But Nature's course; as sure as plummets fall. Since God or man must alter ere they meet, (Since light and darkness blend not in one sphere) "Tis manifest, Lorenzo, who must change.

If, then, that double death should prove thy lot, Blame not the bowels of the Deity;

Man shall be bless'd, as far as man permits.
Not man alone, all rationals Heaven arms
With an illustrious, but tremendous power,
To counteract its own most gracious ends,
And this of strict necessity, not choice;
That power denied, men, angels, were no more
But passive engines, void of praise or blame.
A nature rational implies the power

Of being bless'd or wretched, as we please;
Else idle Reason would have nought to do,
And he that would be barr'd capacity
Of pain, courts incapacity of bliss.

Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom;
Invites us ardently, but not compels:

Heaven but persuades, almighty man decrees.
Man is the maker of immortal fates.
Man falls by man, if finally he falls;

And fall he must, who learns from death alone
The dreadful secret,-that he lives for ever.

Why this to thee?-thee yet, perhaps, in doubt Of second life? but wherefore doubtful still? Eternal life is Nature's ardent wish:

What ardently we wish we soon believe:
Thy tardy faith declares that wish destroy'd:
What has destroy'd it?―shall I tell thee what?
When fear'd the future, 'tis no longer wish'd;
And when unwish'd, we strive to disbelieve.
Thus Infidelity our guilt betrays.'

Nor that the sole detection! Blush, Lorenzo!

Blush for hypocrisy, if not for guilt.

The future fear'd?-An infidel, and fear?
Fear what? a dream? a fable?-How thy dread,
Unwilling evidence, and therefore strong,
Affords my cause an undesign'd support!
How Disbelief affirms what it denies!
'It, unawares, asserts immortal life.'—
Surprising! Infidelity turns out

A creed and a confession of our sins:
Apostates, thus, are orthodox divines.
Lorenzo! with Lorenzo clash no more,
Nor longer a transparent vizor wear.
Think'st thou Religion only has her mask?
Our infidels are Satan's hypocrites,

Pretend the worst, and, at the bottom, fail.
When visited by thought, (thought will intrude)
Like him they serve, they tremble and believe,
Is there hypocrisy so foul as this?

So fatal to the welfare of the world?

What detestation, what contempt, their due!
And, if unpaid, be thank'd for their escape,
That Christian candour they strive hard to scorn.
If not for that asylum, they might find
A hell on earth, nor scape a worse below,
With insolence and impotence of thought,
Instead of racking fancy to refute,

Reform thy manners, and the truth enjoy.—
But shall I dare confess the dire result?
Can thy proud reason brook so black a brand?
From purer manners to sublimer faith,

Is Nature's unavoidable ascent.

An honest Deist, where the Gospel shines,
Matured to nobler, in the Christian ends.
When that bless'd change arrives, e'en cast aside
This song superfluous: life immortal strikes

Conviction in a flood of light divine.

A Christian dwells, like Uriel +, in the Sun;
Meridian evidence puts doubt to flight,

And ardent hope anticipates the skies.

Of that bright Sun, Lorenzo! scale the sphere: "Tis easy; it invites thee; it descends

From Heaven, to woo and waft thee whence it came,
Read and revere the sacred page, a page
Where triumphs immortality; a page
Which not the whole Creation could produce;
Which not the Conflagration shall destroy:
Tis printed in the mind of gods for ever,
In Nature's ruins not one letter lost.

In proud disdain of what e'en gods adore,
Dost smile?-Poor wretch! thy guardian angel
Angels and men assent to what I sing; [weeps.
Wits smile, and thank me for my midnight dream.
How vicious hearts fume frenzy to the brain!
Parts push us on to pride, and pride to shame:
Pert Infidelity is Wit's cockade,

Το grace the brazen brow that braves the skies, By loss of being dreadfully secure.

Lorenzo! if thy doctrine wins the day,

And drives my dreams, defeated, from the field; If this is all, if earth a final scene,

Take heed; stand fast; be sure to be a knave; A knave in grain! ne'er deviate to the right. Shouldst thou be good-how infinite thy loss! Guilt only makes annihilation gain.

[death Bless'd scheme! which life deprives of comfort, Of hope, and which vice only recommends. If so, where, Infidels! your bait thrown out To catch weak converts? where your lofty boast 4 Milton's Paradise Lost.