pronounce

Why this fo rare? Because forgot of all
The Day of Death; that venerable Day,
Which fits as Judge; that Day, which shall
On all our Days, abfolve them, or condemn
LORENZO, never fhut thy Thought against it;
Be Levees ne'er fo full, afford it Room,
And give it Audience in the Cabinet.
That Friend confulted, Flatteries apart,
Will tell thee fair, if Thou art Great, or Mean.

To doat on aught may leave us, or be left, Is That Ambition? Then let Flames defcend, Point to the Centre their inverted Spires, And learn Humiliation from a Soul, Which boasts her Lineage from celeftial Fire. Yet These are they, the World pronounces wife: The World, which cancels Nature's Right and Wrong, And cafts new Wisdom: Ev'n the grave Man lends His folemn Face, to countenance the Coin. Wisdom for Parts is Madnefs for the Whole. This stamps the Paradox, and gives us leave To call the Wifeft weak, the Richeft poor, The most Ambitious, Unambitious, Meair; In Triumph, mean; and abject on a Throne. Nothing can make it lefs than mad in Man, To put forth all his Ardor, all his Art, And give his Soul her full unbounded Flight, But reaching Him, who gave her Wings to fly.

When

When blind Ambition quite miftakes her Road,
And downwards pores, for that which fhines above,
Subftantial Happiness, and true Renown;

Then, like an Idiot gazing on the Brook,
We leap at Stars, and faften in the Mud;
At Glory grafp, and fink in Infamy.

Ambition! pow'rful Source of Good and Ill!
Thy Strength in Man, like Length of Wing in Birds,
When difengag'd from Earth, with greater Eafe,
And swifter Flight, tranfports us to the Skies;
By Toys entangled, or in Guilt bemir'd,

It turns a Curfe; it is our Chain, and Scourge,
In this dark Dungeon, where confin'd we lie,
Close-grated by the folid Bars of Sense;
All Prospect of Eternity shut out;
And, but for Execution, ne'er fet free.

With Error in Ambition justly charg'd, Find we LORENZO wifer in his Wealth? What if thy Rental I reform? and draw An Inventory new to fet thee right?

Where, thy true Treasure? Gold fays, "Not in me,"
And, "Not in me," the Di'mond. Gold is poor;
India's infolvent: Seek it in Thyfelf,

Seek in thy naked Self, and find it There;
In Being fo defcended, form'd, endow'd;
Sky-born, fky-guided, fky-returning Race!
Erect, Immortal, Rational, Divine !

In

In Senfes, which inherit Earth, and Heavens;
Enjoy the various Riches Nature yields;

Far nobler; give the Riches they enjoy;

Give Taste to Fruits; and Harmony to Groves;
Their radiant Beams to Gold, and Gold's bright Sire;
Take in, at once, the Landfchape of the World,
At a fmall Inlet, which a Grain might close,
And half create the wond'rous World they fee.
Our Senfes, and our Reafon, are divine.
But for the magic Organ's pow'rful Charm,
Earth were a rude, uncolour'd Chaos ftill.
Objects are but th' Occafion; ours th' Exploit ;
Ours is the Cloth, the Pencil, and the Paint,
Which Nature's admirable Pictures draws;
And beautifies Creation's ample Dome.
Like Milton's Eve, when gazing on the Lake,
Man makes the matchlefs Image, Man admires.
Say then, Shall Man, his Thoughts all fent abroad,
Superior Wonders in Himself forgot,

His Admiration wafte on Objects round,

When Heav'n makes him the Soul of all he fees?
Abfurd! not rare! fo Great, fo Mean, is Man.

What Wealth in Senfes fuch as these? What Wealth In Fancy, fir'd to form a fairer Scene

Than Senfe furveys! In Mem'ry's firm Record,
Which, fhould it perish, could this World recall
From the dark Shadows of o'erwhelming Years!

In Colours fresh, originally bright

Preferve its Portrait, and report its Fate!
What Wealth in Intellect, that fov'reign Pow'r!
Which Senfe, and Fancy fummons to the Bar;
Interrogates, approves, or reprehends;
And from the Mafs thofe Underlings import,
From their Materials fifted, and refin'd,
And in Truth's Balance accurately weigh'd,
Forms Art, and Science, Government, and Law;
The folid Basis, and the beauteous Frame,
The Vitals, and the Grace of Civil Life!
And Manners (fad Exception!) fet afide,
Strikes out, with Master-hand, a Copy fair
Of His Idea, whofe indulgent Thought

Long, long, ere Chaos teem'd, plann'd human Blifs.

What Wealth in Souls that foar, dive, range around, Difdaining Limit, or from Place, or Time; And hear at once, in Thought extensive, hear Th' Almighty Fiat, and the Trumpet's Sound! Bold, on Creation's Outfide walk, and view What was, and is, and more than e'er fhall be; Commanding, with Omnipotence of Thought, Creations new in Fancy's Field to rife! Souls, that can grafp whate'er th' Almighty made, And wander wild, through Things impoffible! What Wealth, in Faculties of endless Growth, In quenchlefs Paffions violent to crave,

In

In Liberty to chufe, in Pow'r to reach,

And in Duration (how thy Riches rise!)

Duration to perpetuate

-boundlefs Blifs!

Afk you, what Pow'r refides in feeble Man
That Bliss to gain? Is Virtue's, then, unknown?
Virtue, our present Peace, our future Prize.
Man's unprecarious, natural Eftate,
Improveable at Will, in Virtue, lies;
Its Tenure fure; its Income is divine.

High-built Abundance, Heap on Heap! för what? To breed new Wants, and beggar us the more; Then, make a richer Scramble for the Throng? Soon as this feeble Pulfe, which leaps fo long Almost by Miracle, is tir'd with Play, Like Rubbish from difploding Engines thrown, Our Magazines of hoarded Trifles fly; Fly diverfe; fly to Foreigners, to Foes; New Masters court, and call the former Fool (How juftly!) for Dependence on their Stay. Wide fcatter, firft, our Play-things, then, our Duft.

Doft court Abundance for the fake of Peace ? Learn, and lament, thy felf-defeated Scheme: Riches enable to be richer ftill

And, Richer ftill, what Mortal can refift?

Thus Wealth (a cruel Tafk-mafter!) injoins
New Toils, fucceeding Toils, an endless Train!