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ок, THE MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED.
In which are considered,
THE LOVE OF THIS LIFE; THE AMBITION AND PLEASURE, WITH THE WIT AND WISDOM OF THE WORLD.
AND has all nature, then, espous'd my part?
Have I brib'd heav'n, and earth, to plead against thee?
And is thy soul immortal ?- What remains ?
All, All, LORENZO !- Make immortal, blest.
Unblest immortals !—What can shock us more ?
And yet LORENZO still affects the world;
There, stows his treasure ; Thence his title draws,
Man of the world (for such wouldst thou be call’d)
And art thou proud of that inglorious style ?
Proud of reproach? For a reproach it was,
In antient days; and CHRISTIAN,-in an age,
When men were men, and not asham'd of heaven,
Fir'd their ambition, as it crown'd their joy.
Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font,
Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer
A purer spirit, and a nobler name.
Thy fond attachments fatal, and inflam'd, Point out my path, and dictate to my song: To Thee, the world how fair ! How strongly strikes Ambition ! and gay pleasure stronger still ! Thy triple bane! the triple bolt that lays Thy virtue dead! Be these my triple theme; Nor shall thy wit, or wisdom, be forgot.
Common the theme ; not so the song ; if She
My song invokes, URANIA, deigns to smile.
The charm that chains us to the world, her foe,
If she dissolves, the man of earth, at once,
Starts from his trance, and sighs for other scenes;
Scenes, where these sparks of night, these stars shall
Unnumber'd suns (for all things, as they are,
The blest behold); and, in one glory, pour
Their blended blaze on man's astonisht sight;
A blaze--the least illustrious object there.
Lorenzo! since eternal is at hand,
To swallow time's ambitions; as the vast
Leviathan, the bubbles vain, that ride
High on the foaming billow ; what avail
High titles, high descent, attainments high,
If unattain'd our highest? O Lorenzo!
What lofty thoughts, these elements above,
What tow'ring hopes, what sallies from the sun,
What grand surveys of destiny divine,
And pompous presage of unfathom'd fate,
Should roll in bosoms, where a spirit burns,
Bound for eternity! In bosoms red
By Him, who foibles in archangels sees !
On human hearts He bends a jealous eye,
And marks, and in heav'n's register inrolls,
The rise, and progress, of each option there ;
Sacred to doomsday! That the page unfolds,
And spreads 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 lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold,
Three dæmons that divide its realms between them,
With strokes alternate buffet to and fro
Man's restless heart, their sport, their flying ball;
Till, with the giddy circle sick, and tir’d,
It pants for peace, and drops into despair.
Such is the world LORENZO sets above
That glorious promise angels were esteemid
Too mean to bring; a promise, their Ador'd
Descended to communicate, and press,
By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man.
Such is the world LORENZO's wisdom wooes,
And on its thorny pillow seeks repose;
A pillow, which, like opiates ill-prepar'd,
Intoxicates, but not composes; fills
The visionary mind with gay chimæras,
All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest;
What unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy!
How frail, men, things ! How momentary, Both ! Fantastic chace of shadows hunting shades ! The gay, the busy, equal, tho' unlike; Equal in wisdom, differently wise !
Thro’ flow'ry meadows, and thro' dreary wastes,
One bustling, and one dancing, into death.
There's not a day, but, to the man of thought,
Betrays some secret, that throws new reproach,
On life, and makes him sick of seeing more, :.
The scenes of bus'ness tell us—“ What are men;"..
The scenes of pleasure—“ What is all beside ;”.
There, Others we despise ; and Here, ourselves.
Amid disgust eternal, dwells delight?
'Tis approbation strikes the string of joy..
What wond'rous prize has kindled this career,
Stuns with the din, and choaks us with the dust,
On life's gay stage, one inch above the grave ?
The proud run up and down in quest of eyes ;
The sensual, in pursuit of something 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 swift circle of returning toys,
Whirld, straw-like, round and round, and then in-
gulph'd, Where gay delusion darkens to despair !
“ This is a beaten track.”—Is this a track Should not be beaten ? Never beat enough, Till enough learnt the truths it would inspire. Shall Truth be silent, because Folly frowns ? Turn the world's history; what find we there, But fortune's sports, or nature's cruel claims, Or woman's artifice, or man's revenge,