Truth never was indebted to a lie.
Wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought;
Sought before all; but (how unlike all else
We seek on earth!)' tis-never sought in vain.
The first sure symptom of a mind in health,
Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
Patience and resignation are the pillars
Of human peace on earth.
Eternity, depending on an hour,
Makes serious thoughts man's wisdom, joy, and praise.
Haste, haste! a man by nature is in haste;
For who shall answer for another hour?
Nor man alone; his breathing bust expires,
His tomb is mortal; empires die : Where, now,
The Roman? Greek? They stalk, an empty name !
Yet few regard them in this useful light.
Who conscience sent, her sentence will support, And GOD above assert that God in man.
Shall man alone, whose fate, whose final fate Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thought? I think of nothing else; I see! I feel it!
All nature, like an earthquake, trembling round!
I see the Judge enthron'd! The flaming guard!
The volume open'd! Open'd ev'ry heart!
A sun-beam pointing out each secret thought!
No patron! intercessor none ! now past
The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour!
For guilt no plea! To pain, no pause! no bound!
Inexorable, all! and all, extreme!
What, then, am I ?—Amidst applauding worlds,
And worlds celestial, is there found on earth,
A peevish, dissonant, rebellious string,
Which jars in the grand chorus, and complains?
All, all is right, by GOD ordain'd or done.
'Tis a prime part of happiness, to know
How much unhappiness must prove our lot :
A part which few
possess. I'll pay life's tax
Without one rebel murmur from this hour,
Nor think it misery to be a man.
Some ills we wish for, when we wish to live.
Since Adam fell, no mortal uninspir'd
Has ever yet conceiv'd, or ever shall,
How kind is GOD, how great (if good) is man.
No man too largely from Heav'n's love can hope,
If what is hop'd he labours to secure.
Thus the three Virtues least alive on earth,
Are welcom'don Heav'n's coast with most applause,
An humble, pure, and heav'nly-minded heart.
What arm Almighty put these wheeling globes
In motion, and wound up the vast machine?
Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs?
Who bowl'd them flaming through the dark
profound?
The course of nature is the art of GOD.
Born in an age more curious than devout,
More fond to fix the place of heav'n or hell,
Than studious this to shun, or that secure.
'Tis not the curious, but the pious path,
That leads me to my point: Lorenzo! know,
Without a star or angel for their guide,
Who worship GOD shall find HIM. Humble Love,
And not proud Reason, keeps the door of heav'n.
In ev'ry storm that either frowns or falls,
What an asylum has the soul in prayer?
Art thou ashamed to bend thy knee to GOD?
Not deeply to discern, not much to know,
Mankind was born to wonder and adore.
Though heaven and hell depend upon thy choice,
A butterfly comes cross and both are fled.-
Is this the picture of a Rational?
My soul! henceforth in sweetest union join
The two supports of human happiness,
True taste of life and constant thought of death.
Hope be thy joy, and probity thy skill.
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns thro' all:
It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail, And I the little hero of each tale.
Some go to Church proud, humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went.
Men should press forward in fame's glorious chase: Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Titles are marks of honest men and wise:
The fool or knave that wears a title lies.
Let high birth triumph. What can be more great? Nothing but merit in a low estate.
Parts may be praised, good nature is ador'd,
Then draw your pen as seldom as your sword:
And never on the weak, or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
Who for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
How oft the noon, how oft the midnight bell,
(That iron tongue of death) with solemn knell,
On folly's errands as we vainly roam,
Knocks at our hearts and finds our thoughts from
Our ardent labours, for the toys we seek,
Join night to day and Sunday to the week.
But one admirer has the painted lass,
Nor finds that one but in her looking glass;
To deck the female cheek he only knows
Who paints less fair the lily and the rose.
What's female beauty, but an air divine,
Through which the mind's all gentle graces shine?
They, like the sun, irradiate all between:
The body charms, because the soul is seen.
Hence men are often captives of a face,
They know not why, of no peculiar grace:
Some forms, though bright, no mortal man can bear,
Some none resist, though not exceeding fair.
Then wrought into the soul let virtues shine,
The ground eternal as the work divine.
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