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"Tis easy! it invites thee; it descends

Millions of mysteries! each darker far,

From Heaven to woo, and waft thee whence it came: Than that thy wisdom would, unwisely, shun.
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

weeps.

Angels, and men, assent to what I sing;

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,

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.
Blest scheme! which life deprives of comfort, death
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* flatters you, not me;
Yours be the praise to make my title good;
Mine, to bless Heaven, and triumph in your praise.
But since so pestilential your disease,
Though sovereign is the medicine 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 labor of the skies;
Increase, and enter on the joys of Heaven:
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?
This is a miracle; and that no more.
Who gave beginning, can exclude an end.
Deny thou art: then, doubt if thou shalt be.
A miracle with miracles inclos'd,

Is man and starts his faith at what is strange?
What less than wonders, from the wonderful;
What less than miracles, from God, can flow?
Admit a God-that mystery supreme!

That cause uncaus'd! all other wonders cease;
Nothing is marvellous for him to do:
Deny him-all is mystery besides :

The Infidel Reclaimed.

If weak thy faith, why choose the harder side?
We nothing know, but what is marvellous;
Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
So weak our reason, and so great our God,
What most surprises, in the sacred page,
Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true.
Faith is not reason's labor, but repose.

To faith, and virtue, why so backward, man?
From hence :-The present strongly strikes us all,
The future, faintly; can we, then, be men?
If men, Lorenzo! the reverse is right.
Reason is man's peculiar: sense, the brute's.
The present is the scanty realm of sense;
The future, reason's empire unconfin'd:
On that expending all her godlike power,
She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there;
There builds her blessings! there expects her praise,
And nothing asks of fortune, or of men.
And what is reason? Be she, thus, defin'd;
Reason is upright stature in the soul.
Oh! be a man; and strive to be a god.
"For what? (thou say'st) To damp the joys of life?"
No; to give heart and substance to thy joys.
That tyrant, Hope; mark how she domineers;
She bids us quit realities, for dreams;
Safety and peace, for hazard and alarm;
That tyrant o'er the tyrants of the soul,
She bids ambition quit its taken prize,
Spurn the luxuriant branch on which it sits,
Though bearing crowns, to spring at distant game;
And plunge in toils and dangers-for repose.
If hope precarious, and if things, when gain'd,
Of little moment, and as little stay,
Can sweeten toils and dangers into joys;
What then, that hope, which nothing can defeat,
Our leave unask'd? Rich hope of boundless bliss!
Bliss, past man's power to paint it; time's to close!
This hope is Earth's most estimable prize:
This is man's portion, while no more than man :
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, though 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 vigor to the mind!
A joy attemper'd! a chastis'd delight!
Like the fair summer evening, mild and sweet!
"Tis man's full cup; his Paradise below!

A blest hereafter, then, or hop'd, or gain'd,
Is all; our whole of happiness; full proof,
I chose no trivial or inglorious theme.
And know, ye foes to song! (well-meaning men,
Though 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.

NIGHT THE EIGHTH.

VIRTUE'S APOLOGY;

OR,

THE MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED.

IN WHICH ARE CONSIDERED,

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 Heaven and Earth to plead against
thee?

And is thy soul immortal?-What remains?
All, all, Lorenzo!-Make immortal, blest.
Unblest immortals!--What can shock us more?
And yet Lorenzo still affects the world;
There, stows his treasure; thence, his title draws,
Man of the world (for such wouldst thou 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 Heaven-
Fir'd their ambition, as it crown'd their joy.
Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font,
Fain would I re-baptize 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 shine

Unnumber'd suns, (for all things, as they are,
The blest 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 towering 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 Heaven's register enrols
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, unrival'd by the skies!
A world, where lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold,
Three demons that divide its realms between them,

press,

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
Too mean to bring; a promise, their Ador'd
Descended to communicate, and
By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man.
Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom wooes,
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;
What unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy!

How frail, men, things! how momentary, both!
Fantastic chase of shadows hunting shades!
The gay, the busy, equal, though unlike;
Equal in wisdom, differently wise!
Through flowery meadows, and through 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 business tell us-"What are men;"
The scenes of pleasure-"What is all beside;"
There, others we despise; and here, ourselves.
Amid disgust eternal, dwells delight!
'Tis approbation strikes the string of joy.

What wondrous 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 politic, of power;
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,
ingulf'd;

Where gay delusion darkens to despair?

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This is a beaten track."—Is this a track
Should not be beaten? never beat enough,
Till enough learn'd the truths it would inspre
Shall truth be silent, because folly frowns!
Turn the world's history; what find we there,
But fortune's sports, or nature's cruel claims,
Or woman's artifice, or man's revenge,
And endless inhumanities on man?
Fame's trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell,
It brings bad tidings: how it hourly blows
Man's misadventures round the listening world!
Man is the tale of narrative old time;
Sad tale; which high as Paradise begins;
As if, the toil of travel to delude,
From stage to stage, in his eternal round
The days, his daughters, as they spin our hours
On fortune's wheel, where accident unthought,
Oft, in a moment, snaps life's strongest thread,
Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells,
With, now and then, a wretched farce between.
And fills his chronicle with human woes.

Time's daughters, true as those of men, deceive us,
Not one, but puts some cheat on all mankind:
While in their father's bosom, not yet ours,
They flatter our fond hopes; and promise much
Of amiable; but hold him not o'er-wise,
Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the year

At still-confiding, still-confounded, man,
Conding, though confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by trial, unconvinc'd by proof,
And ever looking for the never-seen.
Life to the last, like harden'd felons, lies;
Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires.
Its little joy goes out by one and one,

And leaves poor man, at length, in perfect night;
Night darker than what, now, involves the Pole.

O thou, who dost permit these ills to fall [mourn!
For gracious ends, and wouldst that man should
O thou, whose hands this goodly fabric fram'd,
Who know'st it best, and wouldst that man should
know!

What is this sublunary world? A vapor;
A vapor all it holds; itself, a vapor;
From the damp bed of chaos, by thy beam
Exhal'd, ordain'd to swim its destin'd hour
In ambient air, then melt, and disappear.
Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom;
As mortal, though less transient, than her sons;
Yet they dote on her, as the world and they
Were both eternal, solid; thou, a dream.

They dote! on what? Immortal views apart,
A region of outsides! a land of shadows!
A fruitful field of flowery promises!
A wilderness of joy! perplex'd with doubts,
And sharp with thorns! a troubled ocean, spread
With bold adventurers, their all on board!
No second hope, if here their fortune frowns;
Frown soon it must. of various rates they sail,
Of ensigns various; all alike in this,

All restless, anxious; tost with hopes, and fears,
In calmest skies; obnoxious all to storm;
And stormy the most general blast of life:
All bound for happiness; yet few provide
The chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies;
Or virtue's helm, to shape the course design'd:
All, more or less, capricious fate lament,
Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb'd,
And further from their wishes than before:
All, more or less, against each other dash,
To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven,
And suffering more from folly, than from fate.
Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous home
Of dangers, at eternal war with man!
Death's capital, where most he domineers,
With all his chosen terrors frowning round,
(Though lately feasted high at Albion's cost*)
Wide-opening, and loud-roaring still for more!
Too faithful mirror! how dost thou reflect
The melancholy face of human life!
The strong resemblance tempts me further still:
And, haply, Britain may be deeper struck
By moral truth, in such a mirror seen,

Which Nature holds for ever at her eye.
Self-flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in hope,

And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! 'tis lost!
Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate:
They strike; and while they triumph, they expire.
In stress of weather, most; some sink outright;
O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others a short memorial leave behind,
Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulf'd;
It floats a moment, and is seen no more:
One Cæsar lives; a thousand are forgot.
How few, beneath auspicious planets born,
(Darlings of Providence! fond Fate's elect!)
With swelling sails make good the promis'd port,
With all their wishes freighted; yet e'en these,
Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain;
Free from misfortune, not from nature free,
They still are men; and when is man secure?
As fatal time, as storm! the rush of years
Beats down their strength; their numberless escapes
In ruin end: and, now, their proud success
But plants new terrors on the victor's brow:
What pain to quit the world, just made their own!
Their nest so deeply down'd, and built so high!
Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.
Woe then apart, (if woe apart can be
From mortal man,) and fortune at our nod,
The gay! rich! great! triumphant! and august!
What are they?-The most happy (strange to say!)
Convince me most of human misery;

What are they? Smiling wretches of to-morrow!
More wretched, then, than e'er their slave can be;
Their treacherous blessings, at the day of need,
Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting;
Then, what provoking indigence in wealth!
What aggravated impotence in power!
High titles, then, what insult of their pain!
If that sole anchor, equal to the waves,
Immortal hope! defies not the rude storm,
Takes comfort from the foaming billows' rage,
And makes a welcome harbor of the tomb.

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Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires?
But here," thou say'st, "the miseries of life
Are huddled in a group. A more distinct
Survey, perhaps, might bring thee better news."
Look on life's stages: they speak plainer still;
The plainer they, the deeper wilt thou sigh.
Look on thy lovely boy; in him behold
The best that can befall the best on Earth;
The boy has virtue by his mother's side:
Yes, on Florello look: a father's heart
Is tender, though the man's is made of stone;
The truth, through such a medium seen, may make
Impression deep, and fondness prove thy friend.
Florello, lately cast on this rude coast

A helpless infant; now, a heedless child;
To poor Clarissa's throes, thy care succeeds;
Care full of love, and yet severe as hate!

When young, with sanguine cheer and streamers gay, O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns'

We cut our cable, launch into the world,
And fondly dream each wind and star our friend;
All, in some darling enterprise embark'd:
But where is he can fathom its extent ?
Amid a multitude of artless hands,
Ruin's sure perquisite! her lawful prize!
Some steer aright; but the black blast blows hard,
And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof,
Full against wind and tide, some win their way;
And when strong effort has deserv'd the port,

* Admiral Balchen, &c.

Needful austerities his will restrain;

As thorns fence-in the tender plant from harm.
As yet, his reason cannot go alone;

But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on.
His little heart is often terrified;

The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale;
Its pearly dew-drop trembles in his eye;
His harmless eye! and drowns an angel there.
Ah! what avails his innocence? The task
Enjoin'd must discipline his early powers;
He learns to sigh, ere he is known to sin;
Guiltless, and sad! a wretch before the fall!

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How cruel this! more cruel to forbear.
Our nature such, with necessary pains,
We purchase prospects of precarious peace:
Though not a father, this might steal a sigh.
Suppose him disciplin'd aright (if not,
"Twill sink our poor account to poorer still ;)
Ripe from the tutor, proud of liberty,
He leaps inclosure, bounds into the world!
The world is taken, after ten years' toil,
Like ancient Troy; and all its joys his own.
Alas! the world 's a tutor more severe;
Its lessons hard, and ill deserve his pains;
Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught,
Or books (fair virtue's advocates!) inspir'd.
For who receives him into public life?
Men of the world, the terræ-filial breed,
Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere,
(Which glitter'd long, at distance, in his sight,)
And, in their hospitable arms, inclose :
Men, who think nought so strong of the romance,
So rank knight-errant, as a real friend :
Men, that act up to reason's golden rule,
All weakness of affection quite subdued:
Men, that would blush at being thought sincere,
And feign, for glory, the few faults they want;
That love a lie, where truth would pay as well;
As if, to them, vice shone her own reward.

Lorenzo! canst thou bear a shocking sight?
Such, for Florello's sake, 'twill now appear:
See, the steel'd files of season'd veterans,

His plan had practis'd long before 'twas writ.
The world's all title-page; there's no contents,
The world's all face; the man who shows his heart,
Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn'd.
A man I knew, who liv'd upon a smile,
And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair;
While rankest venom foam'd through every vein
Lorenzo! what I tell thee, take not ill!
Living, he fawn'd on every fool alive;
And, dying, curs'd the friend on whom he liv'd.
To such proficients thou art half a saint.
In foreign realms (for thou hast travel'd far)
How curious to contemplate two state-rooks,
Studious their nests to feather in a trice,
With all the necromantics of their art,
Playing the game of faces on each other,
Making court sweet-meats of their latent gall,
In foolish hope to steal each other's trust;
Both cheating, both exulting, both deceiv'd;
And sometimes both (let Earth rejoice) undone!
Their parts we doubt not; but be that their shame,
Shall men of talents, fit to rule mankind,
Stoop to mean wiles, that would disgrace a fool:
And lose the thanks of those few friends they serve!
For who can thank the man he cannot see?

Why so much cover? It defeats itself.
Ye, that know all things! know ye not, men's hearts
Are therefore known, because they are conceal'd!
For why conceal'd?—The cause they need not tell
I give him joy, that's awkward at a lie;

His incapacity is his renown.

Train'd to the world, in burnish'd falsehood bright; Whose feeble nature truth keeps still in awe;
Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace;
All soft sensation, in the throng, rubb'd off;
All their keen purpose, in politeness sheath'd;
His friends eternal-during interest;
His foes implacable-when worth their while;
At war with every welfare, but their own;
As wise as Lucifer, and half as good;
And by whom none, but Lucifer, can gain-
Naked, through these (so common fate ordains,)
Naked of heart, his cruel course he runs,
Stung out of all, most amiable in life, [feign'd;
Prompt truth, and open thought, and smiles un-
Affection, as his species, wide diffus'd;
Noble presumptions to mankind's renown;
Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love.

These claims to joy (if mortals joy might claim)
Will cost him many a sigh; till time, and pains,
From the slow mistress of this school, experience,
And her assistant, pausing, pale, distrust,
Purchase a dear-bought clew to lead his youth
Through serpentine obliquities of life,
And the dark labyrinth of human hearts.
And happy! if the clew shall come so cheap;
For, while we learn to fence with public guilt,
Full oft we feel its foul contagion too,
If less than heavenly virtue is our guard.
Thus, a strange kind of curst necessity
Brings down the sterling temper of his soul,
By base alloy, to bear the current stamp,
Below call'd wisdom; sinks him into safety,
And brands him into credit with the world;
Where specious titles dignify disgrace,
And Nature's injuries are arts of life;
Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes;
And heavenly talents make infernal hearts;
That unsurmountable extreme of guilt!

Poor Machiavel! who labor'd hard his plan,
Forgot, that genius need not go to school;
Forgot, that man, without a tutor wise,

"Tis great, 'tis manly, to disdain disguise;
It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength.
Thou say'st, "Tis needful:" is it therefore right?
Howe'er, I grant it some small sign of grace,
To strain at an excuse: and wouldst thou then
Escape that cruel need? Thou may'st, with ease;
Think no post needful that demands a knave.
When late our civil helm was shifting hands,
So Poulteney thought: think better, if you can.
But this, how rare! the public path of life
Is dirty-yet, allow that dirt is due,
It makes the noble mind more noble still:
The world's no neuter; it will wound, or save;
Or virtue quench, or indignation fire.
You say, "The world, well known, will make a man."
The world, well known, will give our hearts to
Heaven,

Or make us demons, long before we die.

To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shines
Take either part, sure ills attend the choice;
Sure, though not equal, detriment ensues.
Not virtue's self is deified on Earth;
Virtue has her relapses, conflicts, foes;
Foes, that ne'er fail to make her feel their hate.
Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.
True friends to virtue, last, and least, complain;
But if they sigh, can others hope to smile?
If wisdom has her miseries to mourn,
How can poor folly lead a happy life?
And if both suffer, what has Earth to boast,
Where he most happy, who the least laments!
Where much, much patience, the most envied state
And some forgiveness, needs the best of friends!
For friend, or happy life, who looks not higher,
Of neither shall he find the shadow here.

The world's sworn advocate, without a fee,
Lorenzo smartly, with a smile, replies;
Thus far thy song is right; and all must own

Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.—
And joys peculiar who to vice denies?
If vice it is, with nature to comply:
If pride, and sense, are so predominant,
To check, not overcome them, makes a saint.
Can Nature in a plainer voice proclaim
Pleasure, and glory, the chief good of man?"

Can pride, and sensuality, rejoice?
From purity of thought, all pleasure springs;
And, from an humble spirit, all our peace.
Ambition, pleasure! let us talk of these:
Of these, the Porch, and Academy, talk'd;
Of these, each following age had much to say:
Yet, unexhausted still the needful theme.
Who talks of these, to mankind all at once
He talks; for were the saints from either free?
Are these thy refuge?-No: these rush upon thee;
Thy vitals seize, and, vulture-like, devour:
I'll try if I can pluck thee from thy rock,
Prometheus! from this barren ball of Earth;
If reason can unchain thee, thou art free.

And, first, thy Caucasus, ambition, calls;
Mountain of torments! eminence of woes!
Of courted woes! and courted through mistake!
"Tis not ambition charms thee; 'tis a cheat
Will make thee start, as Hat his Moor.
Dost grasp at greatness? First, know what it is:
Think'st thou thy greatness in distinction lies?
Not in the feather, wave it e'er so high,
By fortune stuck, to mark us from the throng,
Is glory lodg'd: 'tis lodg'd in the reverse;
In that which joins, in that which equals, all,
The monarch and his slave;-" a deathless soul,
Unbounded prospect, and immortal kin,
A Father-God, and brothers in the skies;"
Elder, indeed, in time; but less remote
In excellence, perhaps, than thought by man;
Why greater what can fall, than what can rise?
If still delirious, now, Lorenzo! go;
And with thy full-blown brothers of the world,
Throw scorn around thee; cast it on thy slaves;
Thy slaves and equals: how scorn cast on them
Rebounds on thee! If man is mean, as man,
Art thou a god? If fortune makes him so,
Beware the consequence: a maxim that,
Which draws a monstrous picture of mankind,
Where, in the drapery, the man is lost;
Externals fluttering, and the soul forgot.
Thy greatest glory, when dispos'd to boast,
Boast that aloud, in which thy servants share.
We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy:
Judge we, in their caparisons, of men?

It nought avails thee, where, but what, thou art;
All the distinctions of this little life
Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man.
When, through death's streights, Earth's subtle

serpents creep,

Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown.
As crooked Satan the forbidden tree,
They leave their party-color'd robe behind,
All that now glitters, while they rear aloft
Their brazen crests, and hiss at us below.
Of fortune's fucus strip them, yet alive:
Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still,
Away with all, but moral, in their minds;
And let what then remains impose their name,
Pronounce them weak, or worthy; great, or mean.
How mean that snuff of glory fortune lights,
And death puts out! Dost thou demand a test,
A test, at once, infallible, and short,

Of real greatness? That man greatly lives,
Whate'er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies;
High-flush'd with hope, where heroes shall despair.
If this a true criterion, many courts,
Illustrious, might afford but few grandees.

Th' Almighty, from his throne, on Earth surveys
Nought greater, than an honest, humble heart;
An humble heart, his residence! pronounc'd
His second seat; and rival to the skies.
The private path, the secret acts of men,
If noble, far the noblest of our lives!
How far above Lorenzo's glory sits

Th' illustrious master of a name unknown;
Whose worth unrival'd, and unwitness'd, loves
Life's sacred shades, where gods converse with men;
And peace, beyond the world's conception, smiles!
As thou (now dark,) before we part, shalt see.

But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns.
Lorenzo's sick, but when Lorenzo's seen;
And when he shrugs at public business, lies.
Denied the public eye, the public voice,
As if he liv'd on others' breath, he dies.
Fain would he make the world his pedestal;
Mankind the gazers, the sole figure, he.
Knows he, that mankind praise against their will,
And mix as much detraction as they can?
Knows he, that faithless fame her whisper has,
As well as trumpet? That his vanity

Is so much tickled from not hearing all?
Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise,
Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines,
Taking his country by five hundred ears,
Senates at once admire him, and despise,
With modest laughter lining loud applause.
Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame ?
His fame, which (like the mighty Cæsar,) crown'd
With laurels, in full senate, greatly falls,
By seeming friends, that honor, and destroy.
We rise in glory, as we sink in pride:
Where boasting ends, there dignity begins;
And yet, mistaken beyond all mistake,
The blind Lorenzo's proud-of being proud;
And dreams himself ascending in his fall.

An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain :
All vice wants hellebore; but of all vice,
Pride loudest calls, and for the largest bowl;
Because, unlike all other vice, it flies,

In fact, the point in fancy most pursued.
Who court applause, oblige the world in this;
They gratify man's passion to refuse.
Superior honor, when assum'd, is lost;
E'en good men turn banditti, and rejoice,
Like Kouli-Khan, in plunder of the proud.

Though somewhat disconcerted, steady still
To the world's cause, with half a face of joy,
Lorenzo cries-" Be, then, ambition cast;
Ambition's dearer far stands unimpeach'd,
Gay pleasure! proud ambition is her slave;
For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill;
For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes;
And paves his way, with crowns, to reach her smile:
Who can resist her charms ?"-Or, should? Lo-

renzo!

What mortal shall resist, where angels yield?
Pleasure's the mistress of ethereal powers;
For her contend the rival gods above;
Pleasure's the mistress of the world below;
And well it was for man, that pleasure charms;
How would all stagnate, but for pleasure's ray!
How would the frozen stream of action cease!

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