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The wish, and aim, and labour 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 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?
Admit a GOD-that mystery supreme!

That cause uncaused! all other wonders cease;
Nothing is marvellous for Him to do:
Deny Him-all is mystery besides;
Millions of mysteries! each darker far,
Than 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,
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;

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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,
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 defined:
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 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 :
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 vigour to the mind!
A joy attemper'd! a chastised delight!
Like the fair summer evening, mild, and sweet!
'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, 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, 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?
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 ashamed of heaven,
Fired 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.

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