Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

Thus, in a double fenfe, the good are wife
On its own dunghill, wifer than the World.

;

What then, the World? It must be doubly weak ;
Strange truth! as foon would they believe the creed!
Yet thus it is; nor otherwise can be ;
So far from aught romantic, what-I fing.
Bliss has no being, virtue has no strength,
But from the prospect of immortal life.

Who thinks earth all, or (what weighs juft the fame)
Who cares no farther, must prize what it yields:
Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades.
Who thinks earth nothing, can't its charms admire;
He can't a foe, though moft malignant, hate,
Because that hate would prove his greater foe.
'Tis hard for them (yet who fo loudly boast
Good-will to men?) to love their dearest friend;
For may not he invade their good supreme.
Where the leaft jealoufy turns love to gall?.
All fhines to them, that for a feafon fhines.
Each act, each thought, be questions, "What its weight,
"Its colour what, a thoufand ages hence?".
And what is there appears, he deems it now.
Hence, pure are the receffes of his foul.
The godlike man has nothing to conceal.
His virtue, conftitutionally deep,

Has babit's firmnefs, and affection's flame;
Angels, ally'd, defcend to feed the fire;

And Death, which others flay, makes him a god.
And now, LORENZO ! bigot of this world!
Wont to difdain poor bigots caught be Heav'n!
Stand by thy scorn, and be reduc'd to nought;
For what art thou?-Thou boafter! While thy glare
Thy gaudy grandeur, and mere worldly worth,
Like a broad mift, at distance strikes us moft,
And, like a mift, is nothing when at hand;
His merit, like a mountain, on approach,
Swells more, and rifes nearer to the fkies,
By promife now, and by poffeffion soon,
(Too so on, too much it cannot be) his own.

From this thy juft annibilation, rife,
LORENZO! rife to something, by reply,
The World, thy client, liftens and expects;
And longs to crown thee with immortal praise.
Canft thou be filent? No; for wit is thine;
And wit talks most, when least she has to say,
And reafon interrupts not her carreer.
She'll fay-That mists above the mountains rise;
And, with a thousand pleasantries, amuse;
She'll fparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a duft,
And fly conviction, in the duft the rais'd.
Wit, how delicious to man's dainty taste !
'Tis precious as the vehicle of sense;
But, as its fubftitute, a dire disease.
Pernicious talent! flatter'd by the world,
By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare.
Wisdom is rare, LORENZO! wit abounds;
Passion can give it; fometimes wine inspires
The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails,
Whatever cause the spirit strongly flirs,
Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown.
For thy renown, 'twere well, was this the worst :
Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more,
See dullness, blundering on vivacities,
Shakes her fage head at the calamity

Which has expos'd, and let her down to thee.
But wisdom, awful wifdom! which infpects,
Difcerns, compares, weighs, feparates, infers,
Seizes the right, and holds it to the last ;
How rare! In fenates, fynods, fought in vain
Or, if there found, 'tis facred to the few;
While a lewd proftitute to multitudes,
Frequent, as fatal wit. In civil life,
Wit makes an enterprizer; sense, a man.
Wit hates authority; commotion loves,
And thinks herfelf the light'ning of the ftorm.
In states, 'tis dangerous; in religion, death.
Shall wit turn Chriftian, when the dull believe?
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;
The plume expofes, 'tis our helmet faves,

Sense is the di'mond, weighty, folid, found :
When cut by wit, it cafts a brighter beam;
Yet, wit apart, it is a di'mond ftill.

[ocr errors]

Wit, widow'd of good sense, is worse than nought;
It hoifts more fail to run against a rock.
Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool;
Whom dull fools fcorn, and blefs their want of wit.
How ruinous the rock I warn thee fhun,
Where Syrens fit, to fing thee to thy fate!
A joy, in which our reason bears no part,
Is but a sorrow, tickling, ere it stings,
Let not the cooings of the World allure thee;
Which of her lovers ever found her true?
Happy of this bad world who little know!-
And yet, we much must know her, to be safe.
To know the world, not love her, is thy point:
She gives but little, nor that little, long.
There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse,
A dance of fpirits, a mere froth of joy,
Our thoughtless agitation's idle child,

[ocr errors]

That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires,
Leaving the foul more vapid than before.
An animal ovation! fuch as holds

No commerce with our reason, but fubfifts

On juices, thro' the well-ton'd tubes well strain'd; : A nice machine ! fcarce ever tun'd aright, And when it jarsthy Syrens fing no more; Thy dance is done; the demi-god is thrown (Short apothefis !) beneath the man, In coward gloom immers'd, or fell despair. Art thou yet dull enough despair to dread, And startle at destruction? If thou art, Accept a buckler, take it to the field; (A field of battle is this mortal life !) When danger threatens, lay it on thy heart: A fingle fentence proof againft the World: "Soul, body, fortune! Ev'ry good pertains "To one of thefe; but prize not all alike : "The goods of fortune to thy body's health.

"Body to Soul, and foul fubmit to God." Wouldft thou build latting happiness? Do this; Th' inverted pyramid can never stand.

Is this truth doubtful? It outfhines the fun Nay, the fun fhines not, but to fhew us this, The fingle leffon of mankind on earth,

[ocr errors]

And yet Yet, what? No news! mankind is mad ;
Such mighty numbers lift against the right,

(And what can't numbers, when bewitch'd, achieve?)
They talk themselves to fomething like belief,
That all earth's joys are theirs; As ATHENS' fool
Grinn'd from the port, on ev'ry fail his own.

They grin; but wherefore? and how long the laugh?
Half ignorance, their mirth; and half, a lie :
To cheat the world, and cheat themselves, they fimile.
Hard either task! The most abandon'd own,
That others if abandon'd are undone ;

Then, for themfelves, the moment Reason wakes;
(And Providence denies it long repose),
O how laborious is their gaiety!

They fcarce can fwallow their ebullient spleen,
Scarce mufter patience to fupport the farce,
And pump fad laughter, till the curtain falls.
Scarce did I fay? Some cannot fit it out;
Oft their own daring hands the curtain draw,
And fhew us what their joy, by their despair.
The clotted hair! gor'd breaft! blafpheming eye!
Its impious fury ftill alive in death!-

Shut, fhut the fhocking fcene.-But Heav'n denies
A cover to fuch guilt; and fo fhould man.
Look round, LORENZO! fee, the reaking blade;
Th' invenom'd phial, and the fatal ball;
The frangling cord, and iuffocating stream;
"The loathfome rottennefs, and foul decays,
From raging riot, (flower fu:cides!)
And pride in thefe, more execrable ftill!-
How horrid all to thought !--but horrors, these,
That vouch the truth, and aid my feeble fong.

From vice, sense, fancy, no man can be blest;
Blifs is too great, to lodge within an hour.
When an immortal being aims at blifs,
Duration is effential to the name.

O for a joy from Reason! joy from that,
Which makes man, man ; and,exercis'd aright,
Will make him more; a bounteous joy! that gives,
And promifes; that weaves, with art divine,
The richest profpect into prefent peace;
A joy ambitious joy in common held
With thrones ethereal, and their greater far;
A joy high-privileg'd, from chance, time, death!
A joy, which death fhall double! judgment crown!
Crown'd higher, and still higher, at each stage,
Thro' bleft eternity's long day: yet ftill,
Not more remote from sorrow, than from Him,
Whofe lavish hand, whofe love ftupendous, pours
So much of Deity on guilty duft.

There, O my LuCIA! may I meet thee there,
Where not thy prefence can improve my blifs!
Affects not this the sages of the world?

Can nought affect them, but what fools them too?
Eternity, depending on an hour,

[ocr errors]

Makes serious thought man's wildom, joy, and praise.
Nor need you blush (tho' fometimes your defigns
May shun the light) at your designs on Heav'n;
Sole point! where over-bashful is your blame.
Are you not wise? You know you are; Yet hear
One truth, amid your num'rous fchemes, miflaid,
Or overlook'd; or thrown afide, if seen;
"Ourichemes to plan by this world, or the next,
"Is the fole diff'rence between wife and fool."
All worthy men will weigh you in this fcale;
What wonder, then, if they pronounce you light?
Is their efteem alone not worth your care?
Accept my fimple fcheine of common sense;
Thus fave your fame, and make two worlds your own
The world replies not,but the world persists;
And puts the cause off to the longest day,
Planning evasions for the day of doom.
So far, at that re-bearing, from redrefs,

« AnteriorContinuar »