By the great edict, the divine decree,
Truth is depofited with man's laft hour;
An honeft hour, and faithful to her truft:
Truth, eldest daughter of the Deity;
Truth, of his council, when he made the worlds;
Nor lefs, when he fhall judge the worlds he made;
Though filent long, and fleeping ne'er fo found, 830
Smother'd with errors, and opprefs'd with toys,
That heaven-commiffion'd hour no fooner calls,
But, from her cavern in the foul's abyfs,
Like him they fable under Ætna whelm'd,
The goddess, bursts in thunder, and in flame;
Loudly convinces, and feverely pains.
Dark demons I discharge, and Hydra ftings;
The keen vibration of bright truth-is Hell:
Juft definition! though by schools untaught.
Ye deaf to truth! perufe this Parfon'd page,
And truft, for once, a prophet, and a priest;
"Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die."
RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF LITCHFIELD.
LORENZO! to recriminate is just.
Fondness 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.
As just thy fecond charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blusht at her degenerate fons,
Retain'd by fenfe to plead her filthy cause;
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And fubtilize the gross into refin'd:
As if to magic numbers' powerful charm
'Twas given, to make a civet of their song
Obfcene, and sweeten 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.
These share the man; and these distract 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 resents;
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 enterprize.
Since joys of fenfe can't rife to reafon's taste;
In fubtle fophiftry's laborious forge,
Wit 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 delightfully confound.
Thus that which fhock'd the judgment, shocks no more;
That which gave pride offence, no more offends.
Pleafure and pride, by nature mortal foes,
At war eternal, which in man shall reign,
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 shame.
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 flowers of eloquence, profufely pour'd
O'er spotted vice, fill half the letter'd world.
Can powers of genius exorcife their page,
And confecrate enormities with fong?
But let not these inexpiable strains
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 esteem; from whence to start,
And run the round of universal space,
To vifit Being univerfal there,
And Being's Source, that utmoft flight of mind! 60 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 she speaks to profe, 65 fifter; haply, not more wife.
Think'ft 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 flower,
No rainbow colours, here, or filken tale :
But folemn counfels, images of awe,
Truths, which eternity lets fall on man
With double weight, through these revolving spheres,
This death-deep filence, and incumbent fhade:
Thoughts, fuch as shall revisit 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! So
Lorenzo! and thy brothers of the smile!
If, what imports you moft, can most engage,
Shall steal 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 praise.
But chiefly thine, O Litchfield! nor mistake
Think not unintroduc'd I force my way;
Narciffa, not unknown, not unally'd,
By virtue, or by blood, illuftrious youth!
To thee, from blooming amaranthine bowers,
Where all the language harmony, defcends
Uncall'd, and asks admittance for the Mufe:
A Mufe that will not pain thee with thy praise;
Thy praise fhe drops, by nobler ftill inspir'd.
O Thou! Bleft Spirit! whether the fupreme,
Great antemundane Father! in whofe breaft
Embryo creation, unborn being, dwelt,
And all its various revolutions roll'd
Prefent, though future; prior to themselves;
Whose breath can blow it into nought again;
Or, from his throne fome delegated power,
Who, ftudious of our peace, doft turn the thought
From vain and vile, to folid and fublime!
Unfeen thou lead'ft me to delicious draughts
Of inspiration, 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 110
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