When fear'd the future, 'tis no longer wish'd;
And when unwish'd, we strive to disbelieve.
Thus infidelity our guilt betrays.'

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 an 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 orthodox 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 hypocrisy 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 purer 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 bless'd change arrives, e'en cast aside
This song superfluous: life immortal strikes
Conviction in a flood of light divine.

A Christian dwells, like Uriel 4, in the sun;
Meridian evidence puts doubt to flight,
And ardent hope anticipates the skies.
Of that bright sun, Lorenzo! scale the sphere:
'Tis easy; it invites thee; it descends

From Heav'n to woo and waft thee whence it 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:
'Tis printed in the mind of gods for ever,
In Nature's ruins not one letter lost.

In proud disdain of what e'en gods adore,
Dost smile?-Poor wretch! thy guardian angel
Angels and men assent to what I sing; [weeps.
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,

4 Milton.

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!
Guilt only makes annihilation gain.

[death Bless'd scheme! which life deprives of comfort, 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 5 flatters you, not me;
Your's be the praise to make my title good;
Mine to bless Heav'n, and triumph in your praise.
But since so pestilential your disease,

Though sovereign 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;
Increase, 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 shouldst live for ever?
Is it less strange that thou shouldst live at all?