with all who give themselves the small trouble of looking seriously into their own bosoms, and of observing with any tolerable degree of attention, what daily passes round about them in the world. If some arguments shall here occur which others have declined, they are submitted, with all deference, to better judgments, in this, of all points, the most important! for as to the being of a God, that is no longer disputed; but it is undisputed for this reason only, viz. because where the least pretence to reason is admitted, it must for ever be indisputable and, of consequence, no man can be betrayed into a dispute of that nature by vanity, which has a principal share in animating our modern combatants against other articles of pur belief.
The Infidel Reclaimed.
IN TWO PARTS.
CONTAINING THE NATURE, PROOF, AND IMPORTANCE OF
WHERE, AMONG OTHER THINGS,
GLORY AND RICHES ARE PARTICULARLY CONSIDERED.
To the Right Hon. Henry Pelham,
First Lord Commissioner of the Treasury, and Chancellor of the Exchequer.
SHE' (for I know not yet her name in Heaven)
Not early, like Narcissa, left the scene,
Nor sudden, like Philander. What avail?
This seeming mitigation but inflames;
This fancied medicine heightens the disease.
The longer known, the closer still she grew,
And gradual parting is a gradual death.
"Tis the grim tyrant's engine which extorts,
1 Referring to Night the Fifth.
By tardy pressure's still increasing weight,
From hardest hearts confession of distress.
O the long dark approach, through years of pain,
Death's gallery! (might I dare to call it so)
With dismal doubt and sable terror hung,
Sick Hope's pale lamp its only glimmering ray:
There Fate my melancholy walk ordain'd,
Forbid self-love itself to flatter there.
How oft I gazed, prophetically sad!
How oft I saw her dead, while yet in smiles !
In smiles she sunk her grief to lessen mine :
She spoke me comfort, and increased my pain.
Like powerful armies trenching at a town,
By slow and silent, but resistless sap,
In his pale progress gently gaining ground,
Death urged his deadly siege; in spite of art,
Of all the balmy blessings Nature lends
To succour frail humanity. Ye Stars!
(Not now first made familiar to my sight)
And thou, O Moon! bear witness; many a night
He tore the pillow from beneath my head,
Tied down my sore attention to the shock,
By ceaseless depredations on a life
Dearer than that he left me. Dreadful post
Of observation! darker every hour!
Less dread the day that drove me to the brink,
And pointed at eternity below;
When my soul shudder'd at futurity;
When, on a moment's point, the' important die
Of life and death spun doubtful, ere it fell,
And turn'd up life; my title to more woe.
But why more woe? more comfort let it be.
Nothing is dead, but that which wish'd to die ;
Nothing is dead, but wretchedness and pain;
Nothing is dead, but what encumber'd, gall'd,
Block'd up the pass, and barr'd from real life.
Where dwells that wish most ardent of the wise?
Too dark the Sun to see it; highest stars
Too low to reach it; Death, great Death alone,
O'er Stars and Sun triumphant, lands us there.
Nor dreadful our tansition, though the mind,
An artist at creating self-alarms,
Rich in expedients for inquietude,
Is prone to paint it dreadful. Who can take
Death's portrait true? the tyrant never sat.
Our sketch all random strokes, conjecture all;
Close shuts the grave, nor tells one single tale,
Death and his image rising in the brain
Bear faint resemblance; never are alike:
Fear shakes the pencil: Fancy loves excess;
Dark Ignorance is lavish of her shades;
And these the formidable picture draw.
But grant the worst, 'tis past; new prospects
rise,
And drop a veil eternal o'er her tomb.
Far other views our contemplation claim,
Views that o'erpay the rigours of our life;
Views that suspend our agonies in death.
Wrapp'd in the thought of immortality,
Wrapp'd in the single, the triumphant thought!
Long life might lapse, age unperceived come on,
And find the soul unsated with her theme.
Its Nature, Proof, Importance, fire my song.
O that my song could emulate my soul!
Like her immortal. No!-the soul disdains
A mark so mean; far nobler hope inflames;
If endless ages can outweigh an hour,
Let not the laurel, but the palm inspire.
Thy nature, Immortality! who knows?
And yet who knows it not? it is but life
In stronger thread of brighter colour spun,
And spun for ever; dipp'd by cruel Fate
In Stygian dye, how black, how brittle, here;
How short our correspondence with the Sun!
And while it lasts, inglorious! our best deeds
How wanting in their weight! our highest joys
Small cordials to support us in our pain,
And give us strength to suffer. But how great
To mingle interests, converse, amities,
With all the sons of Reason, scatter'd wide
Through habitable space, wherever born,
Howe'er endow'd! to live free citizens
Of universal Nature! to lay hold,
By more than feeble faith, on the Supreme!
To call Heaven's rich unfathomable mines
(Mines which support archangels in their state)
Our own! to rise in science as in bliss,
Initiate in the secrets of the skies!
To read Creation; read its mighty plan
In the bare bosom of the Deity!
The plan and execution to collate!
To see, before each glance of piercing thought,
All cloud, all shadow, blown remote; and leave
No mystery-but that of Love Divine,
Which lifts us on the seraph's flaming wing,
From Earth's aceldama, this field of blood,
Of inward anguish, and of outward ill,
From darkness and from dust, to such a scene!
Love's element! true joy's illustrious home!
From Earth's sad contrast (now deplored) more
What exquisite vicissitude of Fate !
Bless'd absolution of our blackest hour!
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