The loathsome rottenness, and foul decays,
From raging riot (slower suicides!)
And pride in these more execrable still!
How horrid all to thought-but horrors these
That vouch the truth, and aid my feeble song.
From vice, sense, fancy, no man can be bless'd:
Bliss is too great to lodge within an hour:
When an immortal being aims at bliss,
Duration is essential to the name.
O for a joy from reason! joy from that
Which makes man man, and, exercis'd aright,
Will make him more: a bounteous joy! that gives
And promises: that weaves, with art divine,
The richest prospect into present peace :
A joy ambitious! joy in common held
With thrones ethereal, and their greater far :
A joy high-privileg'd from chance, time, death!
A joy which death shall double, judgment crown!
Crown'd higher, and still higher, at each stage,
Thro' bless'd eternity's long day, yet still
Not more remote from sorrow than from him
Whose lavish hand, whose love stupendous, pours
So much of deity on guilty dust.
There, O my Lucia! may I meet thee there,
Where not thy presence can improve my bliss!
Affects not this the sages of the world?
Can nought affect them, but what fools them too?
Eternity depending on an hour,
Makes serious thought man's wisdom, joy, and praise.
Nor need you blush (tho' sometimes your designs
May shun the light) at your designs on heav'n;
Sole point! where overbashful is your blame.
Are you not wise?-you know you are; yet hear
One truth, amid your num❜rous schemes mislaid,
Or overlook'd, or thrown aside, if seen;
"Our schemes to plan by this world or the next,
"Is the sole diff'rence between wise and fool."
All worthy men will weigh you in this scale;
What wonder, then, if they pronounce you light?
Is their esteem, alone not worth your care?
Accept my simple scheme of common sense,
Thus save your fame, and make two worlds your own.
The world replies not; but the world persists,
And puts the cause off to the longest day,
Planning evasions for the day of doom:
So far, at that re-hearing, from redress,
They then turn witnesses against themselves.
Hear that, Lorenzo! nor be wise to-morrow.
Haste, haste! a man, by nature, is in haste;
For who shall answer for another hour?
'Tis highly prudent to make one sure friend,
And that thou canst not do this side the skies.
Ye sons of earth! (nor willing to be more!)
Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat free,
Thus, in an age so gay, the muse plain truths
(Truths which, at church, you might have heard in prose)
Has ventur❜d into light, well-pleas'd the verse
Should be forgot, if you the truths retain,
And crown her with your welfare, not your praise.
But praise she need not fear: I see my fate,
And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulph,
Since many an ample volume, mighty tome,
Must die, and die unwept; O thou minute,
Devoted page! go forth among thy foes;
Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth,
And die a double death: mankind, incens'd,
Denies thee long to live; nor shalt thou rest
When thou art dead, in Stygian shades arraign'd
By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne,
And bold blasphemer of his friend, the world;
The world, whose legions cost him slender pay,
And volunteers around his banner swarm,
Prudent as Prussia in her zeal for Gaul.
"Are all then fools?" Lorenzo cries.-Yes, all But such as hold this doctrine, (new to thee) "The mother of true wisdom is the will," The noblest intellect a fool without it.
World-wisdom much has done, and more may do, In arts and sciences, in wars and peace;
But arts and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee,
And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.
This is the most indulgence can afford,-
"Thy wisdom all can do, but-make thee wise."
Nor think this censure is severe on thee;
Satan thy master, I dare call a dunce.
NIGHT IX. AND LAST.
Containing among other things,
I. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS. II. A NIGHT ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE,
One of His Majesty's principal Secretaries of State.
-Fatis contraria fata rependens.
AS when a traveller, a long day past
In painful search of what he cannot find,
At night's approach, content with the next cot,
There ruminates awhile his labour lost,
Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords,
And chants his sonnet to deceive the time,
Till the due season calls him to repose:
Thus I long travell'd in the ways of men,
And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze,
Where Disappointment smiles at Hope's career,
Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray,
At length have hous'd me in an humble shed,
Where future wandering banished from my thought,
And waiting, patient the sweet hour of rest,
|