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Assists me here) compare it to the moon ;
Nor is that glory distant. Oh, Lorenzo !
Life makes the soul dependent on the dust. Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. Through chinks, stil'd organs, dim life peeps at light; Death bursts the' involving cloud, and all is day : All eye, all ear, the disembody'd power. Death has feign'd evils nature shall not feel; Life, ills substantial wisdom cannot shun. Is not the mighty mind, that sun of Heav'n ! By tyrant Life dethron'd, imprison'd, pain'd? By Death enlarg'd, ennobled, deified ? Death but intombs the body, life the soul.
'Is Death then guiltless? How he marks his way With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine ! Art, genius, fortune, elevated power ! With various lustres these light up the world, Which Death puts out, and darkens human race.'
I grant, Lorenzo ! this indictment just:
Lorenzo ! blush at fondness for a life
Then welcome, Death! thy dreaded harbingers, Age and disease; Disease, though long my guest, That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life, Which pluck'd a little more will toll the bell That calls my few friends to my funeral ; Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a tear, While Reason and Religion, better taught, Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb With wreath triumphant. Death is victory; It binds in chains the raging ills of life : Lust and Ambition, Wrath, and Avarice, Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his power. That ills corrosive, cares importunate, Are not immortal too, O Death! is thine. Our day of dissolution !--name it right, Tis our great pay-day; 'tis our harvest, rich And ripe. What though the sickle, sometimes keen,
Just scars us as we reap the golden grain ;
And feel I, Death! no joy from thought of thee?
LOVE OF FAME,
THE UNIVERSAL PASSION.
To His Grace the Duke of Dorset.
Tanto major famæ sitis est, quam
Juv, Sat, 10.
M Y verse is Satire; Dorset ! lend your ear,
11 And patronise a Muse you cannot fear. To poets sacred is a Dorset's name, Their wonted passport through the gates of Fame : It bribes the partial reader into praise, And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays : The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see, And gives applause to Blackmore, or to me. But you decline the mistress we pursue; Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.
Instructive Satire! true to Virtue's cause ! Thou shining supplement of public laws ! When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age Reproach our silence, and demand our rage; When purchas'd follies, from each distant land, Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand; When the Law shows her teeth but dares not bite, And South-Sea treasures are not brought to light; When Churchmen scripture for the classics quit, Polite apostates from God's grace to wit: When men grow great from their revenue spent, And fly from bailiffs into parliament; When dying sinners, to blot out their score, Bequeath the Church the leavings of a whore; To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase, Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?
Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right, And dedications wash an Ethiop white? Set up each senseless wretch for Nature's boast. On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post? Shall funeral Eloquence her colours spread, And scatter roses on the wealthy dead ? Shall authors smile on such illustrious days, And satirize with nothing but their praise?
Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train. Nor hears that virtuę which he loves complain? Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead, And guilt's chief foe in Addison is fled : Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels fairly won, Sits smiling at the goal while others run, He will not write ; and (more provoking still!) Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly distress'd, what author shall we find Discreetly daring, and severely kind, The courtly Roman's shining path to tread, And sharply smile prevailing folly dead? Will no superior genius snatch the quill, And save me, on the brink, from writing ill ? Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise: What will not men attempt for sacred praise ?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns, more or less, and glows in every heart; The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; The modest shun it, but to make it sure. O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells, Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells : 'Tis tory, whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades : Here to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence, There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence : It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head, And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead; Nor ends with life, but nods in sable plumes, Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.
What is not proud ? the pimp is proud to see So many like himself in high degree: