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For who shall answer for another hour ?
Ye sons of Earth! (nor willing to be more :) 1385
1401 And bold blasphemer of his friend,—the World ! The world, whose legions cost him slender pay, And volunteers around his banner swarm ; Prudent, as Prussia in her zeal for Gaul.
1405 • Are all, then, fools ?' Lorenzo cries.-Yes, all But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee,) « The mother of true wisdom is the will :' The noblest intellect, a fool without it. World-wisdom much has done, and more may do, 1410 In arts and sciences, in wars and peace ; But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee, And make thee twice a beggar at thy death. This is the most indulgence can afford,
Thy wisdom all can do but-make thee wise.' 1415 livr think this censure is severe on thee : Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.
CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,
IA MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS
II, A NIGHT ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.
- Fatis contraria fata rependens.
As when a traveller, a long day pass'd
15 Song sooths our pains, and age has pains to sooth. Whenage, care, crime, and friends embraced at heart,
Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade,
Has not the Muse asserted pleasures pure,
35 In mind are covetous of more disease ; And, when at worst, they dream themselves quite well. To know ourselves diseased is half our cure. When Nature's blush by custom is wiped off, And Conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, 40 Has into manners naturalized our crimes, The curse of curses is our curse to love ; To triumph in the blackness of our guilt (As Indians glory in the deepest jet,) And throw aside our senses with our peace. 45
But, grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy ; Grant joy and glory quite unsullied shone ; Yet, still, it ili deserves Lorenzo's heart. No joy, no glory glitters in thy sight, But, through the thin partition of an hour, 50 I see its sables wove by Destiny ; And that in sorrow buried, this in shame; While howling furies ring the doleful knell, And Conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst hear Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.
Where the prime actors of the last year's scene ; Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume? How many sleep, who kept the world awake With lustre and with noise ! Has Death proclaim'd A truce, and hung his sated lance on high? 60 "Tis brandish'd still, nor shall the present year Be more tenacious of her human leaf, Or spread, of feeble life, a thinner fall.
But needless monuments to wake the thought ; Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality, 65 Though in a style more florid, full as plain As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs. What are our noblest ornaments, but Deaths Turn'd flatterers of Life, in paint or marble, The well stain d canvass, or the featured stone ? 70 Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene : Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.
Profess'd diversions ! cannot these escape ?'Far from it : these present us with a shroud, And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave.
75 As some bold plunderers for Juried wealth, We ransack tombs for pastime ; from the dust Call up the sleeping hero; bid him tread The scene for our amusement. Hyw like gods We sit ; and, wrapp'd in immortality,
80 Shed generous tears on wretches born to die; Their fate deploring, to forget our own!
What all the pomps and triumphs of our lives But egacies in blossom? Dur lean soil, Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities,
85 From friends interr'd beneatn, a rich manure ? Like other worms, we banquet on the dead ; Like other worms, shall we crawl on, nor know Our present frailties, or approaching fate ?
Lorenzo! such the glories of the world! 90 What is the world itself? the world ?-a grave. Where is the dust that has not been alive? The spade, the plough disturb our ancestors.
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
But, O Lorenzo! far the rest above, Of ghastly nature, and enormous size,
125 One form assaults my sight, and chills my blood, And shakes my frame. Of one departed World I see the mighty shadow : oozy wreath And dismal sea-weed crown her : o'er her urn Reclined, she weeps her desolated realms, 130 And bloated sons : and, weeping, prophesies