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What lefs than Miracles from GoD, can flow? 1415
Admit a GOD---that Mystery Supreme!

That Caufe uncaus'd! All other Wonders cease;
Nothing is Marvellous for Him to do:

Deny Him-all is Mystery befides;

Millons of Mysteries! Each Darker far,
Than That thy Wifdom would, unwifely, fhun.
If weak thy Faith, why choose the Harder Side?
We nothing know, but what is Marvellous;
Yet what is Marvellous, we can't believe.

1420

So weak our Reafon, and fo Great our GOD, 1425
What most surprises in the Sacred Page,

Or full as Strange, or Stranger, must be True.
Faith is not Reason's Labour, but Repose.

To Faith and Virtue, why fo backward, Man?
From Hence :-The Prefent ftrongly ftrikes us All;
The Future, faintly: Can we, then, be Men? [1430
If Men, LORENZO! the Reverse is Right.
Reafon is Man's Peculiar: Senfe, the Brute's.
The Prefent is the Scanty Ream of Sense;
The Future, Reafon's Empire unconfin'd:
On That expending all her Godlike Pow'r,
She Plans, Provides, Expatiates, Triumphs, there;
There builds her Bleings? There, expects her Praise;
And nothing afks of Fortune, or of Men,

And what is Reafon? Be fhe, thus, defin'd;
Reafon is Upright Stature in the Soul.

Oh! be a Man ;---and ftrive to be a God.

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"For what? (Thou fayit :) to damp the Joys of

Life ?"

No; to give Heart and Subftance to thy Joys.

That Tyrant, Hope, mark, how the domineers; 1445 She bids us quit Realities, for Dreams ;

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Safety, and Peace, for Hazard, and Alarm;
That Tyrant o'er the Tyrants of the Soul,
She bids Ambition quit its taken Prize,
Spurn the luxuriant Branch on which It fits,
Tho' bearing Crowns, to fpring at diftant Game;
And plunge in Toils and Dangers---for Repofe.
If Hope precarious, and if Things, when gain'd,
Of little Moment, and as Little stay,
Can fweeten Toils and Dangers into Joys;
What then, That Hope, which nothing can defeat,

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Our

Our Leave inafk'd? Rich Hope of boundlefs Blifs!
Blifs, paft Man's Pow'r to paint it; Time's, to close !
This Hope is Earth's moft eftimable Prize:
This is Man's Portion, while no more than Man: 1460
Hope, of all Paffions, moft befriends us Here ;
Paffions of prouder Name befriend us lefs.
Joy has her Tears; and Transport has her Death;
Hope, like a Cordial, innocent, tho' ftrong,
Man's Heart, at once, infpirits, and ferenes;
Nor makes him pay his Wisdom for his Joys:
'Tis All, our prefent State can safely bear,
Health to the Frame! and Vigour to the Mind !
A Joy attemper'd! a chaftis'd Delight!

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Like the fair Summer-Evening, mild, and fweet! 'Tis Man's full Cup; his Paradife Below !

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A bleft Hereafter, then, or Hop'd, or gain'd, Is All ;---our Whole of Happinefs: Full Proof, I chofe no trivial or inglorious Theme. And know, ye Foes to Song! (well-meaning Men, Tho' quite forgotten Half your Bible's Praife!) Important Truths, in spite of Verfe, may pleafe: Grave Minds you praife; nor can you praife too much: If there is Weight in an ETERNITY,

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Let the Grave liften ;---and be graver fill.

The poetical Parts of it.

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The AMBITION and PLEASURE, with the WIT and WISDOM of the WORLD.

AND has all Nature, then, efpous'd my Part! Have I brib'd Heav'n and Earth, to plead against thee?

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And is thy Soul Immortal ?—What remains ?
All, All, LORENZO; Make Immortal, Bleft,
Unbleft Immortals! What can fhock us more?
And yet LORENZO ftill affects the World;
There, flows his Treafure; Thence, his Title draws,
Man of the World! (for fuch wouldst thou be call'd)
And art thou proud of that inglorious Style?
Proud of Reproach? For a Reproach it was,
In ancient Days; and CHRISTIAN,-in an Age,
When Men were Men, and not afham'd of Heav'n,
Fir'd their Ambition, as it crown'd their Joy.
Sprinkled with Dews from the Caftalian Font,
Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer

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A purer Spirit, and a nobler Name.

Thy fond Attachments fatal, and inflam'd, Point out my Path, and dictate to my Song:

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To Thee, the World how Fair! how strongly ftrikes
Ambition and gay Pleasure stronger ftill!
Thy Triple Bane! the Triple Bolt, that lays
Thy Virtue dead! Be Thefe my Triple Theme;
Nor fhall thy Wit or Wifdom, be forgot.

Common the Theme; not fo the Song; if She My Song invokes, URANIA, deigns to fmile. 25 The Charm that chains us to the World, her Foe, if the diffolves, the Man of Earth, at once, Starts from his Trance, and fighs for other Scenes; Scenes, where thefe Sparks of Night, these Stars shall fhine

Unnumber'd Suns (for all Things, as they are,
The Eleft behold ;) and, in one Glory, pour
Their blended Blaze on Man's aftonisht Sight;
A Blaze, the leaft illuftrious Object There.

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LOREZNZO 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? O LORENZO ! What lofty Thoughts, thefe Elements above, What tow'ring Hopes, what Sallies from the Sun, What grand Surveys of Deftiny divine, And pompous Prefage of unfathom'd Fate, Should roll in Bofoms, where a Spirit burns, Bound for Eternity! In Bofom read

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By Him, who Foibles in Archangels fees!
On human Hearts He bends a jealous Eye,
And marks, and in Heav'n's Register inrolls,
The Rife, and Progrefs, of each Option there;
Sacred to Doomsday! That the Page unfolds,
And fpreads us to the Gaze of Gods and Men.
And what an Option, O LORENZO! thine?
This World! and This, unrivall'd by the Skies!
A World, where Luft of Pleafure, Grandeur, Gold,
Three Damons that divide its Realms between them,
With strokes alternate buffet to and fro
Man's restless Heart, their Sport, their flying Ball;

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Till,

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 esteem'd
Too mean to bring; a Promife, their Ador'd,
Defcended to communicate, and prefs,
By Counfel, Miracle, Life, Death on Man.
Such is the World LORENZO's Wifdom woos,
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,

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All the wild Trafh of Sleep, without the Reft;
What unfeign'd Travel, and what Dreams of Joy!
How frail, Men, Things! How momentary Both!
Fantastick Chace of Shadows hunting Shades!
The Gay, the Bufy, equal, tho' unlike;
Equal in Wifdom, differently wife!

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Thro' flow'ry Meadows, and thro' dreary Waftes,
One Buftling, and One Dancing, into Death.
There's not a Day, but, to the Man of Thought,
Betrays fome Secret, that throws new Reproach
On Life, and makes him fick of feeing more.
The Scenes of Bus'nefs tell us What are Men;"
The Scenes of Pleafure-" What is all befide :"
There, Others we despise; and Here, Ourselves.
'Amid Difguft eternal, dwells Delight?
'Tis Approbation ftrikes the String of Joy.

What wondrous Prize has kindled this Career,
Stuns with the Din, and choaks us with the Duft,
On Life's gay Stage, one Inch above the Grave?
The Proud run up and down in queft of Eyes ;
The Senfual, in purfuit of fomething worse:
The Grave, of Gold, the Politic, of Pow'r;
And All, of other Butterflies, as vain!

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As Eddies draw Things frivolous, and light,,

How is Man's Heart by Fanity drawn in;

On the fwift Circle of returning Toys,

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Whirl'd Straw-like, round and round, and then in

Where gay Delufion darkens to Defpair! [gulph'd,
"This is a beaten Track,”—Is this a Track
Should not be beaten? Never beat enough,
Till enough learnt the Truths it would infpire. 100

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