Nor that the sole detection! Blush, Lorenzo,
Blush for hypocrisy, if not for guilt.
The future fear'd -- An infidel -- and fear!
Fear what a dream? a fable? How thy dread
Unwilling evidence, and therefore strong,
Affords my cause au undesign'd support?
How disbelief affirms what it denies!
It, unawares, asserts immortal life.'---
Surprising! Infidelity turns out
A creed, and a confession of our sins:
Apostates, thus, are othodox divines.
Lorenzo, with Lorenzo clash no more :
Nor longer a transparent vizor wear.
Think'st thou, religion only has her mask?
Our infidels are Satan's hypocrites;
Pretend the worst, and, at the bottom, fail.
When visited by thought (thought will intrude)
Like him they serve, they tremble, and believe.
Is there bypocrisy so foul as this?
So fatal to the welfare of the world?
What detestation, what contempt, their due!
And if unpaid, be thank'd for their escape
That Christian candour they strive hard to scorn.
If not for that asylum, they might find
A hell on earth; nor 'scape a worse below.
With insolence, and impotence of thought,
Instead of racking fancy, to refute,
Reform thy manners, and the truth enjoy.---
But shall I dare confess the dire result?
Can thy proud reason brook so black a brand?
From porer manners, to sublimer faith,
Is nature's unavoidable ascent;
An honest Deist, where the Gospel shines,
Matur'd to nobler, in the Christian ends.
When that blest change arrives, e'eu cast aside
This song superfluous; life inmortal strikes
Conviction, in a flood of light divine.
A Christian dwells, like Uriel, in the sun.
Meridian evidence puts doubt to flight;
And ardent hope anticipates the skies.
Of that bright sun, Lorenzo ! seale the sphere;
'Tis easy; it invites thee; it descends
From heav'n to woo, and waft thee whence came
Read and revere the sacred page; a page
Where triumphs immortality; a page
Which not the whole creation could produce ;
Which not the conflagration shall destroy;
In nature's ruins not one letter lost :
'Tis printed in the mind of gods for ever.
In proud disdain of what e'en gods adore,
Best smile ---Poor wretch! thy guardian angel weeps. See Milton's Paradise Lost,
Angels, and men, assent to what I sing,
Wits smile, and thank me for my midnight dream.
How vicious hearts fume frenzy to the brain!
Parts push us on to pride, and pride to shame ;
Pert infidelity is Wit's cockade,
To grace the brazen brow that braves the skies,
By loss of being, dreadfully secure.
Lorenzo! if thy doctrine wins the day,
And drives my dreams, defeated, from the field;
If this is all, if earth a final scene,
Take heed; stand fast; be sure to be a knave;
A knave in grain; ne'er deviate to the right:
Shouldst thou be good-how infinite thy loss!
Quilt only makes annihilation gain!
Blest scheme! which life deprives of comfort, death
Of hope; and which vice only recommends.
If so, where, infidels, your bait thrown out
To catch weak converts? Where your lofty boast
Of zeal for virtue, and of love to man ?
Annihilation, I confess, in these.
What can reclaim you? Dare I hope profound
Philosophers the converts of a song!
Yet know, its title flatters you, not me ;
Yours be the praise to make my title good;
Mine, to bless Heav'n, and triumph in your praise.
But since so pestilentia! your disease,
Though sov'reign is the med'cine I prescribe,
As yet, I'll neither triumph, nor despair :
But hope, ere long, my midnight dream will wake
Your hearts, and teach your wisdom---to be wise.
For why should souls immortal, made for bliss,
E'er wish (and wish in vain!) that souls could die !
What ne'er can die, Oh! grant to live; and crown
The wish, and aim, and labour, of the skies;
Inercase, and enter on the joys of heav'n:
Thus shall my title pass a sacred seal,
Receive an imprimatur from above,
While angels shout---An infidel reclaim'd!
To close, Lorenzo! Spite of all my pains,
Still seems it strange, that thou snouldst live for over!
Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all?
This is a miracle; and that no more.
Who gave beginning, ean exclude an end.
Deny thou art; then, doubt if thou shalt be.
A miracle with mi.acles inclosed,
la man and stares his faith at what is strange
What less than wonders, from be Wonderfal
What loss than wiracle, from God, can flow?
Adant a 3od--that mystery s spreme !
Thai pause 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!
We nothing know, but what is marvellous ;
Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
So weak our reason, and so great our God.
What most surprises in the sacred page,
Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true.
Faith is not reason's lahour, but repose..
To faith, and virtue, why so backward, man?
From hence :--The present strongly strikes us all ;
The future, faintly can we, then, he 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 godlike power,
She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there;
There builds her blessings; there expects her praise ; And nothing asks of fortune, or of men.
Aud what is reason? Be she, thus, defined;
Reason is upright stature in the soul.
Oh! be a man ;--and strive to be a god.
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,
She bids Ambition quit its taken prize,
Spurn the luxuriant branch on which it sits,
Though bearing crowus, to spring at distant game;
And piunge in toils and dangers---for repose.
If hope precarious, and of things, when gained,
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:
Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here;
Passions of prouder name befriend us less.
Joy has her tears, and transport has her death;
Hope, like a cordia!, 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 vigor to the mind!
A joy attempered! a chastised delight i
Like the fair summer evening, mild and sweet! 'Tis man's full cup; his paradise below!
A blest hereafter, then, or hoped, or gain'd, ls all ;---our whole of happiness: full proof, I choose no trivial or inglorious theme.
And know, ye foes to song! (well-meaning men, Though quite forgotten half your Bible's 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.
The poetical parts of it.
THE MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED.
in which are considered, the Love of this Life; the Ambition and Pleasure, with the Wit and Wisdo:n of the World,
ND has all nature, then, espoused my part!
Have I bribed heav'n, and earth, to plead against
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 title draws.
Man of the world! (for such wouldst thou be call'd)
And art thou proud of that inglorious style ?
Proud of reproach? For a reproach it was,
In ancient days; and Christian,---in an age,
When men were men, and not ashamed of heav'n,
Fired their ambition, as it crown'd their joy.
Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian fout,
Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer
A parer spirit, and a nobler 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
Thy triple baue the triple bolt, that lays
Thy virtue dead I be these my triple theme;
Nor shall thy wit, or wisdom, be forgot.
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