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, ere long, my midnight dream will wake
Your hearts, and teach you 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 enclos'd,
Is man: And starts his faith at what is strange?
What less than wonders, from the wonderful;
What less than miracles from Gon, can flow?
Admit a GOD that mystery Supreme!
That cause uncaus'd! 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 unconfin'd:
On that expending all her god-like pow'r,
She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there;
There builds her blessings; there expects her
praise;
And nothing asks of fortune, or of men;
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 sayst :) 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 pow'r 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 attemper'd! a chastis'd delight!
Like the fair summer evening, mild, and sweet!
'Tis man's full cup; his paradise below!
A bless'd hereafter, then, or hop'd, 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
If there is weight in an ETERNITY,
Let the grave listen; and be graver still.
The Poetical 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.
To the Right Honourable Henry Pelham.
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, bless'd.
Unbless'd 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 ;)
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