'Tis time, high time, to shift this dismal scene. This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure? One only, but that one what all may reach : Virtue-she, wonder-working goddess! charms That rock to bloom, and tames the painted shrew, And what will more surprise, Lorenzo! gives To life's sick, nauseous iteration, change; And straightens Nature's circle to a line. Believest thou this, Lorenzo ? lend an ear, A patient ear; thou'lt blush to disbelieve. A languid, leaden iteration reigns,
And ever must, o'er those whose joys are joys
Of sight, smell, taste. The cuckoo-seasons sing 375
The same dull note to such as nothing prize
But what those seasons, from the teeming earth,
To doting sense indulge: but nobler minds,
Which relish fruits unripen'd by the Sun,
Make their days various; various as the dyes
On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays.
On minds of dovelike innocence possess'd,
On lighten'd minds that bask in Virtue's beams,
Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves
In that for which they long, for which they live. 385 Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope,
Each rising morning sees still higher rise ;
Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents
To worth maturing, new strength, lustre, fame;
While Nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel
Rolling beneath their elevated aims,
Makes their fair prospect fairer every hour,
Advancing virtue in a line to bliss;
Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire;
And bliss, which Christian schemes alone ensure
And shall we then, for Virtue's sake, commence
Apostate, and turn infidels for joy?
A truth it is few doubt, but fewer trust,
'He sins against this life, who slights the next.
What is this life? how few their favourite know! 400
Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace,
By passionately loving Life, we make
Loved Life unlovely, hugging her to death.
We give to time cternity's regard,
And dreaming, take our passage for our port.
Life has no value as an end, but means;
An end deplorable! a means divine!
When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing: worse than nought;
A nest of pains: when held as nothing, much.
Like some fair humorists, life is most enjoy'd
When courted least; most worth when disesteem'd ;
Then 'tis the seat of comfort rich in peace;
In prospect richer far; important! awful!
Not to be mentioned but with shouts of praise!
Not to be thought on but with tides of joy!
The mighty basis of eternal bliss!
Where now the barren rock? the painted shrew?
Where now, Lorenzo, life's eternal round?
Have I not made my triple promise good?
Vain is the world, but only to the vain.
To what compare we then this varying scene,
Whose worth, ambiguous, rises and declines,
Waxes and wanes? (in all propitious Night
Assists me here) compare it to the moon;
Dark in herself, and indigent, but rich
In borrow'd lustre from a higher sphere.
When gross guilt interposes, labouring Earth,
O'ershadow'd, mourns a deep eclipse of joy ;
Her joys at brightest, pallid to that font
Of full effulgent glory whence they flow.
Nor is that glory distant. Oh, Lorenzo
A good man and an angel! these between
How thin the barrier! what divides their fate?
Perhaps a mcment, or perhaps a year;
Or if an age, it is a moment still;
A moment, or Eternity's forgot.
Then be what once they were who now are gods;
Be what Philander was, and claim the skies.
Starts timid Nature at the gloomy pass?
The soft transition call it, and be cheer'd
Such it is often, and why not to thee?
To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise,
And may itself procure what it presumes.
Life is much flatter'd, Death is much traduced;
Compare the rivals and the kinder crown.
'Strange competition !'-True, Lorenzo! strange!
So little life can cast into the scale.
Life makes the soul dependent on the dust, Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. Through chinks, styled organs, dim life, peeps at light; Death bursts the involving cloud, and all is day All eye, all ear, the disembodied power. Death has feign'd evils Nature shall not feel; Life, ills substantial wisdom cannot shun. Is not the mighty mind, that sun of Heaven! By tyrant Life dethroned, imprison'd, pain'd' By Death enlarged, ennobled, deified?
Death but entonibs the body, Life the soul.
'Is Death then guiltless? How he marks his way
With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine!
Art, Genius, Fortune, elevated power!
With various lustres these light up the world,
Which Death puts out, and darkens human race.'
I grant, Lorenzo! this indictment just :
The sage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror !
Death humbles these; more barbarous Life, the man
Life is the triumph of our mouldering clay;
Death of the spirit infinite! divine !
Death has no dread but what frail Life imparts,
Nor Life true joy but what kind Death improves. 470
No bliss has Life to boast, till Death can give
Far greater. Life's a debtor to the grave;
Dark lattice! letting in eternal day.
Lorenzo blush at fondness for a life
Which sends celestial souls on errands vile,
To cater for the sense, and serve at boards
Where every ranger of the wilds, perhaps
Each reptile, justly claims our upper hand.
Luxurious feast! a soul, a soul immortal,
In all the dainties of a brute bemired'
Lorenzo. blush at terror for a death
Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers,
Where nectars sparkle, angels minister,
And more than angels share, and raise, and crown,
And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.
What need I more ?-O Death! the palm is thine.
Then welcome, Death! thy dreaded harbingers,
Age and disease; Disease, though long my guest,
That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life:
Which pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell
That calls my few friends to my funeral;
Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear,
While Reason and Religion, better taught,
Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb
With wreath triumphant. Death is victory!
It binds in chains the raging ills of life:
Lust and Ambition, Wrath and Avarice,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his power.
That ills corrosive, cares importunate,
Are not immortal too, O Death! is thine.
Our day of dissclution ?--name it right,
"Tis our great pay-day; 'tis our harvest rich
And ripe. What though the sickle, sometimes keen, Just scars us as we reap the golden grain?
More than thy balm, O Gilead! heals the wound. 505
Birth's feeble cry, and Death's deep dismal groan,
Are slender tributes low-tax'd Nature pays
For mighty gain: the gain of each a life!
But, O the last the former so transcends,
Life dies, compared, Life lives beyond the grave.
And feel I, Death! no joy from thought of thee?
Death! the great counsellor, who man inspires
With every nobler thought and fairer deed'
Death the deliverer, who rescues man!
Death the rewarder, who the rescued crowns.
Death! that absolves my birth, a curse without it!
Rich Death! that realizes all my cares,
Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a chimera;
Death! of all pain the period, not of joy ;
Joy's source and subject still subsist unhurt;
One in my soul, and one in her great sire,
Though the four winds were warring for my dust
Yes, and from winds and v. aves, and central night,
Though prison'd there, my dust, too, I reclaim,
(To dust when drop proud Nature's proudest spheres)
And live entire. Death is the crown of life! 526
Were death denied, poor man would live in vain :
Were death denied, to live would not be life:
Wore death denied, e'en fools would wish to die.
Death wounds to cure; we fall, we rise, we reign! 530
Spring from our fetters, fasten in the skies,
Where blooming Eden withers in our sight.
Death gives us more than was in Eden lost :
This king of terrors is the prince of peace.
When shall I die to vanity, pain, death?
When shai! I die?-when shall I live for ever?
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