, their sport, their flying ball;;
Till, with the giddy circle, fick and tir'd,
It pants for peace, and drops into despair.
Such is the world LORENZO fets above
That glorious promife angels were esteem'd
Too mean to bring; a promife, they ador'd,
Defcended to communicate, and prefs,
By counfel, miracle, life, death, on man.
Such is the world LORENZO's wisdom wooes,
And on its thorny pillow feeks repofe;
A pillow which, like opiates ill prepar'd,
Intoxicates, but not compofes; fills
The visionary minds with gay chimeras,
All the wild trash of fleep, without the rest;
What unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy!
How frail, men, things! how momentary both?
Fantastic chace, of fhadows hunting fhades!
The gay, the bufy, equal, though unlike;
Equal in wifdom, differently wife!

Thro' flow'ry meadows, and thro' dreary wastes,
One bustling, and one dancing, into death.
There's not a day, but, to the man of thought,
Betrays fome fecret, that throws new reproach
On life, and makes him fick of seeing more.
The scenes of bus'nefs tells us What are men?”***
The scenes of pleasure What is all befide :"
There, others we despise; and here, ourselves.
Amidst difguft eternal, dwells delight?.
'Tis approbation ftrikes the ftrings of joy.

What wond'rous prize has kindled this career,
Stuns with the din, and choaks us with the duft,
On life's gay stage, one inch above the grave!
The proud run up and down, in queft of eyes:
The fenfual, in purfuit of fomething worfe;
The grave, of gold; the politic, of power;
And all of other butterflies, as vain!

As eddies draw things frivolous, and light

How is man's heart by vanity drawn in,
On the fwift circle of returning toys,

-Whirl'd, ftraw-like, round and round, and then in-
Where gay delufion darkens to defpair! [gulph'd,

"This is a beaten track.”—Is this a track
Should not be beaten ? Never beat enough,
Till enough learnt the truths it would inspire.
Shall truth be filent, because folly frowns?
-Turn the world's history, what find we there,
But Fortune's fports, or Nature's cruel claims,
Or woman's artifice, or man's revenge,
And endless inhumanities on man?

Fame's trumpet feldom founds, but, like the knell,
It brings bad tidings: How it hourly blows
Man's misadventures round the lift'ning world!
Man is the tale of narrative old Time ;
Sad tale! which high as Paradife begins!
As if, the toil of travel to delude,
From ftage to ftage, in his eternal round,
The days, his daughters, as they spin our hours
On Fortune's wheel, where accident unthought
Oft, in a moment, fraps life's strongest thread,
Each in her turn, fome tragic ftory tells,
With, now and then, a wretched farce between ;
And fills his chronicle with human woes.

Time's daughters, true as those of men, deceive us;
Not one, but puts fome cheat on all mankind.
While in their father's bofom, not yet ours,
They flatter our fond hopes; and promife much
Of amiable; but hold him not o'erwife,

Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the year,
At ftill confiding, ftill confounded, man,
Confiding, though confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by trial, unconvine'd by proof,
And ever looking for the never-feen.
Life to the laft, like harden'd felons lies;
Nor owns itfelf a cheat, till it expires.
Its little joys go out by one and one,
And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night
Night, darker than what now involves the pole.

170

O THOU, who doft permit thefe ills to fall, For gracious ends, and wouldft that man fhould

mourn!

O THOU, whofe hands this goodly fabric fram'd, Who know'ft it beft, and would't that man should know!

What is this fublunary world? A vapour;
A vapour all it holds; itself a vapour,
From the damp bed of chaos, by Thy beam
Exhal'd, ordain'd to fwim its deftin'd hour
In ambient air, then melt, and disappear.
Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom;
As mortal, though lefs tranfient, than her fons;
Yet they doat on her, as the world and they
Were both eternal, folid; THOU, a dream.
They doat, on what? Immortal views apart,
A region of outfides! a land of shadows!
A fruitful field of flow'ry promifes!
A wilderness of joys! perplex'd with doubts,
And fharp with thorns! A troubled ocean, spread
With bold adventurers, their all on board;
No fecond hope, if here their fortune frowns;
Frown foon it must. Of various rates they fail,
Of enfigns various; all alike in this,

All reftlefs, anxious; toft with hopes and fears,
In calmeft fkies; obnoxious all to florm;
And ftormy the most general blast of life:
All bound for happinefs; yet few provide
The chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies;
Or Virtue's helm to fhape the course defign'd:
All, more all lef, capricious fate lament,
Now lifted by the tide, and now reforb'd,
And farther from their wifhes, than before:
All, more or lefs, againft each other dash
To mutual hurt, by gufts of paffion driv'n,
And fuff'ring more from folly, than from fate.

Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous home
Of dangers, at eternal war with man.
Death's capital, where moft he domineers,

With all his chofen terrors frowning round,
(Though lately feafted high at* Albion's cost),
Wide op'ning, and loud roaring ftill for more!
Too faithful mirror ! how dost thou reflect
The melancholy face of human life!

The ftrong resemblance tempts me further still :
And, haply BRITAIN may be deeper ftruck
By moral truth, in fuch a mirror feen,
Which Nature holds for ever at her eye.

Self flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in hope,
When young, with fanguine cheer, and ftreamers gay,
We cut our cable, launch into the world,
And fondly dream each wind and ftar our friend:
All, in fome darling enterprize embark'd:
But where is he can fathom its event!
Amid a multitude of artlefs hands,
Ruin s fure perquifite! her lawful prize!

Some teer aright; but the black blaft blows hard,
And puffs them wide of hope; With hearts of proof,
Full againft wind and tide, fome win their way;
And when ftrong effort has deferv'd the

port,

And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! 'tis loft!
Though ftrong their oar, ftill ftronger is their fate;
They ftrike; and, while they triumph, they expire.
In fiefs of weather, moft; fome fink outright;
O'er them, and o'er their names the billows clofe ;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others, a fhort memorial leave behind;
Like a flag floating,when the bark's ingulph'd,
It floats a moment, and is feen no more.
One CESAR lives A thousand are forget.
How, few beneath aufpicious planets born,
(Darlings of providence! fond Fate's elect!)
With fwelling fails make good the promis d port
With all their wishes freighted! Yet, even thefe,
Freighted with all their wifhes, foon complain;
Free from Misfortune, not from Nature free,
They ftill are men; and when is man secure?
* Admiral Balchen, &c.