Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought,
(Tho' on Bright Thought they father all their flights)
To what are they reduc'd? to love, and hate,
The fame vain world; to cenfure, and efpoufe,
This painted fhrew of life, who calls them fool
Each moment of each day; to flatter bad
'Thro' dread of worse; to cling to this rude rock,
Barren, TO THEM, of good, and sharp with ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending storms,
And infamous for wrecks of human hope-
Scar'd at the gloomy gulph, that yawns beneath.
Such are their triumphs! fuch their pangs of joy!
"Tis time, high ume, to shift this difmal fcene.
This HUGG D, this Hideous ftate, what art can cure?
One only; but that one, what all may reach;
Virtue- -She, wonder working goddefs! charms
That Rock, to bloom; and tames the Painted Shrew;
And what will more furprize, Lorenzo! gives
To life's fick, naufeous Iteration, change;
And ftraitens nature's circle to a line,
Believ'ft thou this, Lorenzo? lend an ear,
A patient ear, thou'lt blufh to difbelieve.
A languid, leaden iteration reigns,

And ever muft, o'er thofe, whose joys are joys
Of fight, fmell, taste: the cuckow-feafons fing
The fame dull note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what those seasons, from the teeming earth,
To doating 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 dove-like innocence poffeft,
On light'ned minds, that bask in virtue's beams,
Nothing hangs tedious, nothing OLD revolves
In THAT, for which they long; for which they live.
Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heav'nly hope,
Each rifing morning fees ftill higher rife:
Each bounteous dawn its novelty prefents
To worth maturing, NEW ftrength, luftre, fame;
While nature's cicle, like a chariot-wheel
Rolling Beneath their elevated aims,

Makes their fair profpe&t fairer ev'ry hour;

Advancing Virtue in a line to BLISS;
Virtue, which Chriftian motives beit infpire!
And BLISS, which Chriftian fchemes alone enfure !
And shall we then, far virtue's fake, commence.
Apoftates? and turn infidels for joy?

A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer trust,
"He fins againft THIS life, who flights the NEXT.
What is this life? how few their fav'rite know ?
Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace,

By paffionately loving life, we make

Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death.

We give to time eternity's regard;

And, dreaming, take our paffage 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 neft of pains; when held as nothing, much;
Like fome fair hum'rifts, life is most enjoy'd,
When courted leaft; moft worth, when difefteem'd;
Then 'tis the feat of comfort, rich in peace;
In profpect, richer far; important! awful!
Net to be mention'd but with fhouts of praise!
Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy!
The mighty bafis of eternal bliss!

Where now the Barren rock? the Painted Shew? 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 foene,
Whofe worth ambuguous rifes, and declines?
Waxes and wanes? (in all propitious, Night
Affifts me here) compare it to the moon;
Dark in herself, and indigent; but rich
In Borrow'd luftre from a higher sphere:
When grofs guilt interpofes, lab'ring earth,
O'erfhadow'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 diftant: O Lorenzo!
A good man, and an angel! these between
How thin the barrier? what divides their fate?
Perhaps a moment; or perhaps a year ;'

Or, if an age, it is a moment ftill;

A moment, or e ernity's forgo:.

Then be, what once they were, who now are gods ;
Be what Philander was, and claim the skies,
S'arts timid nature at the gloomy pafs?
The S: f. Tranfition call it; and be chea:'d :
Such it is often, and why no to thee?
To hope the beft is pious, brave, and wife,
And may itfelt Procure, what it Prefumes.
Life is much flatter'd, death is much traduc'd;
Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown.

Strange Competition!True, Lorenzo! strange! S little LIFE can caft into the fcale.

LIFE makes the foul dependent on the duft ;

DEATH gives her wings to mount above the spheres.
Thro' chinks, fil'd organs, dim LIFE peeps at light;
DEATH buifts th' involving cloud, and all is day;
All eye, all ear, the difemboy'd power.
DEATH has feign'd evils, Nature shall not feel;
LIFE, ills fbftantial, Wisdom cannot fhun.
3s not the mighty MIND, that fon of heaven!
By tyranc LIFE dethron'd, imprison'd, pain'd!
By DEATH enlarg'd, ennobl'd, deify'd?
DEATH but entombs the body; LIFE the foul.

IS DEATH then guiltless? how he marks his way
With dreadful wafte of what deferves to fhine!
Art, genius, fortune, elevated power!

With various luftres THESE light up the world, Which DEATH puts out, and darkens human race,"

I grant, Lorenzo! this indictment juft :

The fage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror !

Death humbles thefe ; more barb'rous LIFE, the MAN. LIFE is the triumph of our mould'ring clay;

DEATH, of the fpirit infinite! divine!

DEATH has no dread, but what frail LIFE imparts ;
Nor LIFE true joy, but what kind DEATH improves.
No biifs has LIFE to boaft, 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 fends celeftial fouls on errands vile,
To cater for the fenfe; and ferve at boards,

Where ev'ry ranger of the wilds, perhaps
Each reptile, justly claims our upper hand..
Luxurious feast! a foul! a foul immortal,
In all the daicties of a brute bemir'd!
Lorenzo blush at Terror for a DEATH,
Which gives thee to repofe in feftive bowers,
Where nectars fparkle, angels minister,

And more than angels fhare, and raife, and crown,
And eternize the birth, bloom, burfts of blifs.
What need I more? O DEATH, the palm is thine.
Then welcome, death; thy dreaded harbingers,
AGE, and Difeafe; difeafe tho' long my guest,
That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life;
Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the bell,
That calls my few friends to my funeral;
Where feeble nature drops, perhaps a tear,
While reafon 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:
Luft and Ambition, Wrath and Avarice,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his power..
That ills corrofive, cares importu nate,
Are not Immortal too, O death! is thine.
Our day of diffolution!-name it right;
'Tis our great pay day; 'tis our harveft, rich
And ripe what tho' the fickle, fometimes keen,
Juft fears us, as we reap the golden grain?
More than thy ba'm, O'Gilead! heals the wound..
Birth's feeble cry, and death's deep difmal groan,.
Are flender tributes low-taxt nature pays
For mighty gain: the gain of each, a life?
But O! the laft the former fo tranfcends,

LIFE dies, compar'd; LIFE lives beyond the grave.
And feel I, DEATH no joy from thought of thee?:
Death, the great counfellor, who man infpires
With ev'ry nobler thought, and fairer deed!

Death, the deliverer, who refcues man!
Death, the rewarder, who the refcu'd crowns!

Death, that abfolves my birth; a curfe 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, ftill fubsst ur hurt;
One, in my foul; and one, in her great fire;
Tho' the four winds were war ing for my duft.
Yes, and from winds and waves, and central night,
Tho' prifen'd there, my duft 100 I reclaim,

(To duft when dropt proud nature's proudeft spheres,)
And live ENTIRE. Death is the crown of life:
Were death deny'd, poor man would live in vain;
Were death deny'd, to live would not be life;
Were death deny'd, ev'n fools would wish to die.
Death wounds to cure; we fall; we rife; we reign !.
Spring from our fetters; faften in the skies ;
Where blooming EDEN withers in our fight:
Death gives us more than was in EDEN loft.
This king of terrors is the prince of peace.
When fhall I die to vanity, pain, death?
When fhall I die?--when fhall I live for ever?

NIGHT the FOURTH.

THE

CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH.

Containing our only Cure for the FEAR of DEATH, and proper Sentiments of Heart on that ineftimable Bleffing.

To the Honourable Mr. YORK E.

A Much-indebted mufe,

Amid the fmiles of fortune, and of youth.

I hine ear is patient of a serious fong.

How deep implanted in the breast of man
The dread of death? I fing its fov'reign cure.

Why start at death? where is he? death arriv'd,
Is paft; not come, or gone, he's never HERE,
Ere HOPE Senfation fails; black-boding man