_July_ 7, 1744.

NIGHT SEVENTH.

THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED.

PART II.

CONTENTS.

In the Sixth Night arguments were drawn, from Nature, in proof of Immortality: here, others are drawn from Man: from his Discontent, ver.

29; from his Pa.s.sions and Powers, 63; from the gradual growth of Reason, 81; from his fear of Death, 86; from the nature of Hope, 104; and of Virtue, 159, &c.; from Knowledge and Love, as being the most essential properties of the soul, 253; from the order of Creation, 290, &c.; from the nature of Ambition, 337, &c.; Avarice, 460; Pleasure, 477. A digression on the grandeur of the Pa.s.sions, 521. Immortality alone renders our present state intelligible, 545. An objection from the Stoics' disbelief of immortality answered, 585. Endless questions unresolvable, but on the supposition of our immortality, 606. The natural, most melancholy, and pathetic complaint of a worthy man, under the persuasion of no Futurity, 653, &c. The gross absurdities and horrors of annihilation urged home on Lorenzo, 843, &c. The soul's vast importance, 992, &c.; from whence it arises, 1080. The Difficulty of being an Infidel, 1133; the Infamy, 1148; the Cause, 1188; and the Character, 1203, of an Infidel state. What true free-thinking is, 1218.

The necessary punishment of the false, 1273. Man's ruin is from himself, 1303. An Infidel accuses himself with guilt and hypocrisy, and that of the worst sort, 1319. His obligation to Christians, 1337. What danger he incurs by Virtue, 1345. Vice recommended to him, 1364. His high pretences to Virtue and Benevolence exploded, 1373. The Conclusion, on the nature of Faith, 1406; Reason, 1440; and Hope, 1445; with an apology for this attempt, 1472.

Heaven gives the needful, but neglected, call.

What day, what hour, but knocks at human hearts, To wake the soul to sense of future scenes? 3 Deaths stand, like Mercuries, in every way, And kindly point us to our journey's end.

Pope, who could'st make immortals! art thou dead?

I give thee joy: nor will I take my leave; So soon to follow. Man but dives in death; Dives from the sun, in fairer day to rise; The grave, his subterranean road to bliss. 10 Yes, infinite indulgence plann'd it so; Through various parts our glorious story runs; Time gives the preface, endless age unrolls The volume (ne'er unroll'd!) of human fate.

This, earth and skies already[32] have proclaim'd.

The world's a prophecy of worlds to come; And who, what G.o.d foretells (who speaks in things, Still louder than in words) shall dare deny?

If Nature's arguments appear too weak, Turn a new leaf, and stronger read in Man. 20 If man sleeps on, untaught by what he sees, Can he prove infidel to what he feels?

He, whose blind thought futurity denies, Unconscious bears, Bellerophon![33] like thee, His own indictment; he condemns himself; Who reads his bosom, reads immortal life; Or, Nature, there, imposing on her sons, Has written fables; man was made a lie.

Why Discontent for ever harbour'd there?

Incurable consumption of our peace! 30 Resolve me, why, the cottager, and king, He, whom sea-sever'd realms obey, and he Who steals his whole dominion from the waste, Repelling winter blasts with mud and straw 34 Disquieted alike, draw sigh for sigh, In fate so distant, in complaint so near?

Is it, that things terrestrial can't content?

Deep in rich pasture will thy flocks complain?

Not so; but to their master is denied To share their sweet serene. Man, ill at ease, In this, not his own place, this foreign field, Where Nature fodders him with other food, 42 Than was ordain'd his cravings to suffice, Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast, Sighs on for something more, when most enjoy'd.

Is Heaven, then, kinder to thy flocks than thee?

Not so; thy pasture richer, but remote; In part, remote; for that remoter part Man bleats from instinct, though perhaps, debauch'd By sense, his reason sleeps, nor dreams the cause. 50 The cause how obvious, when his reason wakes!

His grief is but his grandeur in disguise; And discontent is immortality.

Shall sons of ether, shall the blood of heaven, Set up their hopes on earth, and stable here, With brutal acquiescence in the mire?

Lorenzo, no! they shall be n.o.bly pain'd; The glorious foreigners, distress'd, shall sigh On thrones; and thou congratulate the sigh: Man's misery declares him born for bliss; 60 His anxious heart a.s.serts the truth I sing, And gives the sceptic in his head the lie.

Our heads, our hearts, our pa.s.sions, and our powers, Speak the same language; call us to the skies: Unripen'd these in this inclement clime, Scarce rise above conjecture, and mistake; And for this land of trifles those too strong Tumultuous rise, and tempest human life: 68 What prize on earth can pay us for the storm?

Meet objects for our pa.s.sions Heaven ordain'd, Objects that challenge all their fire, and leave No fault, but in defect: bless'd Heaven! avert A bounded ardour for unbounded bliss!

O for a bliss unbounded! Far beneath A soul immortal, is a mortal joy.

Nor are our powers to perish immature; But, after feeble effort here, beneath A brighter sun, and in a n.o.bler soil, Transplanted from this sublunary bed, Shall flourish fair, and put forth all their bloom. 80 Reason progressive, Instinct is complete; Swift Instinct leaps; slow Reason feebly climbs.

Brutes soon their zenith reach; their little all Flows in at once; in ages they no more Could know, or do, or covet, or enjoy.

Were man to live coeval with the sun, The patriarch-pupil would be learning still; Yet, dying, leave his lesson half unlearn'd.

Men perish in advance, as if the sun Should set ere noon, in eastern oceans drown'd; 90 If fit, with dim, ill.u.s.trious to compare, The sun's meridian with the soul of man.

To man, why, stepdame Nature! so severe?

Why thrown aside thy masterpiece half wrought, While meaner efforts thy last hand enjoy?

Or, if abortively, poor man must die, Nor reach, what reach he might, why die in dread?

Why cursed with foresight? wise to misery?

Why of his proud prerogative the prey?

Why less pre-eminent in rank than pain? 100 His immortality alone can tell; Full ample fund to balance all amiss, 102 And turn the scale in favour of the just!

His immortality alone can solve The darkest of enigmas, human hope; Of all the darkest, if at death we die.

Hope, eager Hope, th' a.s.sa.s.sin of our joy, All present blessings treading under foot, Is scarce a milder tyrant than Despair.

With no past toils content, still planting new, 110 Hope turns us o'er to death alone for ease.

Possession, why more tasteless than pursuit?

Why is a wish far dearer than a crown?

That wish accomplish'd, why the grave of bliss?

Because, in the great future buried deep, Beyond our plans of empire and renown, Lies all that man with ardour should pursue; And He who made him, bent him to the right.

Man's heart th' Almighty to the future sets, By secret and inviolable springs; 120 And makes his hope his sublunary joy.

Man's heart eats all things, and is hungry still; "More, more!" the glutton cries: for something new So rages appet.i.te, if man can't mount, He will descend. He starves on the possess'd.

Hence, the world's master, from ambition's spire, In Caprea plunged; and dived 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. 130 Old Rome consulted birds; Lorenzo! thou With more success, the flight of Hope survey; Of restless Hope, for ever on the wing.

High perch'd o'er every thought that falcon sits, To fly at all that rises in her sight; And never stooping, but to mount again 136 Next moment, she betrays her aim's mistake, And owns her quarry lodged beyond the grave.

There should it fail us (it must fail us there, If being fails), more mournful riddles rise, And Virtue vies with Hope in mystery.

Why Virtue? where its praise, its being, fled?

Virtue is true self-interest pursued: 143 What true self-interest of quite-mortal man?

To close with all that makes him happy here.

If vice (as sometimes) is our friend on earth, Then vice is virtue; 'tis our sovereign good.

In self-applause is virtue's golden prize; No self-applause attends it on thy scheme: Whence self-applause? From conscience of the right.

And what is right, but means of happiness? 151 No means of happiness when virtue yields; That basis failing, falls the building too, And lays in ruin every virtuous joy.

The rigid guardian of a blameless heart, So long revered, so long reputed wise, Is weak; with rank knight-errantries o'errun.

Why beats thy bosom with ill.u.s.trious dreams Of self-exposure, laudable, and great?

Of gallant enterprise, and glorious death? 160 Die for thy country!--Thou romantic fool!

Seize, seize the plank thyself, and let her sink: Thy country! what to thee?--the G.o.dhead, what?

(I speak with awe!) though He should bid thee bleed?

If, with thy blood, thy final hope is spilt, Nor can Omnipotence reward the blow, Be deaf; preserve thy being; disobey.

Nor is it disobedience: know, Lorenzo!

Whate'er th' Almighty's subsequent command, His first command is this:--"Man, love thyself." 170 In this alone, free agents are not free.

Existence is the basis, bliss the prize; If virtue costs existence, 'tis a crime; Bold violation of our law supreme, Black suicide; though nations, which consult Their gain, at thy expence, resound applause.

Since Virtue's recompence is doubtful, here, If man dies wholly, well may we demand, Why is man suffer'd to be good in vain?

Why to be good in vain, is man enjoin'd? 180 Why to be good in vain, is man betray'd?

Betray'd by traitors lodged in his own breast, By sweet complacencies from virtue felt?

Why whispers Nature lies on Virtue's part?

Or if blind Instinct (which a.s.sumes the name Of sacred conscience) plays the fool in man, Why Reason made accomplice in the cheat?

Why are the wisest loudest in her praise?

Can man by Reason's beam be led astray?

Or, at his peril, imitate his G.o.d? 190 Since virtue sometimes ruins us on earth, Or both are true, or man survives the grave.

Or man survives the grave, or own, Lorenzo, Thy boast supreme, a wild absurdity.

Dauntless thy spirit; 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 loses all, when life is lost, He lives a coward, or a fool expires. 200 A daring infidel (and such there are, From pride, example, lucre, rage, revenge, Or pure heroical defect of thought), 203 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, whose noontide beam, Enabling us to think in higher style, Mends our ideas of ethereal powers; Dream we, that l.u.s.tre of the moral world 210 Goes out in stench, and rottenness the close?

Why was he wise to know, and warm to praise, And strenuous to transcribe, in human life, The Mind Almighty? Could it be, that Fate, Just when the lineaments began to shine, And dawn the Deity, should s.n.a.t.c.h the draught, With night eternal blot it out, and give The skies alarm, lest angels too might die?

If human souls, why not angelic too Extinguish'd? and a solitary G.o.d, 220 O'er ghastly ruin, frowning from his throne?

Shall we this moment gaze on G.o.d in man?

The next, lose man for ever in the dust?

From dust we disengage, or man mistakes; And there, where least his judgment fears a flaw.

Wisdom and worth, how boldly he commends!

Wisdom and worth, are sacred names; revered, Where not embraced; applauded; deified; Why not compa.s.sion'd too? If spirits die, Both are calamities, inflicted both, 230 To make us but more wretched: Wisdom's eye Acute, for what? to spy more miseries; And worth, so recompensed, new-points their stings.

Or man surmounts the grave, or gain is loss, And worth exalted humbles us the more.

Thou wilt not patronise a scheme that makes 236 Weakness and vice the refuge of mankind.