As stars from absent suns have leave to shine.
O what a precious pack of votaries
Unkennell❜d from the prisons, and the stews,
Pour in, all opening in their idol's praise;
All, ardent, eye each wafture of her hand,
And, wide-expanding their voracious jaws,
Morsel on morsel swallow down unchew'd,
Untasted, through mad appetite for more;
Gorged to the throat, yet lean and ravenous still.
Sagacious all, to trace the smallest game,
And bold to seize the greatest. If (bless'd chance!)
Court-zephyrs sweetly breathe, they launch, they fly,
O'er just, o'er sacred, all-forbidden ground,
Drunk with the burning scent of place or power,
Staunch to the foot of lucre, till they die.

Or, if for men you take them, as I mark
Their manners, thou their various fates survey.
With aim mismeasured, and impetuous speed,
Some darting, strike their ardent wish far off,
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 lodged in bosoms that ne'er dreamt 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,

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973

980

990

1000

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 labouring hinds subdued,
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 alone,
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,

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1010

1020

1030

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 bless'd:

All who knew, envied; yet in envy loved :
Can fancy form more finish'd happiness?
Fix'd was the nuptial hour.
Rose on the sounding beach.

Her stately dome

The glittering spires

Float in the wave, and break against the shore:
So break those glittering shadows, human joys.
The faithless morning smiled: he takes his leave,
To re-embrace, in ecstasies, 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 died together;
Happy in ruin! undivorced by death!

Or ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part,1 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.

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1050

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Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part:' hence Burns's famous line in his verses to Clarinda :

'Never met, or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.'

THE

INFIDEL RECLAIMED,

IN TWO PARTS;

CONTAINING

THE NATURE, PROOF, AND IMPORTANCE OF IMMORTALITY.

PART I.

WHERE, AMONG OTHER THINGS, GLORY AND RICHES ARE PARTICULARLY CONSIDERED.

TO THE

RIGHT HON. HENRY PELHAM,

FIRST LORD COMMISSIONER OF THE TREASURY, AND CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER.