When fear'd the future, 'tis no longer wish'd; Nor that the sole detection! Blush, Lorenzo! The future fear'd?—An infidel, and fear? A creed and a confession of our sins: Lorenzo! with Lorenzo clash no more, Pretend the worst, and, at the bottom, fail. When visited by thought (thought will intrude) Like him they serve, they tremble, and believe. Is there hypocrisy so foul as this? So fatal to the welfare of the world? What detestation, what contempt, their due! Reform thy manners, and the truth enjoy.— Can thy proud reason brook so black a brand? From purer manners to sublimer faith, An honest Deist, where the Gospel shines, A Christian dwells, like Uriel 4, in the sun; From Heav'n to woo and waft thee whence it came. Which not the whole creation could produce; In proud disdain of what e'en gods adore, 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, 4 Milton. Take heed; stand fast; be sure to be a knave; [death Bless'd scheme! which life deprives of comfort, 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 5 flatters you, not me; Though sovereign is the med'cine I prescribe, But hope, ere long, my midnight dream will wake |