NIGHT the EIGHTH.

VIRTUE's APOLOGY;

OR,

The MAN of the WORLD Answered.

In which are Confidered,

The Love of This LIFE;

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

A

ND has all nature, then, efpous'd my part?
Have I brib'd heav'n, and earth, to plead a-
gainst thee?

And is thy foul immortal? What remains?
All, All, LORENZO !-Make immortal, bleft.
Unbleft immortals !-What can fhock us more?
And yet LORENZO still affects the world;
There, ftows his treafure; Thence, his title draws,
Man of the world (for fuch wouldst thou be call'd)

And

And art thou proud of that inglorious ftyle?
Proud of reproach? For a reproach it was,
In antient days; and CHRISTIAN,-in an age,
When men were men, and not afham'd of heaven,
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
A purer spirit and a nobler name.

Thy fond attachments fatal, and inflam'd,
Point out my path, and dictate to my fong:
To Thee, the world how fair! How ftrongly frikes
Ambition! and gay pleasure ftronger ftill!
Thy triple bane! the triple bolt that lays
Thy virtue dead! Be these my triple theme;
Nor fhall thy wit, or wifiom, be forgot.

Common the theme; not fo the fong; if She
My fong invokes, URANIA, deigns to fmile.
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 fcenes;
Scenes, where thefe fparks of night, thefe ftars fhall

fhine

Unnumber'd funs (for all things, as they are,
The bleft behold); and, in one glory, pour
Their blended blaze on man's aftonitht fight;
A blaze-the leaft illuftrious object there.
LORENZO! fince eternal is at hand,

To fwallow time's ambitions; as the vast
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 fallies from the fun,
What grand furveys of defliny divine,
And pompous prefage of unfathom'd fate,
Should roll in bofoms, where a fpirit burns,
Bound for eternity! In bofoms read

H. 3

By

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 fkies!
A world, where luft of pleasure, grandeur, gold,
Three damons that divide its realms between them,
With ftrokes alternate buffet to and fro.
Man's restless 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 esteem'd
Too mean to bring; a promise, their Ador'd
Defcended to communicate, and prefs,
By counfel, miracle, life, death, on man.
Such is the world LORENZO's wifdom wooes,
And on its thorny pillow feeks repose;
A pillow, which, like opiates ill-prepar'd,
Intoxicates, but not compofes; fills
The vifionary mind with gay chimæras,

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!
Fantastic chace of fhadows hunting fhades!
The gay, the bufy, equal, tho' unlike;
Equal in wifdom, differently wife!

Thro' flow'ry meadows, and thro' dreary waftes,
One bufling, and one dancing, into death.
'T'here's not a day, but, to the man of thought,
Betrays fome fecret, that throws new reproach.
On life, and makes him fick of seeing more.
The fcenes of bus'nefs tell us" What are men;"
The fcenes of pleafure-" What is all befide;"
There, Others we defpife; and Here, ourfelves..

Amid

Amid difguft eternal, dwells delight?
'Tis approbation strikes the string of joy.

What wondrous prize has kindled his career,
Stuns with the din, and choaks us with the dut,
On life's gay stage, one inch above the grave?
The proud run up and down in quest of eyes;
The fenfual, in purfuit of fomething worfe;
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,

Whirl'd, ftraw-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 inspire.
Shall Truth be filent, becaufe Folly frowns ?
Turn the world's history; what find we there,
But fortune's fports, 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!
Man is the tale of narrative old time;
Sad tale; which high as Paradife begins;
As if, the toil of travel to delude,
From ftage to ftage, in his eternal round,
The days, his daughters, as they fpin our hours
On fortune's wheel, where accident unthought
Oft, in a moment, fnaps life'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 cheat on all mankind:

While in their father's bofom, not yet ours,
They flatter our fond hopes; and promise much
Of amiable; but hold him not o'erwife,

Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the year
At ftill-confiding, ftill-confounded, man,
Confiding, tho' confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by trial, unconvinc'd by proof,
And ever-looking for the never-seen.
Life to the laft, like harden'd felons, lyes;
Nor owns itself 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 doft permit thefe ills to fall,
For gracious ends, and would'st that man should
mourn!

O THOU, whofe hand this goodly fabric fram'd,
Who know'ft it beft, and would't that man fhould

know!

What is this fublunary world? A vapour;
A vapour all it holds; itself, a vapour;
From the damp bed of chaos, by Thy beam
Exhai'd, ordain'd to swim its destin❜d hour
In ambient air, then melt, and difappear.
Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom;
As mortal, tho' lefs tranfient, than her fons;
Yet they doat on her, as if 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 shadows!
A fruitful field of flow'ry promises !
A wilderness of joys! perplext with doubts,
And fharp with thorns! a troubled ocean, fpread
With bold adventurers, their all on board!
No fecond hope, if here their fortune frowns;
Frown foon it must. Of various rates they fail,
Of enfigns various; All alike in This,
All restlefs, anxious;

toft with hopes, and fears,

In