Believe, and taste the Pleasure of a God;
Believe, and look with Triumph on the Tomb:
Thro' Reafon'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 Paans, due To thofe, who push our Antidote afide;

Those boasted Friends to Reason, and to Man,
Whofe fatal Love ftabs ev'ry Joy, and leaves
Death's Terror heighten'd gnawing on his Heart.
These pompous Sons of Reafon idoliz'd,
And vilify'd at once; of Reafon dead,

Then deify'd, as Monarchs were of old!

What Conduct plants proud Laurels on their Brow?
While Love of Truth thro' all their Camp refounds,
They draw Pride's Curtain o'er the Noon-tide Ray;
Spike up their Inch of Reafon, on the Point,
Of philofophic 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 wife as SOCRATES, if fuch they were,
(Nor will they 'bate of that fublime Renown)

As

As wife as SOCRATES, might juftly ftand

The Definition of a modern Fool.

A CHRISTIAN is the higheft Stile of Man. And is there, who the bleffed Crofs wipes off,

As a foul Blot, from his difhonour'd Brow ?

If Angels tremble, 'tis at fuch a Sight:

The Wretch they quit, defponding of their Charge, More ftruck with Grief or Wonder, who can tell? Ye fold to Senfe! ye Citizens of Earth!

(For fuch alone the Christian Banner fly)

Know ye how wife your Choice, how great your Gain? Behold the Picture of Earth's happiest Man:

He calls his Wifh, it comes; he fends it back, "And fays, he call'd another; that arrives, "Meets the fame Welcome; yet he ftill 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 fets him free; "A Freedom far lefs welcome than his Chain."

But grant Man happy; grant him happy long;
Add to Life's highest Prize her latest Hour;
That Hour, fo late, is nimble in Approach,

That, like a Poft, 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 Gulph of Time; as far from Thee?
As they had ne'er been thine; the Day in Hand,
Like a Bird struggling to get loofe, is going;
Scarce now poffefs'd, fo fuddenly 'tis gone;
And each swift Moment fled, is Death advanc'd
By Strides as swift: Eternity is All;

And whofe Eternity? Who triumphs there?
Bathing for ever in the Font of Blifs!
For ever basking in the Deity!

LORENZO! Who ?-Thy Conscience shall reply.
O give it Leave to fpeak; 'twill speak ere long,
Thy Leave unaskt: LORENZO! hear it now,
While useful its Advice, its Accent mild,
By the great Edict, by Divine Decree,
Truth is depofited with Man's laft 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 lefs, when he fhall judge the Worlds he made;
Tho' filent long, and fleeping ne'er so sound,
Smother'd with Errors, and oppreft with Toys,
That Heav'n-commiffion'd Hour no fooner calls,
But from her Cavern in the Soul's Abyss,
Like him they fable under Ætna whelm'd,
The Goddefs burfts in Thunder, and in Flame;

Loudly

Loudly convinces, and feverely pains.
Dark Demons I discharge, and Hydra-stings;
The keen Vibrations of bright Truth-is Hell:
Juft Definition! tho' by Schools untaught.
Ye Deaf to Truth! perufe this Parfon'd Page,
And truft, for once, a Prophet, and a Priest;
"Men may live Fools, but Fools they cannot die."

NIGHT the FIFTH.

THE

RELAPSE.

Humbly Inscribed

To the RIGHT HONOURABLE

The Earl of LITCHFIELD,

L

ORENZO! to recriminate is juft.

Fondness for Fame is Avarice of Air.

I grant the Man is vain who writes for Praise.
Praise no Man e'er deferv'd, who fought no more.
As just thy Second Charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blush'd at her degen'rate Sons,
Retain❜d by Senfe to plead her filthy Cause
To raife the Low, to magnify the Mean,
And fubtilize the Grofs into Refin❜d:
As if to magic Numbers pow'rful Charm
"Twas giv'n, to make a Civet of their Song
Obfcene, and fweeten Ordure to Perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the Brute,
And lifts our Swine-enjoyments from the Mire.

The