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A Christian dwells, like Uriel,* in the Sun;

Meridian evidence puts doubt to flight,

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And ardent hope anticipates the skies,

Of that bright Sun, Lorenzo! scale the sphere :

'Tis easy; it invites thee; it descends

From Heaven, to woo and waft thee whence it came.

Read and revere the sacred page, a page

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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.

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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 :

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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,

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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.

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Bless'd scheme' which life deprives of comfort, death

Of hope, and which vice only recommends.

If so, where, Infidels! your bate thrown out

To catch weak converts? where your lofty boast 1385 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?

*Milton's Paradise Lost

Yet know its title* flatters you, not me;

Yours be the praise to make my title gool;
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,

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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 1400
The wish, and aim, and labour of the skies;
Increase, and enter on the joys of Heaven:
Thus shall my title paso a sacred seal,
Receive an imprimatur from above,
While angels shout-an Infidel Reclaim'd!

To close, Lorenzo! spite of all my pains,

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Still seemc it strange that thou shouldst live for ever?

Is it less strange that thou shouldst live at ail?
This is a miracle, and that no more.

Who gave beginning can exclude an end.

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Deny thou art; then doubt if thou shalt be.

A miracle with miracles enclosed

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?

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Admit a God-that mystery supreme!

That cause uncaused! all other won lers cease:

Nothing is marvellous for him to do:

Deny him-all is mystery besides ;

Millions of mysteries! each darker far

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That that thy wisdom would, unwisely shun.

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,
*The Lafidel Reclaimed.

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What most surprises in the sacred page,
Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true.
Faith is not reason's labour, but repose.

To faith and virtue why so backward, man? From hence; the present strongly strikes us all; 1430 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 unconfined: On that expending all her godlike power,

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She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there:

There builds her blessings! there expects her praise; And nothing asks of Fortune or of men.

Reason is upright stature in the soul.

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And what is Reason? be she thus defined;

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;

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Though bearing crowns, to spring at distant game,
And plunge in toils and dangers-for repose.
If hope precarious, and of 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: 1460
Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here;
Passions of prouder name befriends 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 vigour to the mind!

A joy attemper'd! a chastised delight!

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Like the fair summer evening, mild and sweet! 1470 'Tis man's full cup, his paradise below!

A bless'd hereafter, then, or hoped 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, 1475
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 poetic parts of it.

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NIGHT VIII.

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, espoused my part?
Have I bribed Heaven 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?

G

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,

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In ancient days, and Christian,—in an age

When men were men, and not ashamed of Heaven,—
Fired their ainbition, as it crown'd their joy!

Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font,
Fain would I rebaptize thee, and confer
A purer spirit, and a nobler name.

Thy fond attachments, fatal and inflamed,

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Point out my path, and dictate to my song.

To thee the world how fair! how strongly strikes

Ambitior.! and gay Pleasure stronger still!

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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

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