Of length enormous; takes his ample round
Through depths of ether; coasts unnumber'd worlds
Of more than solar glory; doubles wide
Heaven's mighty cape; and then revisits earth,
From the long travel of a thousand years.
Thus at the destined period shall return
He, once on earth, who bids the comet blaze,
And with Him all our triumph o'er the tomb.
Nature is dumb on this important point,
Our Hope precarious in low whisper breathes;
Faith speaks aloud, distinct; e'en adders hear,
But turn, and dart into the dark again.

Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death,
To break the shock blind Nature cannot shun,
And lands Thought smoothly on the farther shore.
Death's terror is the mountain Faith removes,
That mountain barrier between man and peace.
"Tis Faith disarms Destruction, and absolves
From every clamorous charge the guiltless tomb.
Why disbelieve! Lorenzo! Reason bids;
All-sacred Reason.'-Hold her sacred still;
Nor shalt thou want a rival in thy flame:
All-sacred Reason! source, and soul, of all
Demanding praise, on earth, or earth above!
My heart is thine: deep in its inmost folds
Live thou with life; live dearer of the two.
Wear I the blessed Cross, by Fortune stamp'd
On passive Nature before Thought was born?
My birth's blind bigot! fired with local zeal !-
No: Reason rebaptized me when adult:
Weigh'd true and false in her impartial scale;
My heart became the convert of my head,
And made that choice which once was but my
On argument alone my faith is built,'

fate.

Reason pursued is Faith; and unpursued, Where proof invites, 'tis reason then no more: And such our proof, that or our Faith is right, Or Reason lies, and Heaven design'd it wrong. Absolve we this! what then is blasphemy ?

Fond as we are, and justly fond of Faith,
Reason, we grant, demands our first regard;
The mother honour'd, as the daughter dear.
Reason the root, fair Faith is but the flower:
The fading flower shall die, but Reason lives
Immortal, as her Father in the skies!

When Faith is virtue, Reason makes it so.
Wrong not the Christian; think not Reason yours;
'Tis Reason our great Master holds so dear;
"Tis Reason's injured rights his wrath resents;
"Tis Reason's voice obey'd his glories crown:
To give lost Reason life he pour'd his own.
Believe, and show the reason of a man ;
Believe, and taste the pleasure of a god;
Believe, and look with triumph on the tomb.
Through Reason's wounds alone thy Faith can die,
Which dying, tenfold terror gives to Death,
And dips in venom his twice-mortal sting.

Learn hence what honours, what loud pæans, due To those who push our antidote aside;

Those boasted friends to Reason and to man,
Whose fatal love stabs every joy, and leaves
Death's terror heighten'd, gnawing on his heart.
These pompous sons of Reason idolized,
And vilified at once; of Reason dead,
Then deified, as monarchs were of old;

What conduct plants proud laurels on their brow?
While love of truth through all their camp resounds,
They draw Pride's curtain o'er the noon-tide ray,

Spike up their inch of reason on the point
Of philosophic wit, call'd Argument,
And then exulting in their taper, cry,

Behold the Sun!' and, Indian-like, adore.
Talk they of morals? O thou bleeding Love!
Thou Maker of new morals to mankind!
The grand morality is love of Thee.

As wise as Socrates, if such they were,
(Nor will they bate of that sublime renown)
As wise as Socrates might justly stand
The definition of a modern fool.

A Christian is the highest style of man!
And is there who the blessed Cross wipes off,
As a foul blot, from his dishonour'd brow?
If angels tremble, 'tis at such a sight:

The wretch they quit, desponding of their charge,
More struck with grief or wonder who can tell?

Ye sold to sense! ye citizens of earth!

(For such alone the Christian banner fly) [gain? Know ye how wise your choice, how great your Behold the picture of Earth's happiest man:

He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back, And says he call'd another: that arrives, Meets the same welcome; yet he still calls on; Till one calls him, who varies not his call, But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound, Till Nature dies, and Judgment sets him free; A freedom far less welcome than his chain.'

But grant man happy; grant him happy long; Add to life's highest prize her latest hour; That hour, so late, is nimble in approach, That, like a post, comes on in full career. How swift the shuttle flies that weaves thy shroud! Where is the fable of thy former years ?

Thrown down the gulf of time; as far from thee
As they had ne'er been thine: the day in hand,
Like a bird struggling to get loose, is going;
Scarce now possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone;
And each swift moment fled, is death advanced
By strides as swift. Eternity is all;
And whose eternity? who triumphs there?
Bathing for ever in the font of bliss!
For ever basking in the Deity!

Lorenzo! who?-thy conscience shall reply.

O give it leave to speak; 'twill speak ere long, Thy leave unask'd. Lorenzo! hear it now, While useful its advice, its accent mild. By the great edict, the divine decree, Truth is deposited with man's last hour An honest hour, and faithful to her trust; Truth! eldest daughter of the Deity; Truth! of his council when he made the worlds; Nor less, when he shall judge the worlds he made; Though silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound, Smother'd with errors, and oppress'd with toys, That heaven-commission'd hour no sooner calls, But from her cavern in the soul's abyss, Like him they fable under Ætna whelm'd, The goddess bursts in thunder and in flame, Loudly convinces, and severely pains. Dark demons I discharge, and hydra-stings; The keen vibration of bright Truth—is Hell; Just definition! though by schools untaught, Ye deaf to truth! peruse this parson'd page, And trust, for once, a prophet and a priest;— • Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.'

THE COMPLAINT.

NIGHT V.

The Relapse.

TO THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF LITCHFIELD.

LORENZO! to recriminate is just.

Fondness for fame is avarice of air.'

I grant the man is vain who writes for praise :
Praise no man e'er deserved, who sought no more.
As just thy second charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blush'd at her degenerate sons,
Retain'd by Sense to plead her filthy cause,
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And subtilize the gross into refined;
As if to magic numbers' powerful charm
'Twas given to make a civet of their song
Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.
We

We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride:
These share the man, and these distract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But Pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground.
Joys, shared by brute-creation, Pride resents;
Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy,