Detects Temptation in a thousand Lyes.
Truth bids me look on Men, as Autumn Leaves,
And all they bleed for, as the Summer's Duft,
Driv'n by the Whirlwind; lighted by her Beams,
I widen my Horizon, gain new Powers,
See Things invifible, feel Things remote,
Am prefent with Futurities; think nought
To Man fo foreign, as the Joys poffeft;
Nought fo much his, as those beyond the Grave.
No Folly keeps its Colour in her Sight
Pale worldly Wisdom lofes all her Charms;
In pompous Promise from her Schemes profound,
If future Fate fhe plans, 'tis all in Leaves,
Like Sibyl, unfubftantial, fleeting Bliss!
At the firft Blaft it vanishes in Air.
No fo, Celestial: Wouldst thou know, LORENZO!
How differ worldly Wisdom, and Divine ?
Juft as the waning, and the waxing Moon.
More empty worldly Wisdom ev'ry Day;
And ev'ry Day more fair her Rival fhines.
When Later, there's lefs Time to play the Fool.
Soon our whole Term for Wisdom is expir'd
(Thou know'ft the calls no Council in the Grave):
And everlasting Fool is writ in Fire,
Or real Wisdom wafts us to the Skies.
"As worldly Schemes resemble Sibyl's Leaves, The good Man's Days to Sibyl's Books compare,
(In antient Story read, thou know'ft the Tale)
In Price still rising, as in Number lefs,
Inestimable quite his Final Hour.
For That who Thrones can offer, offer Thrones;
Infolvent Worlds the Purchafe cannot pay.
"Oh let me die his Death !" all Nature cries.
"Then live his Life"-All Nature falters there.
great Phyfician daily to confult,
To commune with the Grave, our only Cure.
What Grave prescribes the best?-A Friend's; and yet,
From a Friend's Grave, how foon we difengage?
Ev'n to the deareft, as his Marble, cold.
Why are Friends ravisht from us? 'Tis to bind,
By foft Affection's Tyes, on human Hearts,
The Thought of Death, which Reafon, too fupine,
Or mifemployed, fo rarely faftens There.
Nor Reason, nor Affection, no, nor both
Combin'd, can break the Witchcrafts of the World.
Behold th' inexorable Hour at hand!
Behold th' inexorable Hour forgot!
And to forget it, the chief Aim of Life,
Tho' well to ponder it, is Life's chief End.
Is Death, that ever threat'ning, ne'er remote,
That all-important, and that only fure,
(Come when he will) an unexpected Guest ?
Nay, tho' invited by the loudeft Calls
Of blind Imprudence, unexpected ftill ?
Tho' num'rous Meffengers are fent before
To warn his great Arrival. What the Caufe,
The wond'rous Caufe, of this Mysterious Ill?
All Heav'n looks down astonish'd at the Sight.
Is it that Life has fown her Joys fo thick, We can't thrust in a fingle Care between ? Is it, that Life has fuch a Swarm of Cares, The Thought of Death can't enter for the Throng? Is it, that Time steals on with downy Feet, Nor wakes Indulgence from her golden Dream? To-day is fo like Yesterday, it cheats;
We take the lying Sifter for the fame.
Life glides away, LORENZO! like a Brook;
For ever changing, unperceiv'd the Change.
In the fame Brook none ever bath'd him twice:
To the fame Life none ever twice awoke.
We call the Brook the fame; the fame we think
Our Life, tho' ftill more rapid in its Flow;
Nor mark the Much irrevocably laps'd,
And mingled with the Sea. Or fhall we fay
(Retaining ftill the Brook to bear us on)
That Life is like a Veffel on the Stream?
In Life embark'd, we fmoothly down the Tide
Of Time defcend, but not on Time intent;
Amus'd, unconscious of the gliding Wave;
Till on a fudden we perceive a Shock;
We start, awake, look out; what fee we there?
Our brittle Bark is burst on Charon's Shore.
Is this the Caufe Death flies all human Thought? Or is it, Judgment by the Will ftruck blind, That domineering Mistress of the Soul! Like him fo ftrong by Dalilaḥ the fair? Or is it Fear turns ftartled Reafon back, From looking down a Precipice fo steep? 'Tis dreadful; and the Dread is wifely placed, By Nature confcious of the Make of Man. A dreadful Friend it is, a Terror kind, A flaming Sword to guard the Tree of Life. By that unaw'd, in Life's most smiling Hour, The Good Man would repine; would fuffer Joys, And burn impatient for his promis'd Skies. The Bad on each punctilious Pique of Pride, Or Gloom of Humour, would give Rage the Rein, Bound o'er the Barrier, rush into the Dark,
And mar the Schemes of Providence below,
What Groan was that, LORENZO?-Furies! rife; And drown in your lefs execrable Yell,
Britannia's Shame. There took her gloomy Flight,
On Wing impetuous, a Black fullen Soul,
Blafted from Hell, with horrid Luft of Death..
Thy Friend, the Brave, the Gallant Altamont,
So call'd, fo thought-And then he fled the Field.
Lefs base the Fear of Death, than Fear of Life. ·
O Britain, infamous for Suicide!
An Inland in thy Manners! far disjoin'd
From the whole World of Rationals befide!
In ambient Waves plunge thy polluted Head,
Wash the dire Stain, nor fhock the Continent.
But thou be fhock'd, while I detect the Caufe
Of Self-Alfault, expofe the Monfter's Birth,
And bid Abhorrence hifs it round the World.
Blame not thy Clime, nor chide the diftant Sun;
The Sun is innocent, thy Clime absolv❜d :
Immoral Climes kind Nature never made.
The Cause I fing, in Eden might prevail,
And proves, It is thy Folly, not thy Fate.
The Soul of Man (Let Man in Homage bow,
Who names his Soul), a Native of the Skies!
High-born, and free, her Freedom should maintain,
Unfold, unmortgag'd for Earth's little Bribes.
Th' illuftrious Stranger, in this foreign Land,
Like Strangers, jealous of her Dignity,
Studious of Home, and ardent to return,
Of Earth fufpicious, Earth's inchanted Cup
With cool Reserve light-touching, should indulge,
On Immortality, her godlike Tafte;
There take large Draughts; make her chief Banquet there.
But fome reject this Suftenance divine;
To beggarly vile Appetites defcend;
Afk Alms of Earth, for Guefts that came from Heaven; Sirk into Slaves; and fell, for present Hire,
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