Nor does this science make thy crown alone, Thou 'rt by this noble mixture free Fantastic incivility : There are who all their patients' chagrin have, Ere that of life be half yet done; Thou fee'ft thyself still fresh and strong, And better things of man report; For thou doft make Life long, and Art but short. As certainly as I; And all thy noble reparations fink Into the fure-wrought mine of treacherous mortality. Thou hold ft out towns that must at last be ta'en, Unbend Unbend sometimes thy reftlefs care, T' enjoy at once their health and thee: Some hours, at least, to thine own pleasures fpare: Bestow 't not all in charity. Let Nature and let Art do what they please, When all 's done, Life is an incurable disease. Ο H, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother! In all the cobwebs of the fchoolmen's trade, As 'tis" to be," or "not to be." 'Dream of a fhadow! a reflection made Vain, weak-built ifthmus, which doft proudly rife Up betwixt two eternities ! Yet canft nor wave nor wind sustain, But, broken and o’erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet again. And with what rare inventions do we strive Ourfelves then to furvive? Wife, fubtle arts, and fuch as well befit That Nothing Man's no wit!— Some with vast coftly tombs would purchase it, Here lies the great"-false marble! where? A lafting life in well-hewn ftone they rear: Was flain fo many hundred years before, Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre. His father-in-law an higher place does claim He, fince that toy his death, Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath. 'Tis true, the two immortal fyllables remain; But oh, ye learned men! explain What effence, what existence, this, What fubftance, what fubfiftence, what hypoftafis, In those alone does the great Cæfar live, 'Tis all the conquer'd world could give. With a refin'd fantastic vanity, Think we not only have, but give, eternity. Fain would I fee that prodigal, Who Who his to-morrow would bestow, For all old Homer's life, e'er fince he dy'd, till now! I Leave mortality, and things below; I have no time in compliments to waste; For I am call'd to go. A whirlwind bears-up my dull feet, Th' officious clouds beneath them meet; And lo! I mount, and lo! How small the biggest parts of earth's proud title show! 'Where fhall I find the noble British land? 'Lo! I at laft a northern speck espy, Which in the fea does lie, And feems a grain o' th' fand! And is it this, alas! which we I pass by th' arched magazines which hold Nor shake with fear or cold: Without affright or wonder I meet clouds charg'd with thunder, And lightnings, in my way, Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play. Now Now into' a gentle fea of rolling flame I'm plung'd, and ftill mount higher there, So perfect, yet so tame, So great, so pure, so bright a fire, Was that unfortunate defire, My faithful breast did cover, Then, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover. Through feveral orbs which one fair planet bear, The hints of Galileo's glafs, I touch at last the spangled fphere : Is but one galaxy, 'Tis all fo bright and gay, And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day. Where am I now? Angels, and God is here; Swallows my fenfes quite, And drowns all What, or How, or Where!' The tyrannous pleasure could express. Oh, 'tis too much for man! but let it ne'er be lefs ! The mighty' Elijah mounted fo on high, And went not downwards to the fky! With |