Our leave unask'd? rich hope of boundless bliss!
Bliss past man's pow'r to paint it, time's to close!
This hope is earth's most estimable prize;
This is man's portion, while no more than inan :
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 cordial, innocent, tho' 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 chastis'd delight!
Like the fair summer ev'ning, mild, and sweet! 1470 'Tis man's full cup, his paradise below!
A bless'd hereafter, then, or hop'd or gain'd, Is all---óur whole of happiness: full proof
I chose no trivial or inglorious theme.
And know, ye foes to song! (well-meaning men, 1475 Tho' 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.
MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED.
THE LOVE OF THIS LIFE; THE AMBITION AND PLEASURE, WITH THE WIT AND WISDOM OF THE WORLD.
AND has all Nature, then, espous'd my part?
Have I brib'd Heav'n and Earth to plead against thee? And is thy soul immortal?---What remains?
All, all, Lorenzo !---make immortal bless'd.
Unbless'd immortals!---what can shock us more? 5
And yet Lorenzo still affects the world;
There stows his treasure; thence his title draws,
Man of the world! (for such thou wouldst 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 asham'd of Heav'n,
Fir'd their ambi ion, as it crown'd their joy.
Sprinkled with dews from the Castaliant font,
Fain would I rebaptize thee, and confer
A purer spirit, and a nobler name.
Thy fond attachments, fatal and inflam'd,
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 bane! the triple bolt that lays
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
Unnumber'd suns (for all things, as they are,
The bless'd behold) and, in one glory, pour
Their blended blaze on man's astonish'd sight;
A blaze---the least illustrious 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 titles, high descent, attainments high,
If unattain'd our highest? O Lorenzo!
What lofty thoughts, these elements above,
What tow'ring 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 heav'n's register enrolls,
The rise and progress of each option there;
Sacred to Doomsday! that the page unfolds,
And spreads us to the gaze of gods and men.
And what an option, O Lorenzo ! thine?
This world! and this, unrivall'd by the skies!
A world where lust 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 tir'd,
It pants for peace, and drops into despair.
Such is the world Lorenzo sets above
That glorious promise angels were esteem'd
To mean to bring; a promise their Ador'd
Descended to communicate, and press,
By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man.
Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom woos,
And on its thorny pillow seeks repose;
A pillow which, like opiates ill-prepar'd,
Intoxicates, but not composes; fills
The visionary mind with gay chimeras,
All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest:
WI at unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy!
How fail men, things! how momentary both!
Fantastick chase of shadows hunting shades!
The gay, the busy, equal, tho' unlike;
Equal in wisdom, differently wise!
Thro' flow'ry meadows, and thro' 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.
The scenes of bus'ness tell us---" What are men;"
The scenes of pleasure---" What is all besides :"
There others we despise; and here ourselves.
Amid disgust eternal dwe'ls delight?
'Tis approbation strikes the string of joy.
What wond'rous 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;
The sensual in pursuit of something worse;
The grave of gold: the politick of pow'r;
And all of other butterflies 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 in
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.
Volume II.
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