O! how disorder'd our machine,
When contradictions mix!
When nature strikes no less than twelve,
And folly points at six!
To mend the moments of your heart,
How great is my delight
Gently to wind your morals up,
And set your hand aright!
That hand, which spread your wisdom wide
To poison distant lands:
Repent, recant; the tainted age
Your antidote demands;
To Satan dreadfully resign'd,
Whole herds rush down the steep
Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd,
And perish in the deep.
Men's praise your vanity pursues;
'Tis well, pursue it still;
But let it be of men deceas'd,
And you'll resign the will;
And how superior they to those
At whose applause you aim;
How very far superior they
In number, and in name!
Postscript.
Thus have I written, when to write
No mortal should presume;
Or only write, what none can blame,
Hic jacet--for his tomb:
The public frowns, and censures loud
My puerile employ;
Though just the censure, if you smile,
The scandal I enjoy;
But sing no more--no more I sing
Or reassume the lyre,
Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part
Where Raphael leads the choir:
What myriads swell the concert loud!
Their golden harps resound
High as the footstool of the throne,
And deep as hell profound:
Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and song
Of raptur'd angels drowns
In self-will's peal of blasphemies,
And hideous burst of groans;
But drowns them not to me; I hear
Harmonious thunders roll
(In language low of men to speak)
From echoing pole to pole!
Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies--
"Above, beneath the sun,
Through boundless age, by men, by gods,
Jehovah's will be done!"
'Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurl'd
Self-will with Satan fell;
And must from earth be banish'd too,
Or earth's another hell;
Madam! self-will inflicts your pains:
Self-will's the deadly foe
Which deepens all the dismal shades,
And points the shafts of woe:
Your debt to nature fully paid,
Now virtue claims her due:
But virtue's cause I need not plead,
'Tis safe; I write to you:
You know, that virtue's basis lies
In ever judging right;
And wiping error's clouds away,
Which dim the mental sight:
Why mourn the dead? you wrong the grave,
From storm that safe resort;
We still are tossing out at sea,
Our admiral in port.
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