Part 28 (2/2)

The fear of death is truly wise, Till wisdom can rise higher; And, arm'd with pious fort.i.tude, Death dreaded once, desire:

Grand climacteric vanities The vainest will despise; Shock'd, when beneath the snow of age Man immaturely dies:

But am not I myself the man?

No need abroad to roam In quest of faults to be chastis'd; What cause to blush at home?

In life's decline, when men relapse Into the sports of youth, The second child out-fools the first, And tempts the lash of truth;

Shall a mere truant from the grave With rival boys engage?

His trembling voice attempt to sing, And ape the poet's rage?

Here, madam! let me visit one, My fault who, partly, shares, And tell myself, by telling him, What more becomes our years;

And if your breast with prudent zeal For resignation glows, You will not disapprove a just Resentment at its foes.

In youth, Voltaire! our foibles plead For some indulgence due; When heads are white, their thoughts and aims Should change their colour too:

How are you cheated by your wit!

Old age is bound to pay, By nature's law, a mind discreet, For joys it takes away;

A mighty change is wrought by years, Reversing human lot; In age 'tis honour to lie hid, 'Tis praise to be forgot;

The wise, as flowers, which spread at noon, And all their charms expose, When evening damps and shades descend, Their evolutions close.

What though your muse has n.o.bly soar'd, Is that our truth sublime?

Ours, h.o.a.ry friend! is to prefer Eternity to time:

Why close a life so justly fam'd With such bold trash as this?(54) This for renown? yes, such as makes Obscurity a bliss:

Your trash, with mine, at open war, Is obstinately bent,(55) Like wits below, to sow your tares Of gloom and discontent:

With so much suns.h.i.+ne at command, Why light with darkness mix?

Why dash with pain our pleasure?

Your Helicon with Styx?

Your works in our divided minds Repugnant pa.s.sions raise, Confound us with a double stroke, We shudder whilst we praise;

A curious web, as finely wrought As genius can inspire, From a black bag of poison spun, With horror we admire.

Mean as it is, if this is read With a disdainful air, I can't forgive so great a foe To my dear friend Voltaire:

Early I knew him, early prais'd, And long to praise him late; His genius greatly I admire, Nor would deplore his fate;

A fate how much to be deplor'd!

At which our nature starts; Forbear to fall on your own sword.

To perish by your parts:

”But great your name”-To feed on air, Were then immortals born?

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