Were man to live coëval with the fun,
The patriarch-pupil would be learning ftill;
Yet, dying, leave his leffon half unlearnt.
Men perish in advance, as if the fun
Should fet ere noon, in eaftern oceans drown'd;
If fit, with dim, illustrious to compare,
The fun's meridian with the foul of man.
To man, why, ftep-dame nature! fo fevere?
Why thrown afide thy mafter-piece half-wrought,
While meaner efforts thy laft hand enjoy?
Or, if abortively poor man muft die,
Nor reach, what reach he might, why die in dread?
Why curit with forefight? Wife to mifery?
Why of his proud prerogative the prey ?
Why lefs pre-eminent in rank, than pain?
His immortality alone can tell;
Full ample fund to balance all amifs,
And turn the fcale in favour of the juft!
His immortality alone can folve
The darkeft of anigmas, human hope;
Of all the darkeft, if at death we die.
Hope, eager hope, th' affaffin of our joy,
All prefent blefings treading under foot,
Is fcarce a milder tyrant than defpair.
With no paft toils content, ftill planning new,
Hope turns us o'er to death alone for eafe.
Poffeflion, why more taftelefs than purfuit?
Why is a wifh far dearer than a crown ?
That with accomplish'd, why, the grave of blifs?
Becaufe, in the great future bury'd deep,
Beyond our plans of empire, and renown,
Lies all that man with ardour fhould purfue;
And He who made him, bent him to the right.
Man's heart th' Almighty to the future lets,
By fecret and inviclable 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 ftarves on the fofeft.
Hence, the world's mafter, from ambition's fpire,
In Caprea plung'd; and'div'd beneath the brute.
In that rank fty why wallow'd empire's fon
Supreme? Because he could no higher fly;
His riot was ambition in defpair.
Old Rome confulted birds; Lorenzo! thou,
With more fuccefs, the flight of hope furvey;
Of reftlefs hope, for ever on the wing.
High-perch'd o'er every thought that falcon fits,
To fly at all that rifes in her fight;
And, never stooping, but to mount again
Next moment, fhe betrays her aim's mistake,
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-intereft purfued:
What true felf-intereft of quite-mortal man?
To clofe with all that makes him happy here.
If vice (as fometimes) is our friend on earth,
Then vice is virtue; 'tis our fovereign good.
In felf-applause is virtue's golden prize;
No felf-applaufe attends it on thy scheme:
Whence felf-applaufe? From confcience of the right. 150
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 ruin 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 felf-expofure, laudable, and great?
Of gallant enterprize, and glorious death?
Die for thy country?-Thou romantic fool!
Seize, feize the plank thyfelf, and let her sink:
Thy country! what to Thee ?-The Godhead, what?
(I speak with awe !) though He fhould bid thee bleed?
If, with thy blood, thy final hope is fpilt,
Nor can Omnipotence reward the blow,
Be deaf; preferve thy being; difobey.
Nor is it difobedience: know, Lorenzo ! Whate'er th' Almighty's fubfequent command, His first command is this :- Man, love thyfelf." 170 In this alone, free-agents are not free. Existence is the bafis, blifs the prize; If virtue colts exiftence, 'tis a crime; Bold violation of our law fupreme,
Black fuicide; though nations, which confult
Their gain, at thy expence, refound applause.
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 whispers nature lyes on virtue's part?
Or if blind inftin&t (which assumes the name
of facred conscience) plays the fool in man,
Why reafon made accomplice in the cheat?
Why are the wifeft loudeft in her praise?
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 abfurdity.
Dauntless thy fpirit; cowards are thy scorn.
Grant man immortal, and thy scorn is just.
The man immortal, rationally brave,
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 inadmen, most deserves a chain.
When to the grave we follow the renown'd
For valour, virtue, fcience, all we love,
And all we praife; for worth, whofe noon-tide beam,
Enabling us to think in higher style,
Mends our ideas of ethereal powers;
Dream we, that luftre of the moral world
Goes out in ftench, and rottennefs the clofe?
Why was he wife to know, and warm to praise,
And ftrenuous to tranfcribe, 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 fkies alarm, left angels too might die?
If human fouls, why not angelic too
Extinguish'd? and a folitary 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 leaft his judgment fears a flaw, 225
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 fpirits die,
Both are calamities, inflicted both,
To make us but more wretched: Wisdom's eye
Acute, for what? To fpy more miseries ;
And worth, fo recompens'd, new-points their flings.
Or man furmounts the grave, or gain is lofs,
And worth exalted humbles us the more.
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