NIGHT THE EIGHTH.

VIRTUE'S APOLOGY;

OR,

THE MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED.
IN WHICH ARE CONSIDERED,

The Love of this life; the Ambition and Pleasure,
with the Wit and Wisdom of the World.

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 wooes,
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 chase 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 business 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 string of joy.

What wondrous prize has kindled this career,
Stuns with the din, and chokes 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,
ingulf'd;

AND 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 shine

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 enrols
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, unrival'd by the skies!
A world, where lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold,
Three demons that divide its realms between them,

Where gay delusion darkens to despair?

66

This is a beaten track."—Is this a track
Should not be beaten? never beat enough,
Till enough learn'd the truths it would inspre
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,
Or woman's artifice, or man's revenge,
And endless inhumanities on man?
Fame's trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell.
It brings bad tidings: how it hourly blows
Man's misadventures round the listening world!
Man is the tale of narrative old time;
Sad tale; which high as Paradise begins;
As if, the toil of travel to delude,
From stage to stage, in his eternal round
The days, his daughters, as they spin our hours
On fortune's wheel, where accident unthought,
Oft, in a moment, snaps life's strongest thread,
Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells,
With, now and then, a wretched farce between.
And fills his chronicle with human woes.

Time's daughters, true as those of men, deceive us,
mankind:
Not one, but puts some cheat on
While in their father's bosom, not yet ours,
They flatter our fond hopes; and promise much
Of amiable; but hold him not o'er-wise,
Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the year

At still-confiding, still-confounded, man,
Conding, though confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by trial, unconvinc'd by proof,
And ever looking for the never-seen.
Life to the last, like harden'd felons, lies;
Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires.
Its little joy goes out by one and one,
And leaves poor man, at length, in perfect night;
Night darker than what, now, involves the Pole.

O thou, who dost permit these ills to fall [mourn!
For gracious ends, and wouldst that man should
O thou, whose hands this goodly fabric fram'd,
Who know'st it best, and wouldst that man should
know!

What is this sublunary world? A vapor;
A vapor all it holds; itself, a vapor;

From the damp bed of chaos, by thy beam
Exhal'd, ordain'd to swim its destin'd hour
In ambient air, then melt, and disappear.
Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom;
As mortal, though less transient, than her sons;
Yet they dote on her, as the world and they
Were both eternal, solid; thou, a dream.

They dote! on what? Immortal views apart,
A region of outsides! a land of shadows!
A fruitful field of flowery promises!

A wilderness of joy! perplex'd with doubts,
And sharp with thorns! a troubled ocean, spread
With bold adventurers, their all on board!
No second hope, if here their fortune frowns;
Frown soon it must. Of various rates they sail,
Of ensigns various; all alike in this,

And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! 'tis lost!
Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate:
They strike; and while they triumph, they expire.
In stress of weather, most; some sink outright;
O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others a short memorial leave behind,
Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulf'd;
It floats a moment, and is seen no more:
One Cæsar lives; a thousand are forgot.
How few, beneath auspicious planets born,
(Darlings of Providence! fond Fate's elect!)
With swelling sails make good the promis'd port,
With all their wishes freighted; yet e'en these,
Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain;
Free from misfortune, not from nature free,
They still are men; and when is man secure?
As fatal time, as storm! the rush of years
Beats down their strength; their numberless escapes
In ruin end: and, now, their proud success
But plants new terrors on the victor's brow:
What pain to quit the world, just made their own!
Their nest so deeply down'd, and built so high!
Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.
Woe then apart, (if woe apart can be
From mortal man,) and fortune at our nod,
The gay! rich! great! triumphant! and august!
What are they?-The most happy (strange to say!
Convince me most of human misery;

All restless, anxious; tost with hopes, and fears,
In calmest skies; obnoxious all to storm;
And stormy the most general blast of life:
All bound for happiness; yet few provide
The chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies;
Or virtue's helm, to shape the course design'd:
All, more or less, capricious fate lament,
Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb'd,
And further from their wishes than before:
All, more or less, against each other dash,
To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven,
And suffering more from folly, than from fate.
Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous home
Of dangers, at eternal war with man!
Death's capital, where most he domineers,
With all his chosen terrors frowning round,
(Though lately feasted high at Albion's cost*)
Wide-opening, and loud-roaring still for more!
Too faithful mirror! how dost thou reflect
The melancholy face of human life!
The strong resemblance tempts me further still:
And, haply, Britain may be deeper struck
By moral truth, in such a mirror seen,
Which Nature holds for ever at her eye.

Self-flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in hope,
When young, with sanguine cheer and streamers gay,
We cut our cable, launch into the world,
And fondly dream each wind and star our friend;
All, in some darling enterprise embark'd:
But where is he can fathom its extent?
Amid a multitude of artless hands,
Ruin's sure perquisite! her lawful prize!
Some steer aright; but the black blast blows hard,
And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof,
Full against wind and tide, some win their way;
And when strong effort has deserv'd the port,

* Admiral Balchen, &c.

What are they? Smiling wretches of to-morrow!
More wretched, then, than e'er their slave can be;
Their treacherous blessings, at the day of need,
Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting;
Then, what provoking indigence in wealth!
What aggravated impotence in power!
High titles, then, what insult of their pain!
If that sole anchor, equal to the waves,
Immortal hope! defies not the rude storm,
Takes comfort from the foaming billows' rage,
And makes a welcome harbor of the tomb.

Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires?
"But here," thou say'st, "the miseries of life
Are huddled in a group. A more distinct
Survey, perhaps, might bring thee better news."
Look on life's stages: they speak plainer still;
The plainer they, the deeper wilt thou sigh.
Look on thy lovely boy; in him behold
The best that can befall the best on Earth;
The boy has virtue by his mother's side:
Yes, on Florello look: a father's heart
Is tender, though the man's is made of stone;
The truth, through such a medium seen, may make
Impression deep, and fondness prove thy friend.

Florello, lately cast on this rude coast

A helpless infant; now, a heedless child;
To poor Clarissa's throes, thy care succeeds;
Care full of love, and yet severe as hate!
O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns'
Needful austerities his will restrain;

As thorns fence-in the tender plant from harm.
As yet, his reason cannot go alone;

But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on.

His little heart is often terrified;

The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale;
Its pearly dew-drop trembles in his eye;
His harmless eye! and drowns an angel there.
Ah! what avails his innocence? The task
Enjoin'd must discipline his early powers;
He learns to sigh, ere he is known to sin;
Guiltless, and sad! a wretch before the fall!

How cruel this! more cruel to forbear.

His plan had practis'd long before 'twas writ. Our nature such, with necessary pains,

The world's all tille-page ; there's no contents , We purchase prospects of precarious peace : The world's all face ; the man who shows his heart, Though not a father, this might steal a sigh. Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn'd. Suppose him disciplin'd aright (if not,

A man I knew, who liv'd upon a smile, 'Twill sink our poor account to poorer still ;) And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair; Ripe from the tutor, proud of liberty,

While rankest venom foam'd through every vein. He leaps inclosure, bounds into the world!

Lorenzo ! what I tell thee, take not ill! The world is taken, after ten years' toil,

Living, he fawn'd on every fool alive ; Like ancient Troy; and all its joys his own. And, dying, curs'd the friend on whom he lir'd. Alas! the world 's a tutor more severe ;

To such proficients thou art half a saint. Its lessons hard, and ill deserve his pains ;

In foreign realms (for thou hast travel'd far) Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught, How curious to contemplate two state-rooks, Or books (fair virtue's advocates !) inspir'd. Studious their nests to feather in a trice, For who receives him into public life?

With all the necromantics of their art, Men of the world, the terræ-filial breed,

Playing the game of faces on each other, Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere, Making court sweet-meats of their latent gall, (Which glitter'd long, at distance, in his sight,) In foolish hope to steal each other's trust; And, in their hospitable arms, inclose :

Both cheating, both exulting, both deceivd; Men, who think nought so strong of the romance, And sometimes both (let Earth rejoice) undone! So rank knight-errant, as a real friend :

Their parts we doubt not; but be that their shame, Men, that act up to reason's golden rule,

Shall men of talents, fit to rule mankind, All weakness of affection quite subdued :

Stoop to mean wiles, that would disgrace a fool; Men, that would blush at being thought sincere, And lose the thanks of those few friends they serre? And feign, for glory, the few faults they want; For who can thank the man he cannot see? That love a lie, where truth would pay as well ; Why so much cover? It defeats itself. As if, to thein, vice shone her own reward. Ye, that know all things! know ye not, men's hearts

Lorenzo! canst thou bear a shocking sight? Are therefore known, because they are conceal'd? Such, for Florello's sake, 'twill now appear : For why conceald ?- The cause they need not tell

. See, the steel'd files of season'd veterans,

I give him joy, that's awkward at a lie ; Train’d to the world, in burnish'd falsehood bright; Whose feeble nature truth keeps still in awe ; Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace ;

His incapacity is his renown. All soft sensation, in the throng, rubb'd off; "Tis great, 'tis manly, to disdain disguise ; All their keen purpose, in politeness sheath'd ; It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength. His friends eternal_during interest;

Thou say'st, " "Tis needful:" is it therefore right? His foes implacable—when worth their while ; Howe'er, I grant it some small sign of grace, At war with every welfare, but their own;

To strain at an excuse : and wouldst thou then As wise as Lucifer, and half as good ;

Escape that cruel need? Thou mayʻst, with ease ; And by whom none, but Lucifer, can gain- Think no post needful that demands a knave. Naked, through these (so common fate ordains,) When late our civil helm was shifting hands, Naked of heart, his cruel course he runs,

So Poulteney thought : think better, if you can. Stung out of all, most amiable in life, [feign'd; But this, how rare! the public path of life Prompt truth, and open thought, and smiles un- Is dirty :

-yet, allow that dirt is due, Affection, as his species, wide diffus'd ;

It makes the noble mind more noble still : Noble presumptions to mankind's renown; The world's no neuter; it will wound, or save; Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love.

Or virtue quench, or indignation fire. These claims to joy (if mortals joy might claim) You say, “The world, well known, will make a man: Will cost him many a sigh ; till time, and pains, The world, well known, will give our hearts to From the slow mistress of this school, experience,

Heaven, And her assistant, pausing, pale, distrust,

Or make us demons, long before we die. Purchase a dear-bought clew to lead his youth To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shines Through serpentine obliquities of life,

Take either part, sure ills attend the choice; And the dark labyrinth of human hearts.

Sure, though not equal, detriment ensues.
And happy! if the clew shall come so cheap; Not virtue's self is deified on Earth ;
For, while we learn to fence with public guilt, Virtue has her relapses, conflicts, foes ;
Full oft we feel its foul contagion too,

Foes, that ne'er fail to make her feel their hate. If less than heavenly virtue is our guard.

Virtue has her peculiar set of pains. Thus, a strange kind of curst necessity

True friends to virtue, last, and lcast, complain; Brings down the sterling temper of his soul, But if they sigh, can others hope to smile? By base alloy, to bear the current stamp,

If wisdom has her miseries to mourn, Below callid wisdom; sinks him into safety, How can poor folly lead a happy life? And brands him into credit with the world; And if both suffer, what has Earth to boast, Where specious titles dignify disgrace,

Where he most happy, who the least laments! And Nature's injuries are arts of life;

Where much, much patience, the most envied state Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes ; And some forgiveness, needs the best of friends ? And heavenly talents make infernal hearts ; For friend, or happy life, who looks not higher, That unsurmountable extreme of guilt!

Of neither shall he find the shadow here. Poor Machiavel! who labor'd hard his plan, The world's sworn advocate, without a fee, Forgot, that genius need not go to school ;

Lorenzo smartly, with a smile, replies ; Forgot, that man, without a tutor wise,

“ Thus far thy song is right; and all must own

Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.

of real greatness? That man greatly lives, And joys peculiar who to vice denies ?

Whate'er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies; If vice it is, with nature to comply:

High-flush'd with bope, where heroes shall despair. If pride, and sense, are so predominant,

If this a true criterion, many courts,
To check, not overcome them, makes a saint. Illustrious, might afford but few grandees.
Can Nature in a plainer voice proclaim

Th’ Almighty, from his throne, on Earth surveys
Pleasure, and glory, the chief good of man?" Nought greater, than an honest, humble heart;
Can pride, and sensuality, rejoice?

An humble heart, his residence! pronounc'd
From purity of thought, all pleasure springs; His second seat; and rival to the skies.
And, from an humble spirit, all our peace.

The private path, the secret acts of men,
Ambition, pleasure! let us talk of these :

If noble, far the noblest of our lives!
Of these, the Porch, and Academy, talk'd; How far above Lorenzo's glory sits
Of these, each following age had much to say: Th' illustrious master of a name unknown ;
Yet, unexhausted still the needful theme.

Whose worth unrival'd, and unwitness'd, loves Who talks of these, to mankind all at once

Life's sacred shades, where gods converse with men; He talks; for were the saints from either free? And peace, beyond the world's conception, smiles ! Are these thy refuge ?-No: these rush upon thee; As thou (now dark,) before we part, shalt see. Thy vitals seize, and, vulture-like, devour:

But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns. I'll try if I can pluck thee from thy rock,

Lorenzo's sick, but when Lorenzo's seen ; Prometheus ! from this barren ball of Earth; And when he shrugs at public business, lies. If reason can unchain thee, thou art free.

Denied the public eye, the public voice, And, first, thy Caucasus, ambition, calls;

As if he liv'd on others' breath, he dies. Mountain of torments! eminence of woes!

Fain would he make the world his pedestal; Of courted woes! and courted through mistake! Mankind the gazers, the sole figure, he. Tis not ambition charms thee; 'tis a cheat Knows he, that mankind praise against their will, Will make thee start, as H- at his Moor.

And mix as much detraction as they can ? Dost grasp at greatness? First, know what it is : Knows he, that faithless fame her whisper has, Think'st thou thy greatness in distinction lies ? As well as trumpet? That his vanity Not in the feather, wave it e'er so high,

Is so much tickled from not hearing all ? By fortune stuck, to mark us from the throng, Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise, Is glory lodg’d: 'tis lodg’d in the reverse;

Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines, In that which joins, in that which equals, all, Taking his country by five hundred ears, The monarch and his slave ;—"a deathless soul, Senates at once admire him, and despise, Unbounded prospect, and immortal kin,

With modest laughter lining loud applause, A Father-God, and brothers in the skies;"

Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame? Elder, indeed, in time; but less remote

His fame, which (like the mighty Cæsar,) crown'd
In excellence, perhaps, than thought by man; With laurels, in full senate, greatly falls,
Why greater what can fall, than what can rise ? By seeming friends, that honor, and destroy.
If still delirious, now, Lorenzo! go;

We rise in glory, as we sink in pride :
And with thy full-blown brothers of the world, Where boasting ends, there dignity begins ;
Throw scorn around thee ; cast it on thy slaves ; And yet, mistaken beyond all mistake,
Thy slaves and equals: how scorn cast on them The blind Lorenzo's proud—of being proud;
Rebounds on thee! If man is mean, as man, And dreams himself ascending in his fall.
Art thou a god ? If fortune makes him so,

An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain : Beware the consequence: a maxim that,

All vice wants hellebore ; but of all vice, Which draws a monstrous picture of mankind, Pride loudest calls, and for the largest bowl; Where, in the drapery, the man is lost;

Because, unlike all other vice, it flies,
Externals fluttering, and the soul forgot.

In fact, the point in fancy most pursued.
Thy greatest glory, when dispos’d to boast, Who court applause, oblige the world in this;
Boast that aloud, in which thy servants share. They gratify man's passion to refuse.

We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy : Superior honor, when assum'd, is lost;
Judge we, in their caparisons, of men ?

E'en good men turn banditti, and rejoice, It nought avails thee, where, but what, thou art; Like Kouli-Khan, in plunder of the proud. All the distinctions of this little life

Though somewhat disconcerted, steady still Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man.

To the world's cause, with half a face of joy, When, through death's streights, Earth's subtle Lorenzo cries—“ Be, then, ambition cast ; serpents creep,

Ambition's dearer far stands unimpeach'd, Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown. Gay pleasure! proud ambition is her slave; As crooked Satan the forbidden tree,

For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill ; They leave their party-color'd robe behind, For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes; All that now glitters, while they rear aloft And paves his way, with crowns, to reach her smile: Their brazen crests, and hiss at us below.

Who can resist her charms !"-Or, should ? Lo. Of fortune's fucus strip them, yet alive :

renzo! Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still,

What mortal shall resist, where angels yield? Away with all, but moral, in their minds;

Pleasure's the mistress of ethereal powers; And let what then remains impose their name, For her contend the rival gods above; Pronounce them weak, or werthy; great, or mean, Pleasure's the mistress of the world below; How mean that snuff of glory fortune lights, And well it was for man, that pleasure charms; And death puts out! Dost thou demand a test, How would all stagnate, but for pleasure's ray! A test, at once, infallible, and short,

How would the frozen stream of action cease! 75

2 Z?

see.

What is the pulse of this so busy world ?

And know thyself; and know thyself to be The love of pleasure: that, through every vein, (Strange truth) the most abstemious man alive Throws motion, warmth ; and shuts out death from Tell not Calista; she will laugh thee dead; lise.

Or send thee to her hermitage with L Though various are the tempers of mankind, Absurd presumption! Thou who never knew'st Pleasure's gay family hold all in chains :

A serious thought! shalt thou dare dream of joy ? Some most affect the black; and some, the fair; No man e'er found a happy life by chance ; Some honest pleasure court: and some, obscene. Or yawn'd it into being, with a wish ; Pleasures obscene are various, as the throng Or, with the shout of grovelling appetite, Of passions, that can err in human hearts ; E'er smelt it out, and grubb'd it from the dirt. Mistake their objects, or transgress their bounds. An art it is, and must be learnt; and learnt Think you there's but one whoredom? Whoredom, With unremitting effort, or be lost; all,

And leaves us perfect blockheads, in our bliss. But when our reason licenses delight:

The clouds may drop down titles and estates; Dost doubt, Lorenzo ? Thou shalt doubt no more. Wealth may seek us; but wisdom must be sought; Thy father chides thy gallantries, yet hugs Sought before all; but (how unlike all else An ugly common harlot, in the dark;

We seek on Earth!) 'tis never sought in vain. A rank adulterer with others' gold !

First, pleasure's birth, rise, strength, and grandeur And that hag, vengeance, in a corner, charms. Hatred her brothel has, as well as love,

Brought forth by wisdom, nurst by discipline, Where horrid epicures debauch in blood.

By patience taught, by perseverance crown'd, Whate'er the motive, pleasure is the mark: She rears her head majestic; round her throne, for her, the black assassin draws his sword; Erected in the bosom of the just, For her, dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp, Each virtue, listed, forms her manly guard. To which no single sacrifice may fall;

For what are virtues ? (formidable name!
For her, the saint abstains; the miser starves; What, but the fountain, or defence, of joy ?
The Stoic proud, for pleasure, pleasure scorn'd; Why, then, commanded ? Need mankind commands.
For her, affliction's daughters grief indulge, At once to meril, and to make, their bliss ?
And find, or hope, a luxury in tears;

Great Legislator! scarce so great, as kind !
For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy; If men are rational, and love delight,
And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death. Thy gracious law but flatters human choice;
Thus universal her despotic power!

In the transgression lies the penalty;
And as her empire wide, her praise is just. And they the most indulge, who most obey.
Patron of pleasure! doter on delight!

Of pleasure, next, the final cause explore ;
I am thy rival! pleasure I profess;

Its mighty purpose, its important end. Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song.

Not to turn human brutal, but to build Pleasure is nought but virtue's gayer name: Divine on human, pleasure came from Heaven. I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low; In aid to reason was the goddess sent; Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flower; To call up all its strength by such a charm. And honest Epicurus' foes were fools.

Pleasure, first, succors virtue ; in return, But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence! Virtue gives pleasure an eternal reign. If o'erstrain'd wisdom still retains the name, What, but the pleasure of food, friendship, faith, How knits austerity her cloudy brow,

Supports life natural, civil, and divine ? And blames, as bold, and hazardous, the praise 'Tis from the pleasure of repast, we live; Of pleasure, 10 mankind, unprais'd, too dear! "Tis from the pleasure of applause, we please ; Ye modern Stoics! hear my soft reply;

'Tis from the pleasure of belief, we pray; Their senses men will trust: we can't impose ; (All prayer would cease, if unbeliev'd the prize:) Or, if we could, is imposition right?

It serves ourselves, our species, and our God; Own honey sweet ; but, owning, add this sting ; And to serve more, is past the sphere of man. “When mixt with poison, it is deadly too." Glide, then, for ever, pleasure's sacred stream! Truth never was indebted to a lie.

Through Eden, as Euphrates ran, it runs, Is nought but virtue to be prais'd, as good ? And fosters every growth of happy life; Why then is health preferr'd before disease ? Makes a new Eden where it flows;—but such What nature loves is good without our leave; As must be lost, Lorenzo! by thy fall. And where no future drawback cries, “ Beware," What mean I by thy fall ?”—Thou 'lt shortly see, Pleasure, though not from virtue, should prevail. While pleasure's nature is at large display'd ; "Tis balm to life, and gratitude to Heaven; Already sung ber origin, and ends. How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy'd ! Those glorious ends, by kind, or by degree, The love of pleasure is man's eldest-born,

When pleasure violates, 'tis then a vice, Born in his cradle, living to his tomb:

And vengeance too; it hastens into pain. Wisdom, her younger sister, though more grave, From due refreshment, life, health, reason, joy ; Was meant to minister, and not to mar,

From wild excess, pain, grief, distraction, death ; Imperial pleasure, queen of human hearts. Heaven's justice, this proclaims, and that her love Lorenzo! thou, her majesty's renown'd,

What greater evil can I wish my foe, Though uncoift counsel, learned in the world! Than his full draught of pleasure, from a cask Who think'st thyself a Murray, with disdain Unbroach'd by just authority, ungaug'd May'st look on me. Yet, my Demosthenes ! By temperance, by reason unrefind? Canst thou plead pleasure's cause as well as I ? A thousand demons lurk within the lee. Know'st thou her nature, purpose, parentage ? Heaven, athers, and ourselves! uninjur'd these, Attend my song, and thou shalt know them all; Drink deep; the deeper, then, the more divine :

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