What ne'er can die, oh! grant to live; and crown 1400 The wish, and aim, and labour of the skies; Increase, and enter on the joys of heaven: Thus shall my t.i.tle pa.s.s a sacred seal, Receive an imprimatur from above, While angels shout--An Infidel Reclaimed!

To close, Lorenzo! spite of all my pains, Still seems it strange, that thou should'st live for ever?

Is it less strange, that thou should'st live at all?

This is a miracle; and that no more.

Who gave beginning, can exclude an end. 1410 Deny thou art: then, doubt if thou shalt be.

A miracle with miracles enclosed, Is man; and starts his faith at what is strange?

What less than wonders, from the Wonderful; 1414 What less than miracles, from G.o.d, can flow?

Admit a G.o.d--that mystery supreme!

That Cause uncaused! all other wonders cease; Nothing is marvellous for Him to do: Deny Him--all is mystery besides; Millions of mysteries! each darker far, Than that thy wisdom would, unwisely, shun.

If weak thy faith, why choose the harder side? 1422 We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

So weak our reason, and so great our G.o.d, What most surprises in the sacred page, Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true.

Faith is not reason's labour, but repose.

To faith, and virtue, why so backward, man?

From hence:--the present strongly strikes us all; 1430 The future, faintly: can we, then, be men?

If men, Lorenzo! the reverse is right.

Reason is man's peculiar: Sense, the brute's.

The present is the scanty realm of Sense; The future, Reason's empire unconfined: On that expending all her G.o.dlike power, She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there; There, builds her blessings; there, expects her praise; And nothing asks of Fortune, or of men.

And what is Reason? Be she thus defined; 1440 Reason is upright stature in the soul.

Oh! be a man;--and strive to be a G.o.d.

"For what? (thou say'st)--to damp the joys of life?"

No; to give heart and substance 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, 1448 She bids Ambition quit its taken prize, Spurn the luxuriant branch on which it sits, Though bearing crowns, to spring at distant 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 sweeten toils and dangers into joys; What then, that hope, which nothing can defeat, Our leave unask'd? rich hope of boundless bliss!

Bliss, past Man's power to paint it; Time's, to close!

This hope is earth's most estimable prize: This is man's portion, while no more than man: 1460 Hope, of all pa.s.sions, most befriends us here; Pa.s.sions of prouder name befriend us less.

Joy has her tears; and Transport has her death; Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though strong, Man's heart, at once, inspirits, and serenes; Nor makes him pay his wisdom for his joys; 'Tis all our present state can safely bear, Health to the frame! and vigour to the mind!

A joy attemper'd! a chastised delight!

Like the fair summer evening, mild, and sweet! 1470 'Tis man's full cup; his paradise below!

A blest hereafter, then, or hoped, or gain'd, Is all;--our whole of happiness: full proof, I chose no trivial or inglorious theme.

And know, ye foes to song! (well-meaning men, Though quite forgotten half your Bible's[42] praise!) Important truths, in spite of verse, may please: Grave minds you praise; nor can you praise too much: If there is weight in an eternity, Let the grave listen;--and be graver still. 1480

VIRTUE'S APOLOGY; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED.

IN WHICH ARE CONSIDERED, THE LOVE OF THIS LIFE; THE AMBITION AND PLEASURE, WITH THE WIT AND WISDOM, OF THE WORLD.

NIGHT EIGHTH

VIRTUE'S APOLOGY.

And has all nature, then, espoused my part?

Have I bribed heaven, and earth, to plead against thee?

And is thy soul immortal?--What remains?

All, all, Lorenzo!--Make immortal blest.

Unblest immortals!--What can shock us more?

And yet Lorenzo still affects the world; There stows his treasure; thence his t.i.tle draws, Man of the world (for such would'st thou be call'd), And art thou proud of that inglorious style?

Proud of reproach? for a reproach it was, 10 In ancient days; and Christian,--in an age, When men were men, and not ashamed of heaven, Fired their ambition, as it crown'd their joy.

Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font, Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer A purer spirit, and a n.o.bler name.

Thy fond attachments, fatal, and inflamed, Point out my path, and dictate to my song: To thee, the world how fair! how strongly strikes Ambition! and gay pleasure stronger still! 20 Thy triple bane! the triple bolt that lays 21 Thy virtue dead! Be these my triple theme; Nor shall thy wit, or wisdom, be forgot.

Common the theme; not so the song; if she My song invokes, Urania deigns to smile.

The charm that chains us to the world, her foe, If she dissolves, the man of earth, at once, Starts from his trance, and sighs for other scenes; Scenes, where these sparks of night, these stars shall shine Unnumber'd suns (for all things, as they are, 30 The blest behold); and, in one glory, pour Their blended blaze on man's astonish'd sight; A blaze--the least ill.u.s.trious object there.

Lorenzo! since eternal is at hand, To swallow Time's ambitions; as the vast Leviathan, the bubbles vain, that ride High on the foaming billow; what avail High t.i.tles, high descent, attainments high, If unattain'd our highest? O Lorenzo!

What lofty thoughts, these elements above, 40 What towering hopes, what sallies from the sun, What grand surveys of destiny divine, And pompous presage of unfathom'd fate, Should roll in bosoms, where a spirit burns, Bound for eternity! in bosoms read By Him, who foibles in archangels sees!

On human hearts He bends a jealous eye, And marks, and in heaven's register enrols, The rise, and progress, of each option there; Sacred to doomsday! That the page unfolds, 50 And spreads us to the gaze of G.o.ds and men.

And what an option, O Lorenzo, thine!

This world! and this, unrivall'd by the skies!

A world, where l.u.s.t of pleasure, grandeur, gold, Three demons that divide its realms between them, 55 With strokes alternate buffet to and fro Man's restless heart, their sport, their flying ball; Till, with the giddy circle sick, and tired, It pants for peace, and drops into despair.

Such is the world Lorenzo sets above That glorious promise angels were esteem'd Too mean to bring; a promise, their Adored 62 Descended to communicate, and press, By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man.

Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom woos, And on its th.o.r.n.y pillow seeks repose; A pillow, which, like opiates ill prepared, Intoxicates, but not composes; fills The visionary mind with gay chimeras, All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest; 70 What unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy!

How frail, men, things! how momentary, both!

Fantastic chase of shadows hunting shades!

The gay, the busy, equal though unlike; Equal in wisdom, differently wise!

Through flowery meadows, and through dreary wastes, One bustling, and one dancing, into death.

There's not a day, but, to the man of thought, Betrays some secret, that throws new reproach On life, and makes him sick of seeing more. 80 The scenes of business tell us--"What are men;"

The scenes of pleasure--"What is all beside;"

There, others we despise; and here, ourselves: Amid disgust eternal, dwells delight?

'Tis approbation strikes the string of joy.

What wondrous prize has kindled this career, Stuns with the din, and chokes us with the dust, On life's gay stage, one inch above the grave?

The proud run up and down in quest of eyes; 89 The sensual, in pursuit of something worse; The grave, of gold; the politic, of power; And all, of other b.u.t.terflies, as vain!

As eddies draw things frivolous, and light, How is man's heart by vanity drawn in; On the swift circle of returning toys, Whirl'd, straw-like, round and round, and then engulf'd, Where gay delusion darkens to despair!

"This is a beaten track."--Is this a track Should not be beaten? Never beat enough, Till enough learn'd the truths it would inspire. 100 Shall Truth be silent, because Folly frowns?

Turn the world's history; what find we there, But Fortune's sports, or Nature's cruel claims, Or Woman's artifice, or Man's revenge, And endless inhumanities on man?

Fame's trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell, It brings bad tidings: how it hourly blows Man's misadventures round the listening world!

Man is the tale of narrative old time; Sad tale; which high as Paradise begins; 110 As if, the toil of travel to delude, From stage to stage, in his eternal round, The Days, his daughters, as they spin our hours On Fortune's wheel, where accident unthought Oft, in a moment, snaps life's strongest thread, Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells, With, now and then, a wretched farce between; And fills his chronicle with human woes.

Time's daughters, true as those of men, deceive us; Not one, but puts some cheat on all mankind: 120 While in their father's bosom, not yet ours, They flatter our fond hopes, and promise much Of amiable; but hold him not o'er-wise, 123 Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the year At still-confiding, still-confounded, man, Confiding, though confounded; hoping on, Untaught by trial, unconvinced by proof, And ever looking for the never seen.

Life to the last, like harden'd felons, lies; Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires. 130 Its little joys go out by one and one, And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night; Night darker, than what, now, involves the pole.

O Thou, who dost permit these ills to fall, For gracious ends, and would'st that man should mourn!

O Thou, whose hands this goodly fabric framed, Who know'st it best, and would'st that man should know!

What is this sublunary world? A vapour; A vapour all it holds; itself, a vapour; From the damp bed of chaos, by Thy beam 140 Exhaled, ordain'd to swim its destined hour In ambient air, then melt, and disappear.

Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom; As mortal, though less transient, than her sons; Yet they doat on her, as the world and they Were both eternal, solid; Thou, a dream.

They doat!--on what? Immortal views apart, A region of outsides! a land of shadows!

A fruitful field of flowery promises!

A wilderness of joys! perplex'd with doubts, 150 And sharp with thorns! a troubled ocean, spread With bold adventurers, their all on board!

No second hope, if here their fortune frowns; Frown soon it must. Of various rates they sail, Of ensigns various; all alike in this, All restless, anxious; toss'd with hopes, and fears, In calmest skies; obnoxious all to storm; 157 And stormy the most general blast of life: All bound for happiness; yet few provide The chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies; Or Virtue's helm, to shape the course design'd: All, more or less, capricious fate lament, Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb'd, 163 And farther from their wishes than before: All, more or less, against each other dash.

To mutual hurt, by gusts of pa.s.sion driven, And suffering more from folly, than from fate.

Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous home Of dangers, at eternal war with man!

Death's capital, where most he domineers, 170 With all his chosen terrors frowning round, (Though lately feasted high at Albion's cost,)[43]

Wide-opening, and loud roaring still for more!

Too faithful mirror! how dost thou reflect The melancholy face of human life!

The strong resemblance tempts me farther still: And, haply, Britain may be deeper struck By moral truth, in such a mirror seen, Which Nature holds for ever at her eye.

Self-flatter'd, unexperienced, high in hope, 180 When young, with sanguine cheer, and streamers gay, We cut our cable, launch into the world, And fondly dream each wind and star our friend; All, in some darling enterprise embark'd: But where is he can fathom its extent?

Amid a mult.i.tude of artless hands, Ruin's sure perquisite! her lawful prize!

Some steer aright; but the black blast blows hard, And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof, Full against wind and tide, some win their way; 190 And when strong effort has deserved the port, And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! 'tis lost!

Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate: They strike; and, while they triumph, they expire.

In stress of weather, most; some sink outright; O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close; To-morrow knows not they were ever born.