O'er putrid earth to fcratch a little duft,
And fave the world a nuifance. Smitten friends
Are angels fent on errands full of love;
For us they languifh, and for us they die :
And fhall they languifh, fhall they die in vain ?
Ungrateful, fhall we grieve their hov'ring shades,
Which wait the revolution in our hearts?
Shall we difdain their fi'ent, soft addrefs;
Their posthumous advice, and pious prayer?
Seufelefs as herds that graze their hallow'd graves,
Tread under foot their agonies and groans;
Fruftrate their anguifh, and destroy their deaths?
LORENZO! no; the thought of death indulge ;.
Give it its wholefome empire; let it reign,
That kind chaftifer of thy foul in joy!!
Its reign will spread thy glorious conquefts far,
And fill the tumults of thy ruffled breast.
Aufpicious ra! golden days begin!
The thought of death, fhall, like a god, inspire.
And why not think on death? is life the theme
Of every thought? and wish of every hour?
And fong of every joy? Surprifing truth!
The beaten fpaniel's fondnefs not fo strange.
To wave the num'rous ills that feize on life
As their own property, their lawful prey;
Ere man has meafur'd half his weary stage,
His luxuries have left him no referve,
No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights;
On cold-ferv'd repetitions he subsists,
And in the taftelefs prefent chews the past;
Difgufted chews, and fcarce can fwallow down.
Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years.
Have difinherited his future hours,
Which starve on orts, and glean their former field.
Live ever here, LORENZO! fhocking thought!
So fhocking, they who wish, difown it too!
Difown from fhame, what they from folly crave.
Live ever in the womb, nor fee the light?
For what live ever here?-with labouring step
To tread our former footsteps? pace the round
Eternal? to climb daily Life's worn wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? to beat, and beat
The beaten track? to bid each wretched day
The former mock? to furfeit on the fame,
And yawn our joys? or thank a mifery
For change, though fad? to fee what we have feen?
Hear, till unheard, the fame old flabber'd tale?
To tafte the tasted, and at each return
Lefs tafteful? o'er our palates to decant
Another vintage? ftrain a flatter year,
Through loaded veffels, and a laxer tone?
Crazy machines to grind earth's wafled fruits!
Ill-ground, and worfe concocted! Load, not life!
The rational foul kennels of excefs!
Still-ftreaming thoroughfares of dull debauch! Trembling each gulph, left Death should snatch the
Such, of our fine ones, is the wifh refin'd! So would they have it: Elegant defire ! Why not invite the bellowing ftalls, and wilds? But fuch examples might their riot awe. Thro' want of virtue, that is, want of thought, (Tho' on bright thought they father all their flights) To what are they reduc'd? to love, and hate, The fame vain world; to cenfure, and efpoufe, This painted fhrew of life, who calls them fool Each moment of each day; to flatter bad Thro' dread of worfe? to cling to this rude rock, Barren to them, of good, and sharp with ills, And hourly blacken'd with impending forms, And infamous for wrecks of human hopeScar'd at the gloomy gulph, that yawns beneath. Such are their triumphs! fuch their pangs of joy! 'Tis time, high time, to fhift this difmal fcene. This bugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure? One only; but that one, what ali may reach; Virtue She, wonder-working goddefs! charms That rock to bloom; and tames the painted shrew ;
And what will more furprise, LORENZO ! gives
To life's fick, naufeous iteration, change;
And ftraitens Nature's circle to a line.
Believ'st thou this, LORENZO? Lend an ear,
A patient ear, thou'lt blush to disbelieve.
A languid leaden iteration reigns,
And ever muft, o'er thofe whose joys are joys
Of fight, fmell, tafte: The cuckoo-feafons fing.
The fmall dull note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what thofe feafons, from the teeming earth,
To doating fenfe indulge. But nobler minds,
Which relish fruits unripen'd by the fun,
Make their days various; various as the dyes
On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays.
On minds of dove-like innocence poffeft,
On lighten❜d minds, that bask in virtue's beams,
Nothing hangs tedious: nothing olds revolves
In that, for which they long, for which they live.
Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heav'nly hope,
Each rifing morning fees ftill higher rise;
Each bounteous dawn its novelty prefents
To worth maturing, new ftrength, luftre, fame;
While Nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel,
Rolling beneath their elevated aims,
Makes their fair prefpect fairer ev'ry hour;
Advancing virtue in a line to bliss;
Virtue; which Chriftian motives best inspire!
And blifs, which Chriftian schemes alone enfure!
And fhall we then, for virtue's fake, commence
Apoftates, and turn infidels for joy?
A truth it is, few doubt but fewer trust,
"He fins against this life who flights the next."
What is this life? how few their fav'rite know?
Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace,
By paffionately loving life, we make
Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death.
We give to time eternity's regard:
And dreaming, take our paffage for our port.
Life has no value as an end, but means;
An end deplorable! a means divine !
When 'tis our all. 'tis nothing worfe than nought;~
A neft of pains; when held as nothing, much.
Like fome fair hum'rifts, life is moft enjoy'd,
When courted leaft; moft worth, when difesteem'd :
Then. 'tis the feat of comfort, rich in peace;
In profpect richer far; important! awful!
Not to be mention'd, but with fhouts of praise,
Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy;
The mighty bafis of eternal blifs!
Where now the barren rock ? the painted Shrews
Where now, LORENZO! life's eternal round?
Have I not made my triple promise good?
Vain is the world! but only to the vain.
To what compare we then this varying scene,
Whose worth ambiguous rifes and declines;
Waxes and wanes ? (in all propitious, night
Affifts me here.) Compare it to the moon ;
Dark in herself, and indigent ; but rich
In borrow'd luftre from a higher sphere;
When grofs guilt interpofes, lab'ring earth,
O'erfhadow'd, mourns a deep eclipfe of joy ;
Her joys, at brightest, pallid to that font,
Of full effulgent glory, whence they flow.
Nor is that glory diftant; O LORENZO !
A good man, and an angel! thefe between
How thin the barrier? what divides their fate ?.
Perhaps a moment, or perhaps a year;
Or, if an age, it is a moment ftill;
A moment, or eternitys forgot,
Then be, what once they were, who now are gods;
Be what PHILANDER was, and claim the kies.
Starts timid Nature at the gloomy pass?
The foft tranfuion call it; and be cheer'd;
Such it is often, and why not to thee?
To hope the best is pious, brave, and wife,
And may itfelf procure, what it prefumes.
Life is much flatter'd, death is much traduc'd,
Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown.
"Strange competition !True, LORENZO! ftrange! So little life can caft into the scale..
Life makes the foul dependant on the duft; Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. Thro' chinks, ftyl'd organs, dim life peeps at light; Death burfs th' involving cloud, and all is day; All eye, all ear, the difembody'd power. Death has feign'd evils, Nature fhall not feel; Life, ills fubftantial, wisdom cannot shun. Is not the mighty Mind, that fon of Heav'n ! By tyrant Life dethron'd, imprifon'd, pain'd! 4 By Death enlarg'd ennobled, deify'd ? Death but entombs the body; Life the foul.
"Is Death then guiltless? How he marks his "With dreadful waite of what deferves to shine! Art, genius, fortune, elevated power!! "With various luitres thefe light up the world, "Which Death puts out, and darkens human race.” I grant LORENZO! this indictment juft;
The fage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror!
Death humbles theie; more barb'rous Life the man
Life is the triumph of our mould'ring clay;
Death, of the fpirit infinite! divine!
Death has no dread, but what frail Life imparts:
Nor Life true joy, but what kind Death improves.
No blifs has Life to boat, till Death can give
Far greater: Life's a debtor to the grave,
Dark lattice! letting in eternal day、
LORENZO! bluth at fondness for a life,
Which fends celeftial fouls on errands vile,
To cater for the sense; and serve at boards,
Where ev'ry ranger of the wilds, perhaps
Each reptile, juftly claims our upper hand.
Luxurious feaft! a foul, immortal,
In all the dainties of a brute bemir'd!
LORENZO blush at terror for a death,
Which gives thee to repofe in feftive bow'rs,
Where nectars fparkle, angels minifter.
And more than angels fhare, and raise, and crown,
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