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THAL

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT THE FIFTH.

THE RELAPSE.

ORENZO to recriminate, is juft..

Londres for fame is avarice of air.

grant the man is vain, who writes for praise :
Praise no man e'er deferv'd, who fought no more..
Asjuft thy fecond charge. I grant the mufe
Has often blufh'd at her degen❜rate fons,
Retain'd by fenfe to plead her filthy cause ;
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And fubtilize the grofs into re n'd:
As if to magic numbers' pow'rful charm
'Twas given, to make a civet of their fong
Obfcene, and fweeten ordure to perfume
Wit, a true pagan, deifies the brute,

And lifts our fwine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obfcure the cause.
We wear the chains of Pleasure and of Pride.
Thefe fhare the man; and thefe diftract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride like an eagle, builds among the ftars;
But Pleasure, lark-like, nefts upon the ground.
Joys fhar'd by brute-creation, Pride refents;
Pleafure embraces: Man would both enjoy,
And both at once: A point how hard to gain !
But what can't Wit, when ftung by ftrong defire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise.
Since joys of Senfe can't raife to Reafon's tafte ;:
In fubtle Sophiftry's laborioas forge,

Wat hammers out a reafon new, that stoops

To fordid fcenes, and meets them with applaufe.
Wit calls the Graces the chafte zone to loose ;
Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells,
A thousand opiates fcatters, to delude,
To fafcinate, inebriate, lay afleep,

And the fool'd mind of man delightfully confound.
Thus that which fhock'd the judgment, fhocks no more;
That which gave Pride, offence, no more offends.
Pleafure, and Pride, by nature mortal foes,
At war eternal, which in man shall reigo,
By Wit's addrefs, patch up a fatal peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, curfed Art! wipes off th' indebted blush
From nature's cheek, and bronzes every fhame.
Man fmiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,
And infamy ftands candidate for praise.

All writ by man in favour of the foul,
Thefe fenfual ethics far, in bulk, tranfcend
The flow'rs of eloquence, profufely pour'd
Oe'r spotted Vice, fill half the letter'd world.
Can powers of genius exercise their page,
And confecrate enormities with fong?

But let not thefe inexpiable ftrains
Condemn the mufe that knows her dignity;
Nor meanly ftops at time, but holds the world
As 'tis, in nature's ample field a point,
A point in her efteem; from whence to start,
And run the round of universal space,
To vifit being universal there,

And being's Source, that utmoft flight of mind!
Yet, fpite of this fo vaft circumference,

Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great.
Sing fyrens only? do not angels fing?
There is in Poefy a decent pride,

Which well becomes her when the fpeaks to Profe,
Her younger fifter; haply not more wife.

Think it thou, LORENZO! to find pastimes here?

No guilty paffion blown into a flame, No foible flatter'd, dignity difgrac'd, No fairy field of fiction all on flow`r, No rainbow colours, here, or filken tale, But folemn counfels, images of awe, Truths, which eternity lets fall on man With double weight, thro' thefe revolving fpheres, This death-deep filence, and incumbent shade: Thoughts, fuch as fhall revifit your last hour; Vifit uncall'd, and live when life expires; And thy dark pencil, midnight! darker ftill In melancholy dipt, embrowns the whole. Yet this, even this, my laughter-loving friends! LORENZO and thy brothers of the smile! If whai imports you moft, can most engage, Shall fteal your ear, and chain you to my fong; Or, if you fail me, know the wife fhall tafte The truths I fing, the truths I fing shall feel And, feeling, give affent! and their affent Is ample recompence: is more than praife. But chiefly thine, O LITCHFIELD! nor mistake; Think not unintroduc'd I forc'd my way; NARCISSA, not unknown, not unally'd, By virtue, or by blood, illuftrious youth! To thee, from blooming Amaranthine bow`rs, Where all the language harmony, defcends "Uncall'd, and afks admittance for the mufe; A mufe that will not pain thee with thy praise : Thy praise fhe drops, by nobler ftill infpir'd.

;

O thou! bleft Spirit! whether the Supreme Great antemundane Father! in whofe breaft Embryo creation, unborn being dwelt, And all its various revolutions roll d Prefent, tho' future; prior to themfelves Whose breath can blow it into nought again; Or, from his throne fome delegated pow`r, Who, ftudious of our peace, doit turn the thought From vain and vile, to folid and fublime! Unfeen Thou lead ft me to delicious draughts

THE RELAPSE.

Of infpiration, from a purer ftream,

And fuller of the God, than that which burft
From fam'd Caftalia; Nor is yet allay'd

My facred thirst; though long my foul has rang'd
Through pleafing paths of moral and divine,
By Thee fuftain'd, and lighted by the ftars.

75

By them beft lighted are the paths of thought; Nights are their days, their moft illumin'd hours. By day, the foul o'erborne by life's career, Stunn'd by the din, and giddy with the glare, Reels far from reason, joftled by the throng. By day the foul is paffive, all her thoughts Impos'd, precarious, broken, ere mature. By night, from objects free, from paffion cool, Thoughts uncontroul'd, and unimpress'd, the births Of pure election, arbitrary range,

Not to the limits of one world confin'd;

But from etherial travels light on earth,

As voyagers drop anchor for repofe.

Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians fond
Of feather'd fopperies, the fun adore ;
Darkness has more divinity for me;

It trikes throught inward; it drives back the foul
To fettle on herfelf, our point fupreme?
There lies our theatre; there fits our judge.
Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull scene;
'Tis the kind hand of Providence ftretch'd out
Twixt man and vanity; 'tis Reafon's reign,
And Virtue's too: Thefe tutelary fhades
Are man's afylum from the tainted throng.
Night is the good man's friend, and guardian too;
It no lefs refcues virtue, than infpires.

Virtue, for ever frail, as fair, below,
Her tender nature suffers in the croud,
Nor touches on the world, without a ftain.
The world's infectious; few bring back at eve,
Immaculate, the manners of the mon.
Something we thought, is blotted; we refolv'd,
Is fhaken; we renounc'd, returns again.

H

T

Each falutation may flide in a fin

Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.

Nor is it ftrange: Light, motion, concourse, noife,
All scatter us abroad; thought, outward bound,
Neglectful of our home-affairs, flies off

In fume and diffipation, quits her charge,
And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe.
Prefent example gets within our guard,
And acts with double force, by few repell'd.
Ambition fires ambition; Lve of gain

Strikes, like a peftilence, from breaft to breaft;
Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapours breathe ;
And inhumanity is caught from man;
From fmiling man. A flight, a fingle glance,
And shot at random, often has brought home
A fudden fever, to the throbbing heart,
Of envy, rancour, or impure defire.

We fee, we hear, with peril; Safety dwells
Remote from Fultitude! The world's a school
Of wrong, and what proficients fwarm around!
We must or imitate or difapprove;

Muft lift as their accomplices, or foes:

That ftains our innocence; this wounds our peace,
From Nature's birth, hence wisdom has been smit
With fweet recefs, and languifh'd for the fhade.
This facred fhade and folitude, what is it?

'Tis the felt prefence of the Deity.
Few are the faults we flatter, when alone.
Vice finks in her allurements, is ungilt,
And looks, like other objects, black by night.
By night an atheist half believes a God.

Night is fair Virtue's immemorial friend ;
The confcious moon, through every diftant age,
Has held a lamp to wisdom, and let fall
On contemplation's eye her purging ray.
The fam'd Athenian, he who woo'd from heav'n
Philofophy the fair, to dwell with men,

And form their manners, not inflame their pride; While o'er his head, as fearful to molest

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