Difmounted every Great and Glorious Aim;

Embruted every Faculty divine;

Heart-buried in the rubbish of the World:

The World, that Gulph of Souls, immortal Souls, Souls elevate, Angelick, wing'd with Fire

To reach the diftant Skies, and triumph there

On Thrones, which shall not mourn their Mafters

chang'd,

Tho' We from Earth; Etherial, They that fell. Such Veneration due, O Man, to Man.

Who venerate themselves, the World defpife. For what, gay Friend! is this escutcheon'd World, Which hangs out DEATH in one eternal Night? A Night, that glooms us in the Noon-tide Ray, And wraps our Thought, at Banquets, in the Shroud. Life's little Stage is a fmall Eminence,

Inch-high the Grave above; that Home of Man, Where dwells the Multitude; we gaze around, We read their Monuments; we figh; and while

We

We figh, we fink; and are what we deplor'd;
Lamenting, or Lamented all our Lot!

now?

Is Death at Distance? No: he has been on thee;
And given fure Earnest of his final Blow.
Thofe Hours, which lately fmil'd, where are they
Pallid to Thought, and ghaftly! drown'd, all drown'd
In that great Deep, which nothing difembogues;
And, dying, they bequeath'd thee small Renown.
The Reft are on the Wing: how fleet their Flight!
Already has the fatal Train took fire ;

A Moment, and the world's blown up to thee;
The Sun is Darkness, and the Stars are Duft.

Time paffes like a Poft: we nothing send But poor Bellerophon's exprefs; our Doom. 'Tis greatly wife to talk with our paft Hours; And afk them, what report they bore to Heaven; And how they might have born more welcome News. Their Anfwers form what Men Experience call;

If Wisdom's Friend, her beft; if not, worst Foe.
O reconcile them; kind Experience crys,

"There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs;

"The more our Joy, the more we know it Vain; "And by Success are tutor❜d to Despair."

Nor is it only thus, but must be fo:

Who knows not this, tho' Grey, is still a Child.

Loose then from Earth the Grafp of fond Defire,
Weigh Anchor, and fome happier Clime explore,

Art thou fo moor'd thou canst not disengage,

Nor give thy Thoughts a ply to future Scenes?
Since, by Life's paffing breath, blown up from Earth
Light, as the Summer's duft, we take in Air
A Moment's giddy flight, and fall again;
Join the dull Mafs, increase the trodden Soil,
And fleep till Earth herself shall be no more;
Since Then (as Emmets their small World o'er-
thrown)
We, fore-amaz'd, from out Earth's Ruins crawl,

And

And rife to Fate extreme, of Foul or Fair,

As Man's own Choice, Controuler of the Skies!

As Man's defpotick Will, perhaps one Hour,
(O how Omnipotent is Time!) decrees;
Should not each Warning give a strong Alarm?
Warning, far less than that of bofom torn
From bofom, bleeding o'er the facred dead?
Should not each Dial ftrike us as we pass,
Portentous, as the written Wall, which ftruck,
O'er midnight Bowls, the proud Affyrian pale,
E'er while, high-flusht with Infolence, and Wine?
Like That, the Dial speaks; and points to thee
Lorenzo! loath to break the Banquet up.

"O Man, thy kingdom is departing from thee; "And while it lafts, is emptier than my Shade." Its filent Language, fuch; nor need'ft thou call Thy Magi, to decypher what it means..

Know; like the Median, Fate is in thy Walls: Doft afk, how? whence? Belshazzar-like amaz’d? Man's

Man's Make inclofes the fure feeds of Death;
Life feeds the Murderer: Ingrate! he thrives
On her own Meal; and then his Nurfe Devours.

But, here, Lorenzo, the Delufion lies;
That Solar fhadow, as it measures Life,

It Life resembles too: Life speeds away
From point to point, tho' seeming to stand still :
The cunning Fugitive is swift by stealth;

Too fubtle is the Movement to be seen,

Yet foon Man's Hour is up, and we are gone.
Warnings point out our Danger, Gnomons, Time;
As these are useless when the Sun is set;

So those, but when more glorious Reafon fhines.
Reafon fhould judge in all: In Reafon's eye,
That Sedentary shadow travels hard:

But fuch our Gravitation to the Wrong,

So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish, 'Tis later with the Wife, than he's aware;