Ill-ground, and worfe concocted! Load, not life!
The rational foul kennels of excefs!
Still-ftreaming thorough-fares of dull debauch!
Trembling each gulp, left death fhould fnatch'd the bowl.
Such of our fine-ones is the wish refin'd!
So would they have it: elegant defire!
Why not invite the bellowing stalls, and wilds ?
But fuch examples might their riot awe.
Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought,
(Though 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 espouse,
This painted fhrew of life, who calls them fool
Each moment of each day; to flatter bad
Through dread of worse ? 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! fuch their pangs of joy!
'Tis time, high time, to fhift this difmal scene.
This bugg'd, this hideous ftate, what art can cure?
One only; but that one, what all may reach ;
Virtue-fhe, wonder-working goddess! charms
That rock to bloom; and tames the painted fhrew;
And, what will more furprize, Loreno! gives
To life's fick, naufeous iteration, change;
And straightens nature's circle to a line.
Believ'ft thou this, Lorenzo ? lend an ear,
A patient ear, thou 'It blush to disbelieve.
E 4
A languid, leaden, iteration reigns,
And ever muft, o'er those, whose joys are joys
Of fight, fmell, tafte: the cuckow-feafons fing 375
The fame 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 old revolves
In that, for which they long; for which they live. 385.
Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope,
Each rifing morning fees ftill higher rife;
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 profpect fairer every hour;
Advancing virtue, in a line to bliss;
Virtue, which Chriftian motives best inspire!
And blifs, which Chriftian fchemes alone enfure? 395 And fhall we then, for virtue's fake, commence Apoftates; and turn infidels for joy?
A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer truft,
"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 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; worse than nought;
A neft of pains: when held as nothing, much:
Like fome fair humourists, life is most enjoy'd,
When courted leaft; moft worth, when disesteem'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 fhrew? ·
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 fphere.
When grofs guilt interpofes, labouring earth,
O'erfhadow'd, mourns a deep elipfe of joy;
Her joys, at brighteft, pallid, to that font
Of full effulgent glory, whence they flow.
Nor is that glory diftant: Oh Lorenzo!
A good man, and an angel! thefe between
How thin the barrier! what divides their fate?
Pehaps a moment, or perhaps a year;
Or, if an age, it is a moment ftill
A moment, or eternity's forgot.
Then be, what once they were, who now are gods; Be what Philander was, and claim the fkies.
Starts timid nature at the gloomy pass ?
The foft tranfition call it; and be chear'd:
Such it is often, and why not to Thee?
To hope the best, is pious, brave, and wise;
And may itself 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 cast into the scale.
Life makes the foul dependent on the duft;
Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres.
Through chinks, ftyl'd organs, dim life peeps at light; 450
Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day;
All eye, all ear, the difembody'd power.
Death has feign'd evils, nature shall not feel;
Life, ills fubftantial, wisdom cannot shun.
Is not the mighty mind, that fon of heaven!
By tyrant life dethron'd, imprifon'd, pain'd
By death enlarg'd, enobled, deify'd ?
Death but entombs the body; life the soul.
"Is death then guiltlefs? How he marks his way "With dreadful waste of what deferves to shine! 460 "Art, genius, fortune, elevated power!
"With various luftres thefe light up the world,
"Which death puts out, and darkens human race.”
I grant, Lorenzo ! this indictment just :
The fage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror !
Death humbles thefe; more barbarous life, the man.
Life is the triumph of our mouldering 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. 470
No blifs has life to boast, till death can give
Far greater; life's a debtor to the grave,
Dark lattice! letting in eternal day.
Lorenzo! blush at fondness for a life,
Which fends celeftial fouls on errands vile,
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 foul, a foul 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 fhare, and raise, and crown,
And eternise, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.
What need I more? O death, the palm is thine.
Then welcome, death! thy dreaded harbingers,
Age, and difeafe; disease, though long my guest;
That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life;
Which, pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell,
That call my few friends to my funeral;
Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear,
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