That Pow'r deny'd, Men, Angels, were no more,
But paffive Engines, void of Praife, or Blame.
A Nature Rational implies the Pow'r

Of being bleft, or wretched, as we please ;
Elfe idle Reason would have nought to do;
And he that would be barr'd Capacity
Of Pain, courts Incapacity of Bliss.
Heav'n wills our Happiness, allows our Doom;
Invites us ardently, but not compells:
Heav'n but perfuades, almighty Man decrees;-
Man is the Maker of Immortal Fates.
Man falls by Man, if finally He falls;

And fall He must, who learns from Death alone,
The dreadful Secret,-That he lives for Ever.

WHY This to thee? Thee yet, perhaps, in Doubt
Of Second Life: But wherefore doubtful ftill 2.
Eternal Life is Nature's ardent Wish;
What ardently we wish, we foon believe::
Thy tardy Faith declares that Wish destroy'd :
What has destroy'd it ?-Shall I tell thee, What?
When fear'd the Future, 'tis no longer wifht,
And when Unwifht, we strive to Disbelieve.
"Thus Infidelity our Guilt betrays."

Nor that the fole Detection; Blush, LORENZO !
Blush for Hypocrify, if not for Guilt.

The Future fear'd? An Infidel, and fear?
Fear what? a Dream? a Fable-How thy Dready
Unwilling Evidence, and, therefore, Strong,
Affords my Cause an undefign'd Support ?
How Disbelief affirms, what It denies ?
"It, unawares, afferts Immortal Life.”-
Surprizing! Infidelity turns out

A Creed, and a Confeffion of our Sins:
Apoftates, thus, are Orthodox Divines.
LORENZO! with LORENZO clash no more;
Nor longer a Transparent Vizor wear.

.

Think'ft Thou, RELIGION only has her Mask?
Our Infidels are Satan's Hypocrites,

Pretend the Worft, and, at the Bottom, fail.

When vifited by Thought, (Thought will intrude)
Like Him they ferve, They tremble, and believe..
Is there Hypocrify fo foul as This?

So Fatal to the Welfare of the World?

What Deteftation, what Contempt, their Due?
And if Unpaid, be thank'd for their Escape
That Chriftian Candor they ftrive hard to fcorn.
If not for that Afylum, they might find
A Hell on Earth; nor 'scape a worse Below.
WITH Infolence, and Impotence of Thought,
Inftead of racking Fancy, to refute,
Reform thy Manners, and the Truth enjoy.-
But fhall I dare confefs the dire Refult?
Can thy proud Reafon brook fo black a Brand
From purer Manners, to fublimer Faith,
Is Nature's unavoidable Afcent;

An honeft Deift, where the Gospel shines,
Matur'd to nobler, in the Christian ends.
When that bleft Change arrives, e'en caft afidé
This Song fuperfluous; Life immortal strikes
Conviction, in a Flood of Light Divine.

A Chriftian dwells, like * URIEL, in the Sun;
Meridian Evidence puts Doubt to Flight;
And ardent Hope anticipates the Skies.

Of that bright Sun, LORENZO! fcale the Sphere;
'Tis eafy; It invites thee; It defcends

From Heav'n to woo, and waft thee whence it came

Read, and revere the Sacred Page; a Page
Where triumphs Immortality; a Page

Which not the whole Creation could produce;
Which not the Conflagration fhall destroy;

In Nature's Ruins not one Letter loft:

Tis printed in the Mind of Gods for ever.

IN proud Difdain of what e'en Gods adore,
Doft smile ?--Poor Wretch ! thy Guardian Angel weeps.
Angels, and Men, affent to what I fing;

Wits fmile, and thank me for my Midnight Dream.
How vicious Hearts fume Frenzy to the Brain?
Parts push us on to Pride, and Pride to Shame ;
Pert Infidelity is Wit's Cockcade,

Το grace the brazen Brow that braves the Skies,
By Lofs of Being, dreadfully Secure.

LORENZO! if thy Doctrine wins the Day,

And drives my Dreams, defeated, from the Field;
If This is All, if Earth a final Scene,

Take heed; ftand faft; be fure to be a Knave;
A Knave in Grain; ne'er deviate to the Right:
Shouldft Thou be Good-How infinite thy Lofs?
Guilt only makes Annihilation Gain.

Bleft Scheme! which Life deprives of Comfort, Death
Of Hope; and which VICE only recommends.
If fo; where, Infidels! your Bait thrown out
To catch weak Converts? Where your lofty Boaft
Of Zeal for Virtue, and of Love to Man?
ANNIHILATION, I confefs, in Thefe.

WHAT Can Reclaim you? Dare I hope profound Philofophers the Converts of a Song?

Yet know, Its Title flatters you, not me;
Yours be the Praise to make my Title' good;
Mine, to Blefs Heav'n, and Triumph in your Praise..
But fince fo Peftilential your Disease,

Though fov'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 your Wisdom-to be wife :
For why should Souls Immortal, made for Blifs,
Ere Wish, (and wish in vain!) that Souls could die?
What

What ne'er can die, Oh! grant to live; and crown
The Wish, and Aim, and Labour of the Skies;
Encreafe, and enter on the Joys of Heav'n:
Thus fhall my Title pafs a facred Seal,
Receive an Imprimatur from Above,
While Angels fhout-An Infidel Reclaim'd'!

To clofe, LORENZO! Spite of all my Pains,
Still seems it ftrange, that Thou shouldst live for ever?
Is it lefs ftrange, 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 inclos'd,

Is Man? And ftarts his Faith at what is Strange?
What lefs than Wonders, from the Wonderful?
What lefs than Miracles, from Gon, can flow?
Admit a GOD,-that Mystery Supreme!

That Caufe uncaus'd! All other Wonders ceafe;
Nothing is Marvellous for Him to do:
Deny Him,-all is Mystery befides;
Millions of Mysteries! Each Darker far,
Than That thy Wisdom would, unwifely, fhun.
If weak thy Faith, why chufe the Harder Side?
We nothing know, but what is Marvellous;
Yet what is Marvellous, we can't believe.
So Weak our Reafon, and fo Great our God,
What most furprizes in the Sacred Page,
Or full as Strange, or Stranger, must be True.
Faith is not Reafon's Labour, but Repose.

To Faith, and Virtue, why fo backward Man?
From Hence; -The Prefent ftrongly ftrikes us All
The Future, faintly: Can we, then, be Men?
If Men, LORENZO! the Reverse is Right.
Reafon is Man's Peculiar; Senfe, the Brute's.
The Prefent is the fcanty Realm of Senfe ;
The Future, Reafon's Empire unconfin'd;

On

On That expanding all her Godlike Pow'r,

She Plans, Provides, Expatiates, Triumphs, there;
There, builds her Bleffings; There, expects her Praises
And nothing afks of Fortune, or of Men.
And what is Reafon? Be fhe, thus, defin'd;
Reason is Upright Stature in the Soul.

Oh! be a Man ;-and strive to be a GOD.

"FOR what? (Thou fayft): To damp the Joys of Life?"

No; to give Heart and Subftance 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 fits,
Tho' bearing Crowns, to fpring at diftant Game;
And plunge in Toils, and Dangers-for Repose.
If Hope precarious, and of Things, when gain'd,
Of Little Moment, and as Little Stay,

Can fweeten Toils, and Dangers into Joys;

What then, That Höpe, which nothing can defeat,
Our Leave unafk'd? Rich Hope of boundless Bliss !
Blifs, paft Man's Pow'r to paint it; Time's, to clofe!
This Hope is Earth's most estimable Prize;

This is Man's Portion, while no more than Man:
Hope, of all Paffions, most befriends us Here;
Paffions of prouder Name befriend us lefs :
Joy has her Tears; and Transport has her Death;
Hope, like a Cordial, innocent, tho' ftrong,
Man's Heart, at once, inspirits, and serenes ;
Nor makes him pay his Wisdom for his Joys;
"Tis All, our Prefent State can fafely bear,
Health to the Frame! and Vigour to the Mind!
And to the modeft Eye chaftis'd Delight!