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Ill-ground, and worse concocted ! Load, not life!
345 Trembling each gulp, lest death should snatch'd the bowl.
Such of our fine-ones is the wish refin'd !
'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.
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.
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 thin the barrier ! what divides their fate ?
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 death puts out, and darkens human race."
Lorenzo ! bluh at fondness for a life,
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,