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 sayest:) 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, Tho' 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 choose 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 Man of the World Answered.
THE LOVE OF THIS LIFE; THE AMBITION AND PLEASURE, WITH THE WIT AND WISDOM OF THE WORLD.
ND 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
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 inrolls, 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, unrivall'd by the skies! A world, where lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold, Three dæmons that divide its realms between them, 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 press, By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man. Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom woos, 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 chace, 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 bus'ness 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 strings of joy.
What wondrous prize has kindled this career, Stuns with the din, and choaks 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 in-
Where gay delusion darkens to despair !
"This is a beaten track." - Is this a track Should not be beaten? Never beat enough, Till enough learnt the truths it would inspire. 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,
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