Through fury to possess it: some succeed,
But stumble, and let fall the taken prize;
From some, by sudden blasts, tis whirl'd away,
And lodg'd in bosoms that ne'er dream'd of gain;
To some it sticks so close, that, when torn off,
Torn is the man, and mortal is the wound.
Some, o'er-enamour'd of their bags, run mad,
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
Together some (unhappy rivals!) seize,
And rend abundance into poverty;
Loud croaks the raven of the law, and smiles :
Smiles too the goddess; but smiles most at those,
(Just victims of exorbitant desire !)
Who perish at their own request, and whelm'd
Beneath her load of lavish grants, expire.
Fortune is famous for her numbers slain.
The number small, which happiness can bear,
Though various for a while their fates; at last
One curse involves them all: At death's approach,
All read their riches backward into loss,
And mourn in just proportion to their store.

And death's approach (if orthodox my song)
Is hasten'd by the lure of fortune's smiles.
And art thou still a glutton of bright gold?
And art thou still rapacious of thy ruin?
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow;
A blow, which, while it executes, alarms;
And startles thousands with a single fall.
As when some stately growth of oak, or pine,
Which nods aloft, and proudly spreads her shade,
The sun's defiance, and the flock's defence;
By the strong strokes of laboring hinds subdu'd,
Loud groans her last, and, rushing from her height,
In cumbrous ruin, thunders to the ground:
The conscious forest trembles at the shock,
And hill, and stream, and distant dale, resound.
These high-aim'd darts of death, and these alon
Should I collect, my quiver would be full.
A quiver, which, suspended in mid air,
Or near Heaven's archer, in the zodiac hung,
(So could it be) should draw the public eye,
The gaze and contemplation of mankind!

- A constellation awful, yet benign,

To guide the gay through life's tempestuous wave,
Nor suffer them to strike the common rock;
"From greater danger to grow more secure,
"And, wrapt in happiness, forget their fate."

Lysander, happy past the common lot,
Was warn'd of danger, but too gay to fear,
He woo'd the fair Aspasia: She was kind;
In youth, form, fortune, fame, they both were blest :
All who knew, envy'd; yet in envy lov'd:
Can fancy form more finish'd happiness?
Fix'd was the nuptial hour. Her stately dome
Rose on the sounding beach. The glittering spires
Float in the wave, and break against the shore:
So break those glittering shadows, human joys.
The faithless morning smil'd: he takes his leave,
To re-embrace in extasies, at eve;

The rising storm forbids. The news arrives:
Untold, she saw it in her servant's eye.
She felt it seen; (her heart was apt to feel)
And, drown'd, without the furious ocean's aid,
In suffocating sorrows, shares his tomb.
Now, round the sumptuous, bridal monument,
The guilty billows innocently roar;
And the rough sailor passing, drops a tear.
A tear? can tears suffice? - But not for me.
How vain our efforts! and our arts, how vain!
The distant train of thought I took, to shun,
Has thrown me on my fate. These dy'd together;
Happy in ruin! undivorc'd by death!
Or ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.-
Narcissa! pity bleeds at thought of thee.
Yet thou wast only near me; not myself.
Survive myself? - That cures all other woe.
Narcissa lives; Philander is forgot.
O the soft commerce! O the tender ties,
Close-twisted with the fibres of the heart!
Which, broken, break them; and drain off the soul.
Of human joy; and make it pain to live-
And is it then to live? When such friends part,
Tis the survivor dies-My heart! no more.

END OF NIGHT THE FIFTH

FEW ages have been deeper in dispute about religion, than this. The dispute about religion and the practice of it, seldom go together. The shorter, therefore, the dispute, the better. I think it may be reduced to this single question, Is man immortal ? or, Is he not? If he is not, all our disputes are mere amusements, or trials of skill. In this case, truth, reason, religion, which give our discourses such pomp and solemnity, are (as will be shewn) mere empty sounds, without any meaning in them. But if man is immortal, it will behove him to be very serious about eternal consequences; or, in other words, to be truly religious. And this great fundamental truth, unestablished, or unawakened in the minds of men, is, I conceive, the real source and support of all our infidelity; how remote soever the particular objections advanced may seem to be from it.

Sensible appearances affect most men much more than abstract reasonings; and we daily see bodies drop around us, but the soul is invisible. The power which inclination has over the judgment, is greater than can be well conceived by those that have not had an experience of it; and of what numbers is it the sad interest, that souls should not survive! The heathen world confessed, that they rather hoped, than firmly believed, immortality! and how many heathens have we still amongst us! the sacred page assures us, that life and immortality are brought to light by the gospel: But by how many is the gospel rejected, or overlooked! From these considerations, and from my being accidentally, privy to the sentiments of some particular persons, I have been long persuaded, that most, if not all, our infidels (whatever name they take, and whatever scheme, for argument's sake, and to keep themselves in countenance, they patronize) are supported in their deplorable error, by some doubt of their immortality, at the bottom. And I am satisfied, that men once thoroughly convinced of their immortality, are not far from being christians. For it is hard to conceive, that a man, fully conscious eternal pain or happiness will certainly be his lot, should not earnestly and impartially, enquire after the surest means of escaping the one, and securing the other. And of such an earnest and impartial inquiry, I well know the conse

quence.

Here, therefore, in proof of this most fundamental truth, some plain arguments are offered; arguments derived from principles which infidels admit in common with believers; arguments which appear to me altogether irresistible; and such as, I am satisfied, will have great weight with all, who give themselves the small trouble of looking seriously into their own bosoms, and of observing, with any tolerable degree of attention, what daily passes round about them in the world. If some arguments shall, here, occur, which others have declined, they are submitted with all deference, to better judgments in this, of all points, the most important. For, as to the being of a God, that is no longer disputed; but it is undisputed for this reason only; viz. Because where the least pretence to reason is admitted, it must forever be indisputable. And of consequence no man can be betrayed into a dispute of that nature by vanity, which has a principal share in animating our modern combatants against other articles of our belief.

THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT VI.

THE

INFIDEL RECLAIMED.

IN TWO PARTS.

Containing,.

The Nature, Proof, and Importance of

Immortality.

PART I.

Where, amongst other things, Glory and Riches are

particularly considered.

Inscribed to

THE RIGHT HON. HENRY PELHAM.

S

HE* (for

I know not yet her name in Heaven)

Not early, like Narcissa, left the scene; Nor sudden, like Philander. What avail? This seeming mitigation but inflames; This fancy'd medicine heightens the disease. The longer known, the closer still she grew: And gradual parting is a gradual death. Tis the grim tyrant's engine, which extorts By tardy pressure's still-increasing weight, From hardest hearts, confession of distress. O the long, dark approach, through years of pain, Death's gallery! (might I dare to call it so) With dismal doubt, and sable terror, hung;

Sick hope's pale lamp, its only glimmering ray :
There fate my melancholy walk ordain'd,
Forbid self-love itself to flatter there.
How oft I gaz'd, prophetically sad!

How oft I saw her dead, while yet in smiles!
In smiles she sunk her grief to lessen mine.
She spoke me comfort, and increas'd my pain.
Like powerful armies trenching at a town,
By slow, and silent, but resistless sap,
In his pale progress gently gaining ground,
Death urg'd his deadly siege; in spite of art,
Of all the balmy blessings nature lends
To succor frail humanity. Ye stars!
(Not now first made familiar to my sight)
And thou, O moon! bear witness; many a night
He tore the pillow from beneath my head,
Ty'd down my sore attention to the shock,
By ceaseless depredations on a life

Dearer than that he left me. Dreadful post
Of observation! darker every hour!

Less dread the day that drove me to the brink,
And pointed out eternity below;
When my soul shudder'd at futurity,

When, on a moment's point, the important die
Of life and death spun doubtful, ere it fell,
And turn'd up life; my title to more woe.

But why more woe? More comfort let it be.
Nothing is dead, but that which wish'd to die;
Nothing is dead, but wretchedness and pain;
Nothing is dead, but what incumber'd, gall'd,
Block'd up the pass, and barr'd from real life.
Where dwells that wish most ardent of the wise?
Too dark the sun to see it; highest stars,
Too low to reach it; death, great death alone,
O'er stars and sun, triumphant lands us there.
Nor dreadful our transition; though the mind,
An artist at creating self-alarms,

Rich in expedients for inquietude,

Is prone to paint it dreadful. Who can take Death's portrait true? The tyrant never sat. Our sketch all random, strokes, conjecture all; Close shuts the grave, nor tells one single tale.