SHALL Sons of Ether, fhall the Blood of Heav'n, i Set up their Hopes on Earth, and stable here, With brutal Acquiefcence in the Mire? LORENZO! no, they fhall be nobly pain'd; ; The glorious Foreigners diftreft, shall figh On Thrones; and Thou congratulate the Sigh: Man's Mifery declares him born for Bliss; His anxious Heart afferts the Truth I fing, And gives the Sceptic in his Head the Lye.

OUR Heads, our Hearts, our Paffions, and our Pow'rs, • Speak the fame Language; call us to the Skies; Unripen'd Thefe in this inclement Clime,

Scarce rife above Conjecture, and Mistake;
And for this Land of Trifles, Those too strong,
Tumultuous rife, and tempest human Life;
What Prize on Earth can pay us for the Storm??
Meet Objects for our Paffions Heav'n ordain'd,
Objects that challenge all their Fire, and leave
No Fault, but in Defect: Bleft Heav'n! Avert
A bounded Ardor for unbounded Bliss;

O for a Blifs unbounded! Far beneath
A Soul immortal, is a mortal Joy.

Nor are our Pow'rs to perish immature ; ;
But, after feeble Effort, here, beneath -
A brighter Sun, and in a nobler Soil,.
Transplanted from this fublunary Bed,

་

Shall flourish fair, and put forth all their Bloom.e.
REASON progreffive, Inftinct is complete ;
Swift Inftine leaps; flow Reafon feebly climbs..
Brutes foon their Zenith reach; their little Alli
Flows in at once; in Ages they no more
Could know, or do, or covet, or enjoy.
Was Man to live co-eval with the Sun,
The Patriarch pupil would be learning ftill;
Yet, dying, leave his Leffon half unlearnt.
Men perish in Advance, as if the Sun

Should fet ere Noon, in Eastern Oceans drown'd;

If fit, with Dim, Illuftrious to compare,

The Sun's Meridian, with the Soul of Man.
To Man, why, Stepdame Nature! fo fevere?
Why thrown afide thy Mafter-piece half-wrought,
While meaner Efforts thy last Hand enjoy ?
Or, if abortively poor Man muft die,

Nor reach, what reach he might, why die in Dread?
Why curft with Forefight? Wife to Misery?
Why of his proud Prerogative the Prey?
Why lefs pre-eminent in Rank than Pain ?
His Immortality alone can tell,

Full ample Fund to ballance all amiss,
And turn the Scale in favour of the Juft.
His Immortality alone can solve
That darkest of Enigmas, húman Hope;
Of all the darkest, if at Death we die.
Hope, eager Hope, th' Affaffin of our Joy,
All prefent Bleffings treading under foot,
Is fcarce a milder Tyrant than Despair.
With no paft Toils content, ftill planning new,
Hope turns us o'er to Death alone for Ease.
Poffeffion, why, more tafteless than Purfuit?
Why is a Wish far dearer than a Crown?
That Wish accomplish'd, why, the Grave of Blifs ?
Because in the great Future bury'd deep,
Beyond our Plans of Empire, and Renown,
Lies all that Man with Ardor fhould pursue;
And He who made him, bent him to the Right.
MAN's Heart th' ALMIGHTY to the Future fets,
By fecret, and inviolable, Springs;

And makes his Hope his fublunary Joy.

Man's Heart eats all Things, and is hungry ftill; "More, more," the Glutton cries: For fomething New So rages Appetite, if Man can't Mount,

He will Descend. He ftarves on the Poffeft.

L

Hence,

Hence, the World's Mafter, from Ambition's Spire,
In Caprea plung'd; and div'd beneath the Brute.
In that rank Sty why wallow'd Empire's Son
Supreme? Because he could no higher fly;
His Riot was Ambition in Despair.

OLD Rome confulted Birds; LORENZO! thou,
With more Success, the Flight of Hope survey ;
Of reftlefs Hope, for ever on the Wing.
High-perch'd o'er ev'ry Thought that Falcon fits,
To fly at all that rifes in her Sight;
And never stooping, but to mount again
Next Moment, the betrays her Aim's Miftake,
And owns her Quarry lodg'd beyond the Grave.
THERE fhould it fail us, (it muft fail us there,
If Being fails) more mournful Riddles rife,
And Virtue vies with Hope in Mystery.

Why Virtue? Where its Praife, its Being, fled?
Virtue is true Self-interest purfu'd;
What, true Self-int'reft of quite-mortal Man?
To close with all that makes him Happy here.
If Vice, (as fometimes) is our Friend on Earth,
Then Vice is Virtue, 'tis our fov'reign Good.
In Self-applaufe is Virtue's golden Prize;
No Self-applause attends it on thy Scheme;
Whence, Self-applaufe? From Confcience of the Right?
And what is Right, but Means of Happiness?
No Means of Happiness when Virtue yields;
That Bafis failing, falls the Building too,
And lays in Ruins every virtuous Joy.
THE rigid Guardian of a blameless Heart,
So long rever'd, fo long reputed wife,
Is weak; with rank Knight-errantries o'er-run.
Why beats thy Bofom with illuftrious Dreams
Of Self-expofure, laudable, and great?
Of gallant Enterprize, and glorious Death?
Die for thy Country -Thou romantic Fool!

Seize,

Seize, feize the Plank thyself, and let her fink;

Thy Country! what to Thee? (I speak with Awe)
The God-head, what? tho' he should bid thee bleed ?
If, with thy Blood, thy final Hope is spilt,
Nor can Omnipotence reward the Blow,
Be deaf; preferve thý Being; difobey.

NOR is it Difobedience: Know, LORENZO !
Whate'er th' ALMIGHTY's fubfequent Command,
His firft Command is this," Man, love thyself."
In this alone, Free-agents are not free.
Existence is the Bafis, Bliss the Prize;
If Virtue cofts Existence, 'tis a Crime;
Bold Violation of our Law fupreme,

Black Suicide! tho' Nations, which confult
Their Gain, at thy Expence, refound Applaufe.
SINCE Virtue's Recompence is doubtful, Here,
If Man dies wholly, well may we demand,
Why is Man fuffer'd to be Good in vain ?
Why to be Good in vain, is Man injoin'd?
Why to be Good in vain, is Man betray'd?
Betray'd by Traitors lodg'd in his own Breast,
By fweet Complacencies from Virtue felt?
Why whifpers Nature Lyes on Virtue's Part?
Or if blind Instinct (which affumes the Name
Of facred Confcience) plays the Fool in Man,
Why Reason made Accomplice in the Cheat?
Why are the Wifeft, loudeft in her Praife?
Can Man by Reafon's Beam be led aftray?
Or, at his Peril, imitate his GOD?

Since Virtue fometimes ruins us on Earth,

Or Both are true; or, Man furvives the Grave.

OR Man furvives the Grave, or own, LORENZO !

Thy Boaft fupreme, a wild Absurdity.

Dauntless thy Spirit; Cowards are thy Scorn.
Grant Man immortal, and thy Scorn is just.
The Man immortal, rationally brave,

Dares

Dares rush on Death,- because he cannot die.
But if Man lofes all, when Life is loft,

He lives a Coward, or a Fool expires.
A daring Infidel, (and fuch there are,
From Pride, Example, Lucre, Rage, Revenge,
Or pure heroical Defect of Thought)

Of all Earth's Madmen, most deserves a Chain.
WHEN, to the Grave, we follow the Renown'd
For Valour, Virtue, Science, all we love,

And all we praise; for Worth, whofe Noon-tide Beam,
Enabling us to think in higher Stile,

Mends our Ideas of Ethereal Pow'rs ;

Dream we, that Luftre of the moral World
Goes out in Stench, and Rottennefs the Clofe?
Why was he wife to know, and warm to praise,
And strenuous to transcribe, in human Life,
The Mind ALMIGHTY? Could it be, that Fate,
Juft when the Lineaments began to fhine,
And dawn the DEITY, fhould fnatch the Draught,
With Night eternal blot it out, and give

The Skies Alarm, left Angels too might die?
IF Human Souls, why not Angelic too
Extinguish'd? and a Solitary God,

O'er ghaftly Ruin, frowning from his Throne?
Shall we, this Moment, gaze on God in Man;
The next, lofe Man for ever in the Duft?
From Duft we difengage, or Man mistakes;
And there, where least his Judgment fears a Flaw.
Wisdom, and Worth, how boldly he commends?
Wisdom, and Worth, are facred Names; Rever'd,
Where not embrac'd; Applauded! Deify'd!
Why not Compaffion'd too? If Spirits die,
Both are Calamities, inflicted both,

To make us but more wretched: Wisdom's Eye
Acute, for what? To spy more Miseries ;

And Worth, fo recompens'd, new-points their Stings: