Oh Death Divine! that giv'ft us to the Skies!
Great Future! glorious Patron of the Past,
And Prefent! when shall I thy Shrine adore?
From Nature's Continent, immensely wide,
Immensely bleft, this little Ile of Life,
This dark, incarcerating Colony,
Divides us. Happy Day! that breaks our Chain;
That manumits; that calls from Exile home;
That leads to Nature's great Metropolis,
And re-admits us, thro' the Guardian Hand
Of elder Brothers, to our Father's Throne;
Who hears our Advocate, and, thro' his Wounds
Beholding Man, allows that tender Name.
'Tis this makes Chriftian Triumph, a Command:
'Tis this makes Joy a Duty to the Wife;
'Tis impious, in a good Man, to be fad.
Seeft thou, LORENZO! where hangs all our Hope?
Touch'd by the Cross, we live; or, more than die;
That Touch which touch'd not Angels; more divine
Than that, which touch'd Confufion into Form,
And Darkness into Glory; Partial Touch!
Ineffably pre-eminent Regard!
Sacred to Man, and Sov'reign thro' the whole
Long golden Chain of Miracles, which hangs
From Heav'n thro' all Duration, and supports
In one illustrious, and amazing Plan,
Thy Welfare, Nature! and thy God's Renown;
That Touch, with Charm celestial, heals the Soul
Difeas'd, drives Pain from Guilt, lights Life in Death, Turns Earth to Heav'n, to heav'nly Thrones transforms The ghaftly Ruins of the mould'ring Tomb.
Dost ask me when? when He who dy'd returns? Returns, how chang'd! where then the Man of Woe? In Glory's Terrors all the Godhead burns;
And all his Courts, exhausted by the Tide
Of Deities triumphant in his Train,
Leave a ftupendous Solitude in Heaven;
Replenisht foon; replenisht with Increase
Of Pomp, and Multitude; a radiant Band
Of Angels new; of Angels from the Tomb.
Is this by Fancy thrown remote? and rife Dark Doubts between the Promife, and Event? I fend thee not to Volumes for thy Cure; Read Nature; Nature is a Friend to Truth; Nature is Chriftian; preaches to Mankind; And bids dead Matter aid us in our Creed. Haft thou ne'er feen the Comet's flaming Flight? Th' illuftrious Stranger paffing, Terror sheds On gazing Nations, from his fiery Train Of Length enormous; takes his ample Round Thro' Depths of Ether; coafts unnumber'd Worlds, Of more than folar Glory; doubles wide Heav'n's mighty Cape; and then revifits Earth, From the long Travel of a thousand Years,
Thus, at the deftin'd Period, fhall return
He, once on Earth, who bids the Comet blaze:
And with Him all our Triumph o'er the Tomb.
Nature is dumb on this important Point:
Or Hope precarious in low Whisper breathes;
Faith speaks aloud, diftinct; ev'n Adders hear,
But turn, and dart into the Dark again.
Faith builds a Bridge acrofs the Gulph of Death,
To break the Shock blind Nature cannot fhun,
And lands Thought smoothly on the farther Shore
Death's Terror is the Mountain Faith removes;
That Mountain Barrier between Man and Peace.
'Tis Faith difarms Deftruction; and abfolves
From ev'ry clamorous Charge, the guiltless Tomb.
Why disbelieve? LORENZO!" Reason bids,
"All-facred Reafon."-Hold her facred still;
Nor fhalt thou want a Rival in thy Flame:
All-facred Reafon! Source, and Soul, of all
Demanding Praife, on Earth, or Earth above!
My Heart is thine: Deep in its inmost Folds,
Live thou with Life; live dearer of the Two.
Wear I the bleffed Crofs, by Fortune stampt
On paffive Nature, before Thought was born?
My Birth's blind Bigot! fir'd with local Zeal!
No; Reafon rebaptiz'd me when adult ;
Weigh'd True and Falfe in her impartial Scale
My Heart became the Convert of my Head;
And made that Choice, which once was but my
"On Argument alone my Faith is built :"
Reafon purfu'd is Faith; and, unpurfu'd
Where Proof invites, 'tis Reason, then, no more:
And fuch, our Proof, that, or our Faith, is right,
Or Reajon lyes, and Heav'n defign'd it wrong :
Abfolve we This? What, then, is Blafphemy?
Fond as we are, and juftly fond of Faith,
Reafor, we grant, demands our First Regard;
The Mother honour'd, as the Daughter dear;
Reafon the Root, fair Faith is but the Flower;
The fading Flow'r fhall die; but Reafon lives
Immortal, as her Father in the Skies.
When Faith is Virtue, Reafon makes it fo.
Wrong not the Chriftian; think not Reafon yours;
'Tis Reafon our great Mafter holds fo dear;
'Tis Reafon's injur'd Rights His Wrath refents;
'Tis Reafon's Voice, obey'd His Glories crown;
To give loft Reefon Life, He pour'd his own;
Believe, and fhew the Reafon of a Man;
Believe, and tafte the Pleasure of a God;
Believe, and look with Triumph on the Tomb:
Thro' Reafon'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 Peans due To thofe, who push our Antidote afide;
Those boasted Friends to Reafon, and to Man,
Whose fatal Love ftabs ev'ry Joy, and leaves
Death's Terror heighten'd gnawing on his Heart.
These pompous Sons of Reafon 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 through all their Camp refounds,
They draw Pride's Curtain o'er the Noon-tide Ray;
Spike up their Inch of Reason, on the Point
Of Philofophic Wit, call'd 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 wife as SOCRATES, if fuch they were,
(Nor will they bate of that fublime Renown)
As wife as SOCRATES, might justly stand
The Definition of a modern Fool.
Chriftian is the highest Stile of Man. And is there, who the bleffed Crofs wipes off As a foul Blot, from his dishonour'd Brow? If Angels tremble, 'tis at fuch a Sight: The Wretch they quit, defponding of their Charge, More ftruck with Grief or Wonder, who can tell?
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