What, if to Them, I prove Lorenzo blind?
Would it furprize Thee? Be thou then surpriz'd;
Thou neither know'it: Their Nature learn from me.
Mark well, as foreign as Thefe Subjects feem,
What close Connection ties them to my Theme.
First, what is True Ambition? The Pursuit
Of Glory, nothing less than Man can share.
Were they as Vain, as gaudy-minded Man,
As flatulent with Fumes of felf-applause,
Their Arts, and Conquefts, Animals might boaft,
And claim their Laurel Crowns, as well as We;
But not Celestial. Here we ftand alone;
As in our Form, diftinct, pre-eminent;
If prone in Thought, our Stature is our Shame,
And Man fhould blush, his Forehead meets the Skies.
The Vifible and Present are for Brutes,

A flender Portion! and a narrow Bound!
These Reafon, with an Energy divine,

O'erleaps; and claims the Future, and Unfeen;
The Vaft Unfeen! the Future Fathomless!
When the great Soul buoys up to this high Point,
Leaving grofs Nature's Sediment below,
Then, and then only, Adam's Offspring quits
The Sage and Hero, of the Fields and Woods,
Afferts his Rank, and rises into Man...

This is Ambition: This is Human Fire.

Can Parts, or Place (two bold Pretenders 1) make
Lorenzo Great, and pluck him from the Throng?
Genius and Art, Ambition's boafted Wings,
Our Boaft but ill deferve. A feeble Aid!
Dedalian Enginery! If these alone

Affift our Flight, Fame's Flight is Glory's Fall.
Heart-merit wanting, mount we ne'er fo high,
Our Height is but the Gibbet of our Name.
A celebrated Wretch when I behold,
When I behold a Genius, bright, and bafe,

Of tow'ring Talents, and terreftrial Aims;
Methinks I fee, as thrown from her high Sphere,
The glorious Fragments of a Soul Immortal,
With Rubbish mixt, and glitt'ring in the Duft.
Struck at the fplendid, melancholy Sight,
At once Compaffion foft, and Envy rise-
But wherefore Envy? Talents Angel-bright,
If wanting Worth, are fhining Inftruments
In falfe Ambition's Hand, to finish Faults
Illuftrious, and give Infamy renown.

Great Ill is an Atchievement of Great Pow'rs
Plain Sense but rarely leads us far aftray.
Reason the Means, Affections chuse our End;
Means have no Merit, if our End amifs.

If wrong our Hearts, our Heads are right in vain;
What is a Pelham's Head, to Pelham's Heart?
Hearts are Proprietors of all Applause.

Right Ends, and Means, make Wisdom: Worldly-wife
Is but half-witted, at its highest Praise.

Let Genius then despair to make thee Great;
Nor flatter Station: What is Station high?
"Tis a proud Mendicant; It boafts, and begs;
It begs an Alms of Homage from the Throng,
And oft the Throng denies its Charity.

Monarchs and Minifters, are awful Names;
Whoever wear them, challenge our Devoir.
Religion, publick Order, both exact
External Homage, and a fupple Knee,

To Beings pompously set up, to ferve

The meanest Slave; all more is Merit's due;

Her facred, and inviolable Right,

Nor ever paid the Monarch, but the Man.

Our Hearts ne'er bow but to fuperior Worth;
Nor ever fail of their Allegiance there.
Fools, indeed, drop the Man in their Account,
And vote the Mantle into Majefty.

Let the small Savage boast his Silver Fur;

His

His royal Robe unborrow'd, and unbought,
His own, defcending fairly from his Sires.
Shall Man be proud to wear his Livery,
And Souls in Ermin fcorn a Soul without ?
Can Place or leffen us, or aggrandize ?
Pygmies are Pygmies ftill, tho' perch'd on Alps,
And Pyramids are Pyramids in Vales.

Each Man makes his own Stature, builds himself:
Virtue alone out-builds the Pyramids ;

Her Monuments fhall laft, when Egypt's fall.

Of these fure Truths doft Thou demand the Caufe? The Caufe is lodg'd in Immortality.

Hear, and affent. Thy bofom burns for Pow'r ;
What Station charms thee? I'll install thee there
'Tis thine. And art thou Greater than before?
Then thou before waft fomething less than Man.
Has thy new Poft betray'd thee into Pride?
That treach'rous Pride betrays thy Dignity;
That Pride defames Humanity, and calls

The Being mean, which staffs, or firings can raise.
That Pride, like hooded Hawks, in darkness foars,
From Blindness bold, and tow'ring to the skies.
'Tis born of Ignorance, which knows not Man
An Angel's Second; nor his Second long.
A Nero quitting his Imperial Throne,
And courting Glory from the tinkling String
But faintly fhadows an Immortal soul,
With Empire's felf, to Pride, or Rapture, fir'd.
If nobler Motives minister no cure,
Ev'n Vanity forbids thee to be Vain.

High Worth is elevated Place: 'tis more ;
It makes the Poft ftand Candidate for thee;

Makes more than Monarchs, makes an Honeft man;
Tho' no Exchequer it commands, 'tis Wealth;
And tho' it wears no Ribbon, 'tis Renown;
Renown, that would not quit thee tho' disgrac'd,

་

Nor

Nor leave thee pendent on a Master's Smile.
Other Ambition Nature interdicts;

Nature proclaims it most abfurd in Man,

By pointing at his Origin, and End

Milk, and a Swathe, at Firft, his whole demand,
His whole Domain, at last a Turf, or Stone,
To whom, between, a World may seem too small.
Souls truly great dart forward on the wing

Of just Ambition, to the grand Result,

The Curtain's Fall; there, fee the buskin'd Chief
Unfhod behind this momentary Scene;

Reduc'd to his own Stature, Low or High,
As Vice, or Virtue finks him, or fublimes;
And laugh at this fantaftic Mummery,
This antic Prelude of grotefque Events,
Where Dwarfs are often ftilted, and betray
A Littleness of foul by Worlds o'er-run,
And Nations laid in blood. Dread facrifice
To Chriftian Pride! which had with horror fhock'd
The darkest Pagans offer'd to their Gods.

O Thou moft Chriftian Enemy to Peace!
Again in Arms? again provoking Fate?
That Prince, and that alone, is truly Great,
Who draws the Sword reluctant, gladly sheaths;
On Empire builds what Empire far outweighs,
And makes his Throne a Scaffold to the Skies.
Why this fo rare? Because forgot of all
The Day of Death; that venerable Day,
Which fits as Judge; that Day which shall pronounce
On all our Days, abfolve them, or condemn.
Lorenzo! never shut thy Thought against it;
Be Levees ne'er fo full, afford it room,"

And give it Audience in the Cabinet.
That Friend confulted, Flatteries apart,

Will tell thee fair, if Thou art Great, or Mean.

Το

To doat on aught may leave us, or be left,
Is that Ambition? Then let Flames defcend,
Point to the Center their inverted ípires,
And learn Humiliation from a foul,

Which boafts her Lineage from Celestial fire.
Yet These are they, the world pronounces Wife.
The world, which cancels Nature's Right and Wrong,
And cafts new Wisdom: ev'n the Grave man lends
His folemn face, to countenance the Coin.
Wisdom for Parts is Madness for the Whole.
This stamps the Paradox, and gives us leave
To call the Wiseft weak, the Richest poor,
The moft Ambitious, Unambitious, Mean;
In Triumph, mean; and abject on a Throne.
Nothing can make it less than Mad in man,
To put forth all his Ardor, all his Art,
And give his foul her full unbounded Flight,
But reaching Him, who gave her wings to fly.
When blind Ambition quite mistakes her Road,
And downwards pores, for that which shines above,
Subftantial Happiness, and true Renown;

Then, like an Idiot gazing on the Brook,
We leap at Stars, and faften in the Mud;
At Glory grafp, and fink in Infamy.

Ambition! pow'rful fource of Good and Ill!
Thy strength in Man, like length of wing in Birds,
When difengag'd from Earth, with greater Ease
And swifter Flight, transports us to the skies:
By Toys entangled, or in Guilt bemir'd,
It turns a Curfe; it is our Chain, and Scourge,
In this dark dungeon, where confin'd we lie,
Close-grated by the fordid Bars of Sense;
All profpect of Eternity fhut out;
And, but for Execution, ne'er fet Free.
With error in Ambition justly charg'd,
Find we Lorenzo wiser in his Wealth?

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