'Tis Reason's injur'd rights his wrath resents;
'Tis Reason's voice obey'd his glories crown;
To give loft Reason life he pour'd his own:
Believe, and shew the reason of a man;
Believe, and taste the pleasure of a God;
Believe, and look with triumph on the tomb:
Thro' Reason's wounds alone, thy Faith can die;
Which dying, tenfold terror gives to death,
And dips in venom his twice-mortal sting.
Learn hence what honours, what loud peans due
To those who push our antidote afide;
Those boasted friends to Reason, and to man,
Whose fatal love stabs ev'ry joy, and leaves
Death's terror heighten'd, gnawing on his heart.
These pompous fons of Reason idoliz'd,
And vilify'd at once; of Reason dead,
Then deify'd, as monarchs were of old,
What conduct plants proud laurels on their brow?
While love of truth thro' all their camp resounds,
They draw Pride's curtain o'er the noon-tide ray;
Spike up their inch of reason on the point
Of philofophic wit, call'd argument;
And the then, exulting in their taper, cry,
"Behold the sun:" and Indian-like, adore.
Talk they of morals? O thou bleeding Love!
Thou Maker of new morals to mankind!
The grand morality is love of Thee.
As wife as Socrates, if such they were,
(Nor will they bate of that fublime renown),
As wife as Socrates, might justly stand
The definition of a modern fool.
A CHRISTIAN is the highest stile of man.
And is there, who the blessed cross wipes off,
As a foul blot, from his dishonour'd brow?
If angels tremble, 'tis at fuch a fight:
The wretch they quit, desponding of their charge,
More struck with grief or wonder, who can tell?
Ye fold to sense! ye citizens of earth!
(For fuch alone the Christian banner fly)
Know ye how wife your choice, how great your gain?
Behold the picture of earth's happiest man:
"He calls his wish, it comes: he sends it back,
" And says, he call'd another; that arrives,
" Meets the fame welcome; yet he still calls on;
"Till one calls him, who varies not his call,
" But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound,
" Till nature dies, and judgment sets him free;
"A freedom, far less welcome than his chain."
But grant man happy; grant him happy long;
Add to life's highest prize her latest hour;
That hour so late, is nimble in approach.
That, like a post, comes on in full career;
How swift the shuttle flies that weaves thy shroud!
Where is the fable of thy former years?
Thrown down the gulph of time; as far from thee
As they had ne'er been thine; the day in hand,
Like a bird struggling to get loose, is going;
Scarce now possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone;
And each swift moment fled is death advanc'd
By strides as swift: eternity is all;
And whose eternity? who triumphs there?
Bathing for ever in the font of bliss!
For ever basking in the Deity!
Thy-confcience shall reply.
O give it leave to speak; 'twill speak ere long,
Thy leave unask'd: LORENZO! hear it now,
While useful its advice, its accent mild.
By the great edict, the divine decree,
Truth is deposited with man's last hour;
An honeft hour, hour, and faithful to her truft;
Truth, eldest daughter of the Deity;
Truth, of his council, when he made the worlds.;
Nor less when he shall judge the worlds he made;
Tho' filent long, and fleeping ne'er so sound,
Smother'd with errors, and opprest with toys,
That heav'n-commiflion'd hour no fooner calls,
But from her cavern in the foul's abyss,
Like him they fable under Ætna whelm'd,
The goddess bursts in thunder and in flame;
Loudly convinces, and severely pains.
Dark demons I discharge, and hydra-stings;
The keen vibration of bright Truth is hell:
Just definition! though by schools untaught.
Ye deaf to truth! peruse this parson'd page,
And trust, for once, a prophet, and a prieft;
" Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die."
ORENZO! to recriminate is juft.
Fondness for fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain, who writes for praise.
Praise no man e'er deferv'd, who fought no more.
As just thy second charge. I grant the muse Has often blufh'd at her degen'rate fons, Retain'd by sense to plead her filthy cause; To raise the low, to magnify the mean, And fubtilize the gross into refin'd: As if to magic numbers' pow'rful charm 'Twas giv'n, to make a civet of their song Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume. Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute, And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire. The fact notorious, nor obfcure the caufe. We wear the chains of Pleasure and of Pride. These share the man; and these distract him too; Draw diffrent ways, and clash in their commands. Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars; But Pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground. Joys shar'd by brute-creation, Pride refents; Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy, And both at once: a point how hard to gain! But what can't wit, when stung by strong defire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise. Since joys of Sense can't rise to Reason's taste; In fubtle Sophistry's laborious forge, Wit hammers out a reason new, that ftoops To fordid scenes, and meets them with applause. Wit calls the Graces the chaste zone to loofe;
|