« AnteriorContinuar »
'Tis reason's voice obey'd His glories crown;
To give lost reason life, He pour'd his own : .
Believe, and shew the reason of a man ; '
Believe, and taste the pleasure of a God;
Believe, and look with triumph on the tomb :
Thro’ reason's wounds alone thy faith can die ;
Which dying, tenfold terror gives to death,
And dips in venom his twice-mortal sting.
Learn hence what honours, what loud pæans, due · To those, who push our antidote aside ;
Those boasted friends to reason, and to man,
Whose fatal love stabs ev'ry joy, and leaves
Death's terror heighten'd, gnawing on his heart.
These pompous sons of reason idoliz'd
And vilify'd at once ; of reason dead,
Then deify'd, as monarchs were of old ;
What conduct plants proud laurels on their brow?
While love of truth thro' all their camp resounds,
They draw pride's curtain o'er the noon-tide ray,
Spike up their inch of reason, on the point
Of philosophic wit, calld Argument;
And then, exulting in their taper, cry,
“ Behold the sun :" And, Indian-like, adore. -
Talk they of morals ? O thou bleeding Love !
Thou maker of new morals to mankind !
The grand morality is love of Thee.
As wise as SOCRATES, if such they were,
(Nor will they 'bate of that sublime recown)
As wise as Socrates, might justly stand
The definition of a modern fool.
A CHRISTIAN is the highest stile of man: And is there, who the blessed Cross wipes off, As a foul blot from his dishonour'd brow? If angels tremble, 'tis at such a sight: The wretch they quit, desponding of their charge, More struck with grief or wonder, who can tell ? · Ye sold to sense ! ye citizens of earth! (For such alone the Christian banner fly) Know ye how wise your choice, how great your gain? Behold the picture of earth's happiest man: “ He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back, “And says, he call’d another; that arrives, « Meets the same welcome; yet he still calls on ; « Till one calls him, who varies not his call, “ But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound, « Till nature dies, and judgment sets him free; “ A freedom far less welcome than his chain."
But grant man happy; grant him happy long; Add to life's highest prize her latest hour; That hour, so late, is nimble in approach, That, like a post, comes on in full career: How swift the shuttle flies, that weaves thy shroud! Where is the fable of thy former years ? Thrown down the gulph of time; as far from Thee As they had ne'er been thine ; the day in hand, Like a bird struggling to get loose, is going ; Scarce now possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone; And each swift moment fled, is death advanc'd By strides as swift: Eternity is All; And whose Eternity? Who triumphs there?
Bathing for ever in the font of bliss !
For ever basking in the Deity!
LORENZO! who ?-Thy conscience shall reply.
O give it leave to speak; 'twill speak ere long,
Thy leave unaskt : LORENZO! hear it now,
While useful its advice, its accent mild.
By the great edict, the divine decree,
Truth is deposited with man's last, hour ;
An honest hour, and faithful to her trust;
Truth, eldest daughter of the Deity;
Truth, of his council, when he made the worlds;
Nor less, when he shall judge the worlds he made ;
Tho' silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound,
Smother'd with errors, and oppress'd with toys,
That heav'n-commission'd hour no sooner calls,
But from her cayern in the soul's abyss,
Like him they fable under Ætna whelm'd,
The goddess bursts in thunder, and in flame;
Loudly convinces, and severely pains.
Dark dæmons I discharge, and Hydra-stings;
The keen vibration of bright truth-is Hell:
Just definition ! tho' by schools untaught.
Ye deaf to truth! peruse this Parson'd page,
And trust, for once, a prophet, and a priest;
“ Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.”
LORENZO ! to recriminate is just.
Fondness for fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain who writes for praise.
Praise no man e'er deserv'd, who sought no niore.
As just thy second charge. I grant the muse
Has often blusht at her degen'rate sons,
Retain'd by sense to plead her filthy cause ;
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And subtilize the gross into refin'd:
As if to magic numbers' powerful charm
'Twas given, to make a civet of their song
Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause. We wear the chains of pleasure, and of pride. These share the man; and these distract him too; Draw diff'rent ways, and clash in their commands. Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;