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Common the theme; not fo the fong; if the My fong invokes, Urania, deigns to fmile. The charm that chains us to the world, her fe, If the diffolves, the Man of Earth, at once, Starts from his trance, and fighs for other fcenes Scenes, where thefe fparks of night, thefe STARS, fhall fhine

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Unumber'd funs (for all things, as they ARE,
The bleft behold; and, in

one glory, pour
Their blended blaze on man's aftonifit fight;
A blaze,the leaft illuftricus object THERE.
Lorenzo! fince Eternal is at hand.

To fwallow TIME's ambitions; as the vaft
Leviathan, the bubbles vain, that ride
High on the foaming billow; what avail
High titles, high defcent, attainments high,
If unattain'd our Higheft? Q Lorenzo!
What lofty thoughts, thefe elements above!
What tow'ring hopes what fallies from the fu",
What grand furveys of destiny divine,
And pompous prefage of unfathom'd fate,
Should rollin bofoms, where a Spirit burns,
Bound for eternity! in bofoms read

By HIM who foibles in archangels fees!
On human Hearts Hy bends a jealous eye,
And marks, and in heav'n's regifter enrolls,
The rife, and progrefs, of each option there;
Sacred to doomfday! THAT the page unfolds,
And fp reads us to the gaze of gods and men.

And what an option, O Lorenzo ! thine?

This world and this, unrival'd by the skies!
A world where luft of Pleasure, Grandeur, Gold,
Three demons that divide its realms between them,
With ftrokes alternate buffet to and fro

Man's reftlefs heart, their sport, their flying ball;
Till, with the giddy circle, fick, and tir'd.
It pants for peace, and drops into defpair.
Such is the world Lorenzo fets above
That glorious Promife angels were efteem'd
Too Mean to bring; a promife, their Ador'd
Defcended to comunicate, and press,
By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man,

Such is the world Lorenzo's wifdom wooes,
And on its thorny pillow feeks repofe;
A pillow, which, like opiates ill prepar'd,
Intoxicates, but not compofes; fills

The vifionary mind with gay chimeras,
All the wild trash of fleep, without the reft;
What Unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy!
How frail, men, things! how momentary, both!
Fantaftic chace, of fhadows hunting fhades?
The GAY, the Busy, equal tho' unlike;
Equal in wifdom, differently wife !

Through flow'ry meadows, and through deary waftes,
One bustling, and one dancing, into death.
There's not a day, but to the man of thought,
Betrays fome fecret, that throws, new reproach'
On life, and makes him fick of feeing more.
The fcenes of Bufinefs tell us 16 what are men ;'
The fcenes of Pleafure" what is all befide;"
There others we defpife; and HERE, Qurfelves.
Amid Difguft eternal dwells delight?
'Tis Approbation ftrikes the ftring of joy.

What wondrous prize has kindled this career
Stuns with the din, and choaks us with the duft,
On life's gay ftage, one inch above the grave?
The proud run up and down in quest of eyes;
The Senfual in purfuit of fomething worse;
The Grave, of Gold, the Politic, of power;
And all, of other butterflies, as vain!
As eddies draw things frivolous, and light,
How is man's heart by Vanity drawn in;
On the fwift circle of returning toys,

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Whirl'd, fraw-like, round and round, and then inWhere gay delufion darkens to despair!

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"This is a Beaten Track." Is this a track
Should NOT be beaten? never beat enough,
'Till enough learnt the truths it would infpire.
Shall truth be filent, because folly Frowns?
Turn the world's hiftory; what find we there,
But Fortune's sports, or Nature's cruel claims,
Or Woman's artifice, or Man's revenge,
And endless in humanities on man?

Fame's trumpet feldom founds, but, like the knell,

It brings bad tidings: how it hourly blows
Man's mifadventures round the lift'ning world!
Min is the tale of narrative old TIME;
Sad tale! which high as Paradife begins;
As if the toil of travel to delude,

From stage to ftage, in his eternal round,
The Days, his daughters, as they spin our hours
On Fortune's wheel, where accident unthought
Oft, in a moment, fnaps li'e's strongest thread,
Each, in her turn, fome tragic story tells,
With, now and then, a wretched farce between ;
And fills his chronicle with human woes.

Time's daughters, true as those of men, deceive us;
Not one, but puts fome cheaton all mankind ;.
While in their Father's bofom, not yet ouRS,
They Aarter our fond hopes; and promise much
Of amiable; but hold HIM not o'er-wife,
Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the yea
At ftill confiding, ftill confounded, man,
Conficing, tho' confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by trial, unconvinc'd by proof,
And ever looking for the never-feen.
Life to the laft, like harden'd felons, lies ;
Nor owns itfelf a cheat, 'till it expires.
Its little joys go out by one and one,

And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night;:
Night darker, than what, Now, involves the pole.
O THOU, who coft permit thefe ills to fall,
For gracious ends, and wouldft, that man fhould mourn!
O THOU, whofe hand this goodly fabric fram'd,
Who know ft it beft, and would ft that man fhould know!
What is the fublunary world? a vapour.;.

A vapour all it holds; itself, a vapour :
From the damp bed of chaos, by thy beam
Exhal'd, ordain'd to swim its destin'd hour.
In ambient air, then melt, and disappear.
Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom;
As mortal, tho' lefs tranfient, than her fons ?
Yet they doar on her, as the world and they
Were both eternal, folid: THOU, a dream..
They doat on what? Immortal Views apart,
A region of outfides! a land of fhadows!

A fruitful field of flow'ry promises!

A wilderness for joys! perplext with doubts,
And tharp with thorns! a troubled Ocean, fpread
With bold adventures, their ALL on board;
No fecond hope, if here their fortune frowns;
Frown foon it MUST. Of various rates they fail,
Of enfigus various; all alike in this,

All reftlefs, anxious; toft with hopes; and fears,
In calmeft fkies; obnoxious all to ftorm;
And ftormy the most gen'ral blaft of life:
All bound for happinefs, yet few provide
The chart of Knowledge, pointing where it lyes;
Or Virtue's helm, to fhape the course defign'd:
All more or lefs, capricious fate lament,
Now lifted by the tide, and now reforb'd,
And farther from their wishes than before:
All, more or lefs, against each other dass,
To mutual hurt, by gufts of paffion driven,
And furing more from folly, than from fate.
Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous home
Of dangers, at eternal war with man!
Death's capital, where moft he domineers,
With all his chofen Terrors frown ng round,
(Tho' lately feafted high at Albion's coft)
Wide op'ning, and loud roaring fill for more!
Too faithful mirror! how dost thou refica
The melancholy face of human life!

The ftrong refemblance tempts me farther ftill:
And, haply, Britain may be deeper fuck
By Moral Truth, in fuch a mirror feen,
Which nature holds for ever at her eye,
Self-flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in hope,
When Young, with fanguine chear, and ftremers gay,
We cut our cable, launch into the world,

And fondly dream each wind and ftar our friend;
All in fome darling enterprize embarkt:

But where is he can fathom its event?

Amid a multitude of artle's hands,

Ruin's fure perquife! her lawful prize!

Some fteer aright; but the black blaft blows hard, And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof, Admiral Balchen, &c.

Full against wind and tide, soME win their way;
And when ftrong effort has deferv'd the port,
And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! tis loft!
Tho' ftrong their oar, still ftronger is their fate:
They ftrike; and while they triumph, they expire.
In ftr Is of weather, MOST; SOME fink outright;
O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows clofe;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others a fhort mentorial leave behind,

Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulph'd;
It floats a moment and is féen no more:
One CÆSAR lives; a thoufand are forget.
How few, beneath aufpicious planets born,
(Darlings of providence! fond fates elect!)
With fwelling fails make good the promis'd port,
With all their wifhes freighted! yet ev'n these,
Freighted with all their wishes, foon complain ?*
Free from misfortune, not from nature free,
They ftill are men; and when is man fecure?
As fatal TIME, as STORM! the ruth of years
Beats down their ftength; their numberless escapes
In ruin end: and, now, their proud fuccefs
But plants NEW terrors on the victor's brow:
What pain to quit the world, juft made their own,
Their neft fo deeply down'd, and built fo high!
Too low they build, who build beneath the ftars.
Woe then apart, (if woe apart can be
From mortal man) and fortune at our nod,
The gay! rich! great! triumphant! and auguft!
What are they? the MOST happy (ftrange to say!)
Convince ME moft of human mifery:

What are they? fmiing wretches of To-morrow!
More wretched, THEN, than e'er their flave CAN be?
Their treach'rous bleffings, at the day of need,
Like other faithlefs friends, unmask, and fting:
Then, what provoking indigence in wealth!
What aggravated impotence in pow'r!
High titles, THEN, what infult of their pain!
I that fole anchor, equal to the waves,
Immortal Hope! defies not the rude storm,
Takes comfort from the foaming billow's rage,
And make a welcome harbour of the tomb.

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