ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.
From the LATIN of ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, Efq;
O all inferior animals 'tis given
T' enjoy the state allotted them by Heaven;
No vain refearches e'er disturb their rest,
No fears of dark futurity molest.
Man, only Man, folicitous to know
The fprings whence Nature's operations flow,
Plods through a dreary waste with toil and pain,
And reasons, hopes, and thinks, and lives in vain;
For fable Death ftill hov'ring o'er his head,
Cuts fhort his progress, with his vital thread.
Wherefore, fince Nature errs not, do we find
These feeds of Science in the human mind,
If no congenial fruits are predefign'd?
For what avails to man this power to roam
Through ages paft, and ages yet to come,
T' explore new worlds o'er all th' ætherial way,
Chain'd to a spot, and living but a day,
Since all must perish in one common grave,
Nor can these long laborious fearches fave?
Were it not wifer far, fupinely laid,
To sport with Phyllis in the noontide shade?
Or at thy jovial festivals appear,
Great Bacchus, who alone the foul can clear
From all that it has felt, and all that it can fear?
Come on then, let us feast; let Chloe fing,
And foft Neæra touch the trembling string;
Enjoy the prefent hour, nor feek to know
What good or ill to-morrow may bestow.
But these delights foon pall upon the taste;
Let's try then if more ferious cannot last :
Wealth let us heap on wealth, or fame pursue,
Let power and glory be our points in view;
In courts, in camps, in fenates let us live,
Our levees crowded like the buzzing hive;
Each weak attempt the fame fad leffon brings:
Alas, what vanity in human things!
What means then fhall we try? where hope to find
A friendly harbour for the restless mind?
Who ftill, you fee, impatient to obtain
Knowledge immenfe, (fo Nature's laws ordain)
Ev'n now, though fetter'd in corporeal clay,
Climbs step by step the profpect to furvey,
And fecks, unweary'd, Truth's eternal ray.
No fleeting joys fhe aíks, which must depend
On the frail fenfes, and with them must end;
But fuch as fuit hier own immortal fame,
Free from all change, eternally the fame.
Take courage then, thefe joys we shall attain:
Almighty Wisdom never acts in vain ;
Nor fhall the foul, on which it has bestow'd'
Such powers, e'er perifh, like an earthly clod;
But purg'd at length from foul corruption's stain,
Freed from her prison, and unbound her chain,
She thall her native strength, and native fkies regain:
To heav'n an old inhabitant return,
And draw nectareous ftreams from truth's perpetual urn. Whilft life remains (if life it can be call'd,
Texit in fleshly bondage thus enthrall'd)
Tir'd with the dull pursuit of worldly things,
The foul fcarce wakes, or opes her gladsome wings,
Yet fill the godlike exile in difgrace'
Retains fore marks of her celestial race;
Elle when from Mem'ry's ftore can the produce
Such various thoughts, or range them fo for use?
Can matter these contain, difpofe, apply?
Can in her cells fuch mighty treasures lie?
Or can her native force produce them to the eye?
Whence is this power, this foundress of all arts,
Serving, adorning life, through all its parts,
Which names impos'd, by letters mark'd those names,
Adjusted properly by legal claims,
From woods, and wilds collected rude mankind,
And cities, laws, and governments defign'd?
What can this be, but some bright ray from heaven,
Some emanation from Omnifcience given?
When now the rapid stream of Eloquence
Bears all before it, paffion, reason, sense,
Can its dread thunder, or its lightning's force,
Derive their effence from a mortal fource?
What think you of the bard's enchanting art,
Which, whether he attempts to warm the heart
With fabled scenes, or charm the ear with rhyme,
Breathes all pathetic, lovely, and fublime?
Whilst things on earth roll round from age to age,
The fame dull farce repeated; on the stage
The poet gives us a creation new,
More pleafing, and more perfect than the true;
The mind, who always to perfection hastes,
Perfection, fuch as here she never tastes,
With gratitude accepts the kind deceit,
And thence forefees a fyftem more compleat.
Of those what think you, who the circling race
Of funs, and their revolving planets trace,
And comets journeying through unbounded space?
Say, can you doubt, but that th' all-fearching foul,
That now can traverse heaven from pole to pole,
From thence defcending vifits but this earth,
And shall once more regain the regions of her birth?
Could fhe thus act, unless fome Power unknown,
From matter quite distinct, and all her own,
Supported, and impell'd her? She approves
Self-conscious, and condemns; fhe hates, and loves,
Mourns, and rejoices, hopes, and is afraid,
Without the body's unrequested aid:
Her own internal strength her reafon guides,
By this the now compares things, now divides;
Truth's scatter'd fragments piece by piece collects,
Rejoins, and thence her edifice erects;
Piles arts on arts, effects to causes ties,
And rears th' afpiring fabric to the skies :
From whence, as on a diftant plain below,
She fees from caufes confequences flow,
And the whole chain diftinctly comprehends,
Which from th' Almighty's throne to earth defcends :
And lastly, turning inwardly her eyes,
Perceives how all her own ideas rife,
Contemplates what fhe is, and whence the came,
And almost comprehends her own amazing frame.
Can mere machines be with fuch powers endued,
Or confcious of thofe powers, fuppofe they could?
For body is but a machine alone
Mov'd by external force, and impulfe not its own.
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