Whate'er their lot is here, the good and wife,
Nor doat on life, nor peevishly despise.
An honest man, when Fortune's storms begin,
Has Confolation always fure within;
And, if the fends a more propitious gale,
He's pleas'd, but not forgetful it may fail.
Nor fear that he, who fits fo loose to life,
Should too much fhun its labors, and its ftrife;
And scorning wealth, contented to be mean,
Shrink from the duties of this bustling scene;
Or, when his country's fafety claims his aid,
Avoid the fight inglorious, and afraid :
Who fcorns life most must surely be most brave,
And he, who pow'r contemns, be least a slave:
Virtue will lead him to Ambition's ends,
And prompt him to defend his country, and his friends.
But still his merit you can not regard,
Who thus pursues a pofthumous reward;
His foul, you cry, is uncorrupt and great,
Who quite uninfluenc'd by a future state,
Embraces Virtue from a nobler sense
Of her abstracted, native excellence,
From the self-confcious joy her effence brings,
The beauty, fitnefs, harmony of things.
It may be fo: yet he deferves applause,
Who follows where inftructive Nature draws;
Aims at rewards by her indulgence giv❜n,
And foars triumphant on her wings to heav'n.
Say what this venal virtuous man pursues,
No mean rewards, no mercenary views;
Not wealth ufurious, or a num❜rous train,
Not fame by fraud acquir'd, or title vain!
He follows but where Nature points the road,
Rifing in Virtue's fchool, 'till he afcends to God.
But we th' inglorious common herd of man,
Sail without compass, toil without a plan;
In Fortune's varying storms for ever tost,
Shadows purfue, that in pursuit are lost;
Mere infants all, 'till life's extremest day,
Scrambling for toys, then toffing them away.
'Who refts of Immortality assur'd
Is fafe, whatever ills are here endur'd:
He hopes not vainly in a world like this,
To meet with pure uninterrupted bliss;
For good and ill, in this imperfect state,
Are ever mix'd by the decrees of Fate.
With Wisdom's richest harvest Folly grows,
And baleful hemlock mingles with the rose;
All things are blended, changeable, and vain,
No hope, no wish we perfectly obtain ;
God may perhaps (might human Reason's line
Pretend to fathom infinite defign)
Have thus ordain'd things, that the restless mind
No happiness compleat on earth may find;
And, by this friendly chastisement made wise,
To heav'n her safest, best retreat may rife.
Come then, fince now in fafety we have past
Through Error's rocks, and see the port at last,
Let us review, and recollect the whole. -
Thus ftands my argument- The thinking foul
Cannot terrestrial, or material be,
But claims by Nature Immortality:
God, who created it, can make it end,
We question not, but cannot apprehend
He will, because it is by him endued
With strong ideas of all-perfect Good:
With wond'rous pow'rs to know, and calculate
Things too remote from this our earthly state;
With fure prefages of a life to come,
All false and useless, if beyond the tomb
Our beings ceafe: we therefore can't believe
God either acts in vain, or can deceive.
That Vice and Virtue from the Almighty's hands,
Should due rewards, and punishments receive,
And this by no means happens whilft we live,
It follows, that a time muft furely come,
When each fhall meet their well-adjusted doom:
Then fhall this fcene, which now to human fight
Seems fo unworthy Wisdom infinite,
A system of consummate skill appear,
And every cloud difpers'd, be beautiful and clear.
Doubt we of this! what folid proof remains,
That o'er the world a wife Difpofer reigns?
Whilst all Creation speaks a pow'r divine,
Is it deficient in the main defign?
Not fo: the day fhall come, (pretend not now
Prefumptuous to enquire or when, or how)
But after death fhall come th' important day,
When God to all his justice shall display;
Each action with impartial eyes regard,
And in a juft proportion punish and reward.
The ARBOUR: An ODE to CONTENTMENT.
O thefe lone fhades, where Peace delights to dwell,
May Fortune oft permit me to retreat;
Here bid the world, with all its cares, farewel,
And leave its pleasures to the rich and great.
Oft as the fummer's fun fhall cheer this scene,
With that mild gleam which points his parting ray,
Here let my foul enjoy each eve ferene,
Here share its calm, 'till life's declining day.
No gladsome image then should 'scape my fight, From these gay flow'rs, which border near my eye, To yon bright cloud, that decks, with richest light, The gilded mantle of the western sky.
With ample gaze, I'd trace that ridge remote,
Where op'ning cliffs disclose the boundless main;
With earnest ken, from each low hamlet note
The steeple's fummit peeping o'er the plain.
|