Ill-ground, and worse concocted ! Load, not life!
The rational foul kennels of excess !
Still-streaming thorough-fares of dull debauch !

345 Trembling each gulp, lest death should snatch'd the bowl.

Such of our fine-ones is the wish refin'd !
So would they have it : elegant desire !
Why not invite the bellowing stalls, and wilds?
But such examples might their riot awe.

350
Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought,
(Though on brigbt thought they father all their flights)
To what are they reduc'd ? To love, and hate,
The fame vain world; to censure, and espouse,
This painted Ihrew of life, who calls them fool 355
Each moment of each day ; to flatter bad
Through dread of worfe ? to cling to this rude rock,
Barren to them, of good, and sharp with ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending storms,
And infamous for wrecks of human hope
Scar'd at the gloomy gulph, that yawns beneath.
Such are their triumphs ! such their pangs of joy!

'Tis time, high time, to shift this dismal scene. This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure ? One only; but that one, what all may reach ; 365 Virtue-lhe, wonder-working goddess! charms That rock to bloom ; and tames the painted shrew; And, what will more surprize, Loreno ! gives To life's fick, nauseous iteration, change ; And straightens nature's circle to a line. Believ't thou this, Lorenzo ? lend an ear, A patient ear, thou ’lt blush to disbelieve.

E 4

A languid

360

370

A languid, leaden, iteration reigns, And ever must, o'er those, whose joys are joys Of fight, smell, taste : the cuckow-seasons fing 375 The same dull note to such as nothing prize, But what those seasons, from the teeming earth, To doating sense indulge. But nobler minds, Which relith fruits unripen'd by the sun, Make their days various ; various as the dyes

3804 On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays, On minds of dove-like innocence poffeft, On lighten'd minds, that balk-in virtue's beams, . Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves In that, for which they long; for which they live. 385. Their glorious efforts, wing'd' with heavenly hope, Each rising morning sees still higher rise ; Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents To worth maturing, new strength, luftre, fame; While nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel 390 Rolling beneath their elevated aims, Makes their fair prospect fairer every hour; Advancing virtue, in a line to bliss ; Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire ! And bliss, which Christian schemes alone ensure ? 395 And shall we then, for virtue's sake, 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 favourite know !

400 Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace, By passionately loving life, we make

Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death.
We give to Time Eternity's regard ;
And, dreaming, take our passage for our port. 405
Life has no value as an end, but means;
An end deplorable ! a means divine !
When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing ; worse than nought';
A nest of pains : when held as nothing, much :
Like some fair humourists, life is most enjoy'd, 410
When courted leait ; most worth, when disesteem'd:
Then 'tis the seat of comfort, rich in peace;
In prospect richer far; important ! awful!
Not to be mention'd, but with shouts of praise !
Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy!

4154
The mighty basis of eternal bliss !
Where now the barren rock? the painted shrew?.
Where now, Lorenzo ! life's eternal round?
Have I not made my triple promise good?
Vain is the world ;- but only to the vain.

420** To what compare we then this varying scene, Whose worth ambiguous rises, and declines ? . Waxes, and wanes ? (In all propitious, Night Affists me here) compare it to the moon ; Dark in herself, and indigent; but rich :

425 In borrow'd luftre from a higher sphere. When gross guilt interposes, labouring earth, O'ershadow'd, mourns a deep elipfe of joy ; Her joys, at brightest, pallid, to that font Of full effulgent glory, whence they flow.

430 Nor is that glory diftant : Oh Lorenzo ! A good man, and an angel ! these between

How

How thin the barrier ! what divides their fate ?
Pehaps a moment, or perhaps a year ;
Or, if an age, it is a moment ftill ;

435
A moment, or eternity's forgot.
Then be, what once they were, who now are gods ;
Be what Philander was, and claim the skies.
Starts timid nature at the gloomy pass ?
The soft transition call it; and be chear'd :

440 Such it is often, and why not to Thee ? To hope the beit, is pious, brave, and wife; And may itself procure, what it prefumes, Life is much flatter'd, death is much traduc'd ; Compare the rivals, and the kinder crówn.

445 “ Strange competition !"-True, Lorenzo ! ftrange! So little Life can cast into the scale.

Life makes the foul dependent on the dust; Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. Through chinks, styl’dorgans,dim life peeps at light; 450 Death bursts th’ involving cloud, and all is day ; All eye, all ear, the disembody'd power. Death has feign'd evils, nature shall not feel ; Life, ills substantial, wisdom cannot shun. Is not the mighty mind, that son of heaven !

455 By tyrant life dethron’d, imprison'd, pain'd ? By death enlarg'd, enobled, deify'd ? Death but entombs the body; life the soul.

“ Is death then guiltless ? How he marks his way “ With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine! 460 “ Art, genius, fortune, elevated power ! . With various lustres these light up the world,

- Which

" Which death puts out, and darkens human race."
I grant, Lorenzo ! this indictment just :
The fage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror ! 465
Death humbles these ; more barbarous life, the man.
Life is the triumph of our mouldering clay;
Death, of the spirit infinite ! divine !
Deatb has no dread, but what frail life imparts;
Nor life true joy, but what kind death improves. 470
No bliss has life to boast, till death can give
Far greater; life's a debtor to the grave,
Dark lattice ! letting in eternal day.

Lorenzo ! bluh at fondness for a life,
Which fends celestial souls on errands vile,

475 To cater for the sense ; and serve at boards, Where every ranger of the wilds, perhaps Each reptile, juftly claims our upper hand. Luxurious feaft! a soul, a soul immortal, In all the dainties of a brute bemir'd ! Lorenzo ! blush at terror for a death, Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers, Where nectars sparkle, angels minister, And more than angels share, and raise, and crown, And eternise, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss. 485 What need I more? O death, the palm is thine.

Then welcome, death! thy dreaded harbingers, Age, and disease ; disease, though long my guest; That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life ; Which, pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell,

490 That call my few friends to my funeral ; Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear,

480