Puslapio vaizdai

(Dread Day!) that interdicts all future Change.
That Subterranean World, that Land of Ruin!
Fit Walk, LORENZO, for proud human Thought!
There let my Thought expatiate, and explore
Balfamic Truths, and healing Sentiments,
Of all moft wanted, and moft welcome, Here.
gay LORENZO'S fake, and for thy own,


My Soul!" The Fruits of Dying Friends furvey;

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Expofe the Vain of Life; weigh Life and Death: "Give Death his Eulogy; Thy Fear fubdued; "And labour that Firft Palm of noble Minds, "A manly Scorn of Terror from the Tomb."

This Harveft reap from thy NARGISSA's Grave, As Poets feign'd from AJAX' ftreaming Blood Arofe, with Grief infcrib'd, a mournful Flow'r: Let Wisdom bloffom from my mortal Wound. And first, of Dying Friends; what Fruit from Thefe? It brings us more than Triple Aid; an Aid To chafe our Thoughtfulness, Fear, Pride, and Guilt.

Our dying Friends come o'er us like a Cloud,
To damp our brainless Ardors; and abate
That Glare of Life, which often blinds the Wife.
Our dying Friends are Pioneers, to fmooth
Our rugged País to Death; to break thofe Bars
Of Terror, and Abhorrence, Nature throws
Crofs our obftructed Way; and, thus, to make
Welcome, as fafe, our Port from ev'ry Storm.


Each Friend by Fate fnatch'd from us, is a Plume
Pluckt from the Wing of human Vanity,

Which makes us stoop from our aereal Heights,
And, dampt with Omen of our own Decease,
On drooping Pinions of Ambition lower'd,
Juft fkim Earth's Surface, ere we break it up,
C'er putrid Pride to scratch a little Duft,
And fave the World a Nuifance. Smitten Friends
Are Angels fent on Errands full of Love;
For us they languish, and for us they die:
And shall they languish, fhall they die in vain?
Ungrateful, fhall we grieve their hov'ring Shades,
Which wait the Revolution in our Hearts?
Shall we difdain their filent, foft Address;
Their pofthumous Advice, and pious Prayer?
Senfelefs, as Herds that graze their hallow'd Graves,
Tread under-foot their Agonies and Groans;
Fruftrate their Anguish, and destroy their Deaths?

LORENZO! no; the Thought of Death indulge;
Give it its wholesome Empire; let it reign,
That kind Chaftifer of the Soul to Joy!
Its Reign will spread thy glorious Conquefts far,
And ftill the Tumults of thy ruffled Breast:
Aufpicious Æra! Golden Days, begin!

The Thought of Death fhall, like a God, infpire.
And why not think on Death? Is Life the Theme
Of ev'ry Thought? and Wish of ev'ry Hour?

And Song of ev'ry Joy? Surprifing Truth!


The beaten Spaniel's Fondnefs not fo ftrange.
To wave the num'rous Ills that feize on Life
As their own Property, their lawful Prey;
Ere Man has measur'd half his weary Stage,
His Luxuries have left him no Reserve,
No maiden Relishes, unbroacht Delights;
On cold-ferv'd Repetitions He subsists,
And in the tastelefs Prefent chews the Paft;
Difgufted chews, and fcarce can fwallow down.
Like lavish Ancestors, his earlier Years

Have difinherited his future Hours,

Which starve on Orts, and glean their former Field.

Live ever Here, LORENZO!-Shocking Thought! So fhocking, they who wifh, difown it too; Difown from Shame, what they from Folly crave. Live ever in the Womb, nor fee the Light? For what live ever Here? -With labouring Step To tread our former Footsteps? Pace the Round Eternal? To climb daily Life's worn Wheel, Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat, The beaten Track? To bid each wretched Day The former mock? To furfeit on the Same, And yawn our Joys? or thank a Mifery

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For Change, tho' fad ? To see what we have seen ?
Hear, till unheard, the fame old flabber'd Tale?
To taste the tafted, and at each Return
Lefs tafteful? O'er our Palates to decant
Another Vintage? ftrain a flatter Year,


Thro' loaded Veffels, and a laxer Tone?

Crazy Machines to grind Earth's wafted Fruits!
Ill-ground, and worfe concocted! Load, not Life!
The Rational foul Kennels of Excefs!

Still-ftreaming Thorough-fairs of dull Debauch!
Trembling each Gulp,left Death should snatch the Bowl.

Such of our Fine ones is the With refin'd! So would they have it: Elegant Defire! Why not invite the bellowing Stalls, and Wilds? But fuch Examples might their Riot awe. Through Want of Virtue, that is, Want of Thought, (Tho' on bright Thought they father all their Flights) To what are they reduc'd? To love, and hate, The fame vain World; To cenfure, and efpouse, This painted Shrew of Life, who calls them Fool Each Moment of each Day; To flatter Bad Thro' Dread of Worfe; To cling to this rude Rock, Barren, to them, of Good, and fharp with Iils, And hourly blacken'd with impending Storms, And infamous for Wrecks of human Hope Scar'd at the gloomy Gulph, that yawns beneath. Such are their Triumphs! fuch their Pangs of Joy!

'Tis Time, high Time, to fhift this dismal Scene. This hugg'd, this hideous State, what Art can cure? One only; but that One, what All may reach; VIRTUE-She, wonder-working Goddefs! charms That Rock to bloom; and tames the painted Shrew;


And what will more furprife, LORENZO! gives
To Life's fick, naufeous Iteration, Change;
And ftraiten's Nature's Circle to a Line.
Believ'ft Thou This, LORENZO? Lend an Ear,
A patient Ear, Thou'lt blush to disbelieve.

A languid, leaden Iteration reigns,

And ever muft, o'er Thofe, whofe Joys are Joys
Of Sight, Smell, Tafte: The Cuckow-feasons fing
The fame dull Note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what thofe Seafons, from the teeming Earth,
To doating Sense indulge. But nobler Minds,
Which relish Fruits unripen'd by the Sun,
Make their Days various; various as the Dyes
On the Dove's Neck, which wanton in bis Rays.
On Minds of Dove-like Innocence poffeft,
On light'ned Minds, that bask in Virtue's Beams,
Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves
In That, for which they long; for which they live.
Their glorious Efforts, wing'd with Heav'nly Hope,
Each rifing Morning fees ftill higher rise;
Each bounteous Dawn its Novelty prefents
To Worth maturing, new Strength, Luftre, Fame;
While Nature's Circle, like a Chariot-wheel
Rolling beneath their elevated Aims,
Makes their fair Prospect fairer ev'ry Hour ;
Advancing Virtue, in a Line to Blifs;
Virtue, which Chriftian Motives best inspire!
And Bliss, which Chriftian Schemes alone enfure!


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