In nature's ruins not one letter lost.
'Tis printed in the mind of gods for ever.
In proud disdain of what e'en gods adore,
Dost smile? poor wretch! thy guardian angel weeps.
Angels, and men, assent to what I sing:
Wits smile, and thank me for my midnight dream.
How vicious hearts fume frenzy to the brain!
Parts push us on to pride, and pride to shame;
Pert infidelity is Wit's cockade,
To grace the brazen brow that braves the skies,
By loss of being dreadfully secure.
Lorenzo! if thy doctrine wins the day,
And drives my dreams, defeated, from the field;
If this is all, if earth's the final scene,
Take heed: stand fast; be sure to be a knave;
A knave in grain; ne'er deviate to the right:
Shouldst thou be good-how infinite thy loss!
Guilt only makes annihilation gain!
Blest scheme; which life deprives of comfort, death
Of hope; and which vice only recommends.
If so, where, infidels, your bait thrown out
To catch weak converts? Where your lofty boast
Of zeal for virtue, and of love to man?
Annihilation, I confess, in these.
What can reclaim you? Dare I hope profound
Philosophers the converts of a song?
Yet know, its title* flatters you, not me;
Yours be the praise to make my title good;
Mine, to bless Heav'n, and triumph in your praise.
But since so pestilential your disease,
Though sov'reign is the med'cine I prescribe,
As yet, I'll neither triumph nor despair:
But hope, erc long, my midnight dream will wake
Your hearts, and teach your wisdom-to be wise:
For why should souls immortal, made for bliss,
E'er wish (and wish in vain!) that souls could die?
What ne'er can die, oh! grant to live; and crown
The wish, and aim, and labour, of the skies!
Increase, and enter on the joys of heav'n:
Thus shall my title pass a sacred seal,
Receive an imprimatur from above,
While angels shout-An infidel reclaim'd!
To close, Lorenzo! spite of all my pains,
Still seems it strange, that thou shouldst live for ever?
Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all?
This is a miracle; and that no more.
Who gave beginning, can exclude an end.
Deny thou art; then, doubt if thou shalt be.
A miracle with miracles enclosed
Is man: and starts his faith at what is strange?
What less than wonders, from the Wonderful;
What less than miracles, from God can flow?
Admit a God-that mystery supreme!
That cause uncaused! all other wonders cease;
Nothing is marvellous for him to do:
Deny him--all is mystery besides;
Millions of mysteries! each darker far
Than that thy wisdom would, unwisely, shun.
If weak thy faith, why choose the harder side?
We nothing know, but what is marvellous;
Yet what is marvellous we can't believe.
So weak our reason, and so great our God,
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 so backward, man?
From hence: The present strongly strikes us all,
The future, faintly: can we, then, be men?
If men, Lorenzo! the reverse is right.
Reason is man's peculiar; sense, the brute's.
The present is the scanty realm of sense.
The future, reason's empire unconfined:
On that expending all her godlike power,
She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there;
There builds her blessings; there expects her praise:
And nothing asks of fortune, or of man.
And what is reason? Be she, thus, defin'd:
Reason is upright stature in the soul.
Oh! be a man;-and strive to be a god.
For what? (thou say'st)-to damp the joys of life? No; to give heart and substance to thy joys. That tyrant, Hope, mark how she domineers; She bids us quit realities for dreams; 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 sits, Though bearing crowns to spring at distant game · And plunge in toils and dangers-for repose. If hope precarious, and if things, when gain'd, Of little moment, and as little stay,
Can sweeten toils and dangers into joys;
What then, that hope which nothing can defeat,
Our leave unask'd? Rich hope of boundless bliss.
Bliss, past man's power to paint it; time's, to close!
This hope is earth's most estimable prize:
This is man's portion, while no more than man:
Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here:
Passions of prouder name befriend us less.
Joy has her tears, and transport has her death,
Hope, like a cordial, innocent though strong,
Man's heart at once inspirits and serenes;
Nor makes him pay his wisdom for his joys:
'Tis all our present state can safely bear,
Health to the frame! and vigour to the mind!
A joy attempered! a chastised delight!
Like the fair summer evening, mild and sweet!
'Tis man's full cup; his paradise below!
A blest hereafter, then, or hoped, or gain'd,
Is all; our whole of happiness: full proof
I chose no trivial or inglorious theme.
And know, ye foes to song! (well meaning men,
Though quite forgotten half your Bible's* praise!)
Important truths, in spite of verse, may please:
Grave minds you praise; nor can you praise too much
If there is weight in an eternity,
Let the grave listen;—and be graver still.
The poctical parts of it.
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 espoused 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 ancient days; and Christian,-in an age,
When men were men, and not asham'd of heav'n,
Fired 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 inflamed,
Point out my path, and dictate to my song:
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