An Eye impartial, and an even Scale ;
Whence Judgment found, and unrepenting Choice: Thus, in a double Senfe, the Good are wife ;
On its own Dunghil, wiser than the World';
What, then, the World? It must be doubly weak ;
Strange Truth as foon would they believe the Creed
YET thus it is; nor otherwife can be ;
So far from aught Romantic, what I fing:
Blifs has no Being, Virtue has no Strength,
But from the Prospect of immortal Life.
Who think Earth All, or (what weighs juft the fame)
Who care no farther, muft prize what it yields;
Fond of its Fancies, proud of its Parades:
Who thinks Earth Nothing, can't its Charms admire ;
He can't a Foe, tho' moft malignant, hate,
Because that Hate would prove his Greater Foe:
'Tis hard for Them (yet who fo loudly boast
Good will to Men ?) to love their dearest Friend
For may he not invade their Good Supreme,
Where the leaft Jealoufy turns Love to Gall
All shines to Them, that for a Season shines :
Each Act, each Thought, He questions, "What its
"Weight;
"Its Colour, what, a Thousand Ages hence ?
And what it there appears, he deems it now:
Hence, facred the Receffes of his Soul;
The God-like Man has nothing to conceal;
His Virtue, conftitutionally deep,
Has Habit's Firmness, and Affection's Flame;
Angels, allied, defcend to feed the Fire:
And Death, which others flays, makes Him a God.
AND, now, LORENZO! Bigot of this World!
Wont to difdain poor Bigots caught by Heav'n!.
Stand by thy Scorn, and be redue'd to Nought:
For what art Thou -Thou Boafter! While thy Glare
Thy gaudy Grandeur, and mere worldly Worth,
Like a broad Mift, at Distance, ftrikes us moft;
And, like a Mist, is Nothing when at hand;
His Merit, like a Mountain, on Approach,
Swells more, and rifes nearer to the Skies,
By Promife now, and, by Poffeffion, foon,
(Too Soon, too much, it cannot be) his Own.
FROM this thy just Annihilation rise,
LORENZO! rife to Something, by Reply;
The World, thy Client, liftens, and expects ;
And longs to crown thee with immortal Praise:
Canft thou be filent? No, for Wit is Thine;
And Wit talks moft, when leaft fhe has to fay,
And Reason interrupts not her Career:
She'll fay-That Mifts above the Mountains rife
And, with a thousand Pleasantries, amufe ;
She'll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a Duft,
And fly Conviction, in the Duft fhe rais'd.
WIT, how delicious to Man's dainty Taste ?—
"Tis precious, as the Vehicle of Sense;
But, as its Substitute, a dire Disease:
Pernicious Talent! Flatter'd by Mankind,
Yet hated too; they think the Talent rare.
Wisdom is rare, LORENZO! Wit abounds;
Paffion can give it; fometimes Wine inspires
The lucky Flash; and Madness rarely fails.
Whatever Cause the Spirit ftrongly stirs,
Confers the Bays, and rivals thy Renown;
For thy Renown, 'twere well, was This the worst
Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more,
See Dulness, blundering on Vivacities,
Shakes her Sage Head at the Calamity,
Which has expos'd, and let her down to Thee.
But Wisdom, awful Wisdom! which infpects,
Difcerns, compares, weighs, feparates, infers,
Seizes the Right, and holds it to the laft;
How Rare? In Senates, Synods, fought in vain;
Or if there found, 'tis facred to the Few;
While a lewd Proftitute to Multitudes,
Frequent, as Fatal, Wit: In Civil Life,
Wit makes an Enterprizer; Senfe, a Man:
Wit hates Authority; Commotion loves,
And thinks herself the Lightning of the Storm:
In States, 'tis dang'rous; in Religion, Death;
Shall Wit turn Christian, when the Dull believe?
Senfe is our Helmet, Wit is but the Plume;
The Plume exposes, 'tis our Helmet saves :
Senfe is the Diamond, weighty, folid, found;
When cut by Wit, it cafts a brighter Beam;
Yet, Wit apart, it is a Diamond ftill:
Wit, widow'd of Good-Senfe, is worse than Nought;
It hoifts more Sail to run against a Rock:
Thus, a Half-CHESTERFIELD is quite a Fool;
Whom dull Fools fcorn, and blefs their Want of Wit.
How ruinous the Rock I warn thee fhun,
Where Syrens fit, to fing thee to thy Fate?
A Joy, in which our Reafon bears no Part,
Is but a Sorrow tickling, e'er it ftings.
Let not the Cooings of the World allure thee
Which of her Lovers ever found her True?
Happy! of this bad World who Little know ;—
And yet, we much must know her, to be Safe:
To know the World, not love her, is thy Point
She gives but Little; nor that Little, long:
There is, I grant, a Triumph of the Pulfe;
A Dance of Spirits, a mere Froth of Joy,
Our thoughtless Agitation's idle Child,
That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires,
Leaving the Soul more vapid than before;
An animal Ovation! fuch as holds
No Commerce with our Reason, but fubfifts
On Juices, thro' the well-ton'd Tubes, well-ftrain'd
A nice Machine! fcarce ever tun'd aright;
And when it jars-thy Syrens fing no more,
Thy Dance is done; the Demi-god is thrown
(Short Apotheofis !) beneath the Man;
In coward Gloom immers'd, or fell Despair.
ART thou yet Dull enough Defpair to dread,
And ftartle at Deftruction? If thou art,
Accept a Buckler, take it to the Field;
(A Field of Battle is this mortal Life!)
When Danger threatens, lay it on thy Heart;
A fingle Sentence Proof against the World:
"Soul, Body, Fortune! ev'ry Good pertains
"To One of these; but prize not All alike;
"The Goods of Fortune, to thy Body's Health,
Body to Soul, and Soul fubmit to God:"
Wouldft thou build lafting Happiness? Do This;
Th' inverted Pyramid can never stand.
Is this Truth doubtful? It outfhines the Sun;
Nay, the Sun fhines not, but to fhew us This,
The fingle Leffon of Mankind on Earth:
And yet-Yet, what? No News! Mankind is mad;
Such mighty Numbers list against the Right,
(And what can't Numbers, when bewitch'd, atchieve?),
They talk themselves to Something like Belief,
That all Earth's Joys are Theirs: As Athens' Fool
Grinn'd from the Port, on ev'ry Sail his Own.
THEY grin, but wherefore? And how long the
Laugh?
Half Ignorance, their Mirth; and Half, a Lye;
To cheat the World, and cheat Themselves, they Smile;
Hard either Task! The moft Abandon'd own,
That Others, if Abandon'd, are undone ;
Then, for Themselves, the Moment Reason wakes
(And Providence denies it long Repose),
O how laborious is their Gaiety?
They scarce can swallow their ebullient Spleen,
Scarce mufter Patience to support the Farce,
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And pump fad Laughter, till the Curtain falls:
Scarce, did I fay? Some cannot fit it out;
Oft their own daring Hands the Curtain draw,
And fhew us what their Joy, by their Despair.
THE clotted Hair! gor'd Breaft! blafpheming Eye! Its impious Fury ftill alive in Death!
Shut, fhut the fhocking Scene.-But Heav'n denies
A Cover to fuch Guilt; and so should Man:
Look round, LORENZO! fee the reeking Blade;
Th' invenom'd Phial, and the fatal Ball;
The ftrangling Cord, and fuffocating Stream;
The loathfome Rattennefs, and foul Decays
From raging Riot (flower Suicides!);
And Pride in these, more execrable still !.
How horrid All to Thought ?-But Horrors, these,
That vouch the Truth; and aid my feeble Song.
FROM Vice, Senfe, Fancy, no Man can be bleft;
Bliss is too great, to lodge within an Hour;
When an Immortal Being aims at Bliss,
Duration is effential to the Name :
O for a Joy from Reafon! Joy from That,
Which makes Man, Man; and, exercis'd aright,
Will make him more: A Bounteous Joy! that gives,
And promises; that weaves, with Art divine,
The richest Profpect into present Peace;
A Joy Ambitious! Joy in common held
With Thrones ethereal, and their Greater far:
A Joy high-privileg'd from Chance, Time, Death!
A Joy, which Death fhall double! Judgment, crown!
Crown'd higher, and still higher, at each Stage,
Thro' bleft Eternity's long Day; yet ftill,
Not more remote from Sorrow, than from Him,
Whofe lavish Hand, whofe Love ftupendous, pours
So much of Deity on guilty Dust:
There, O my LUCIA! may I meet thee There,
Where not Thy Prefence can improve my Blifs.
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