If admiration is a fource of joy,

What tranfport hence! Yet this the leaft in heaven.
What this to that illuftrious robe He wears,
Who toft this mafs of wonders from his hand,

A fpecimen, an earneft of his power?
'Tis, to that glory, whence all glory flows,
As the mead's meaneft flow'ret to the fun,
Which gave it birth. But what, this fun of heaven?
This blifs fupreme of the fupremely bleft?
Death, only death, the question can resolve.
By death, cheap-bought th' ideas of our joy;
The bare ideas! Solid happinefs

So diftant from its fhadow chas'd below.

And chafe we ftill the phantom thro' the fire,
O'er bog, and brake, and precipice, till death?
And toil we ftill for fublunary pay?

Defy the dangers of the field and flood,
Or, fpider-like, spin out our precious All,
Our more than vitals fpin (if no regard
To great futurity) in curious webs
Of fubtle thought, and exquifite defign;

(Fine net-work of the brain!) to catch a fly!
The momentary buz of vain renown!

A name! a mortal immortality!

Or (meaner ftill!) instead of grasping air,
For fordid lucre plunge we in the mire ?

Drudge, fweat, thro' ev'ry shame, for ev'ry gain,
For vile contaminating trash; throw up

Our hope in heav'n, our dignity with man?

And deify the dirt, matur'd to gold?

Ambition,

Ambition, avrice; the two demons thefe,

Which goad thro' ev'ry flough our human herd,
Hard-travell'd from the cradle to the grave.

How low the wretches ftoop! How fteep they climb! Thefe demons burn mankind; but most poffefs LORENZO'S bofom, and turn out the skies.

Is it in time to hide eternity?

And why not in an atom on the shore,

To cover ocean? or a mote, the fun?

Glory and wealth! have they this blinding pow'r ?
What if to them I prove LORENZO blind?
Would it surprise thee? Be thou then furpris'd;
Thou neither know'it: Their nature learn from me.
Mark well, as foreign as thefe fubjects leem,
What close connexion ties them to my theme.
Firft, what is true ambition? The pursuit
Of glory, nothing less than man can fhare.
Were they as vain, as gaudy-minded man,
As flatulent with fumes of felf-applause,
Their arts and conquefts animals might boast,
And claim their laurel crowns, as well as We;
But not celeftial. Here we ftand alone;
As in our form, diftinct, pre-eminent;

If prone in thought, our ftature is our shame;
And man fhould blush, his forehead meets the skies.
The vifible and prefent are for brutes,

A flender portion! and a narrow bound!
These reason, with an energy divine,
O'erleaps; and claims the future and unseen;

The vaft unfeen! the future fathomlefs!

When the great foul buoys up to this high point,
Leaving grofs nature's fediments below,

Then, and then only, Adam's offspring quits
The fage and hero of the fields and woods,
Afferts his rank, and rifes into man.

This is ambition: This is human fire.

Can parts or place (two bold pretenders!) make LORENZO great, and pluck him from the throng? Genius and art, ambition's boafted wings,

Our boaft but ill deferve.

A feeble aid!

Dedalian engin'ry! If Thefe alone

Affift our flight, fame's flight is glory's fall.
Heart merit wanting, mount we ne'er fo high,
Our height is but the gibbet of our name.
A celebrated wretch, when I behold,
When I behold a genius bright, and bafe,
Of tow'ring talents, and terreftrial aims;
Methinks I fee, as thrown from her high sphere,
The glorious fragments of a foul immortal,
With rubbish mixt, and glitt'ring in the duft.
Struck at the fplendid, melancholy fight,
At once compaffion soft, and envy, rife
But wherefore envy? Talents angel-bright,
If wanting worth, are fhining inftruments
In falfe ambition's hand, to finish faults
Illuftrious, and give infamy renown.

Great ill is an atchievement of great pow'rs.
Plain fenfe but rarely leads us far aftray.
Rafn the means, affections chufe our end;
Means have no merit, if our end amifs.

If

If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain ;
What is a PELHAM's head, to PELHAM's heart?
Hearts are proprietors of all applaufe.

Right ends, and means, make wifdom: Worldly-wife
Is but half-witted, at its highest praife.

Let genius then defpair to make thee great;
Nor flatter flation: What is station high ?
'Tis a proud mendicant; it boafts, and begs;
It begs an alms of homage from the throng,
And oft the throng denies its charity.
Monarchs and ministers, are aweful names;
Whoever wear them, challenge our devoir.
Religion, publick order, both exact
External homage, and a fupple knee,
To beings pompously fet up, to serve
The meanest flave; all more is merit's due,
Her facred and inviolable right;

Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man.
Our hearts ne'er bow but to fuperior worth ;
Nor ever fail of their allegiance there.
Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account,
And vote the mantle into majefty.

Let the fmall favage boast his filver fur ;
His royal robe unborrow'd, and unbought,
His own, defcending fairly from his fires.
Shall man be proud to wear his livery,
And fouls in ermin scorn a foul without ?
Can place or leffen us, or aggrandize?
Pygmies are pygmies ftill, tho' percht on Alps s
And pyramids are pyramids in vales.

Each man makes his own ftature, builds himself:

Virtue alone outbuilds the pyramids :

Her monuments shall last, when Egypt's fall.

Of these fure truths doft thou demand the cause?
The caufe is lodg'd in immortality.

Hear, and affent. Thy bofom burns for pow'r ;
What station charms thee? I'll inftall thee there;
'Tis thine. And art thou greater than before?
Then thou before waft fomething less than man
Has thy new poft betray'd thee into pride?
That treach'rous pride betrays thy dignity;
That pride defames humanity, and calls

The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise.
That pride, like hooded hawks, in darknefs foars,
From blindness bold, and tow'ring to the skies.
'Tis born of ignorance, which knows not man:
An angel's fecond; nor his fecond, long.
A NERO quitting his imperial throne,
And courting glory from the tinkling string,
But faintly fhadows an immortal foul,
With empire's felf, to pride, or rapture, fir'd.
If nobler motives minister no cure,
Ev'n vanity forbids thee to be vain.

High worth is elevated place: 'Tis more;
It makes the poft ftand candidate for Thee;
Makes more than monarchs, makes an honest man;
Tho' no exchequer it commands, 'tis wealth;
And tho' it wears no ribband, 'tis renown;
Renown, that would not quit thee, tho' disgrac'd,
Nor leave thee pendent on a mafter's smile.

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