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Where the frail mortal? the poor abject worm?
No, not in death the mortal to be found.
His conduct is a legacy for all,

Richer than Mammon's for his fingle heir.
His comforters he comforts; great in ruin,
With unreluctant grandeur, gives not yields
His foul fublime; and clofes with his fate.

How our hearts burnt within us at the scene!
Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man?
His God fuftains him in his final hour!

His final hour brings glory to his God!

Man's glory Heav'n vouchsafes to call her own.

We gaze; we weep; mix tears of grief and joy!
Amazement ftrikes! devotion burfts to flame!
Chriftians adore! and Infidels believe.

As fome tall tow`r, or lofty mountain's brow,
Detains the fun, illuftrious from its height;
While rifing vapours and defcending fhades,
With damps and darkness, drown the fpacious vale :
Undamp'd by doubt, undarken'd by despair,
PHILANDER, thus, auguftly rears his head,
At that black hour, which genʼral horror fheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:
Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humbly Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul;

Deftruction gild; and crown him for the fkies,
With incommunicable luftre, bright.

LORENZO fuch the good man's mifery!
How dim the ray, the luftre, now, how pale
Of tarnish'd pageantries, of wither'd joy,
Of beggar d opulence, difgrac'd renown,
Deep darken'd empire, conqueft overcome!
Envy's bright buts! the pant of ev'ry breast!
Envy the greateft idiot of all crimes!

Who pains herfelf for that, would pain her more.
Is there on earth that can abfolve her? Yes:
One radiant mark; the death-bed of the juft:
That gaze of angels! That glad fame of heav'n!
That joy to joy celeftial!-Ŏ my foul!

Blefs'd, ravish'd with this providential scene!
Heaven plans her gracious flratagems for all.
A fcene fo ftrong to strike, fo fweet to charm,
So great to raife, fo heavenly to infpire,
So folid to fupport fair Virtue's throne,
What transport thine, to fee? what zeal to fing?
Sing first, and fend it through the fouls of men;
And fend through theirs with eafe, if from our own.
Nor haft thou fung in vain: PHILANDER hears,
LORENZO feels thy fong. LORENZO feels,
Or he, and not PHILANDER, is the dead.
Life, take thy chance: But oh for fuch an end!
There point, my wishes? centre there; and burn.
Smile you, ye poor dependants on a pulfe!
A pulfe, your falient god! as that decrees,
Pleafur'd or pain'd, exalted or forlorn-

Smile on; and prove your misery by your smiles.
As fmiles mistaken, what tear half so fad?
It is your pride? Wou'd you be prais'd for this?
Scorn'd he the man who thinks himfelf a brute;
Affronts his fpecies and his God blafphemes:
Vile laughter! at whom pity cannot laugh;
Scorner of all, but what deferves his fcorn!
Who thinks it is ingenious to be mad,
And is quite fool enough to be a wit.

Wits fpare not Heav'n, O Wilmington!-nor thee.

THE

COMPLAINT..

NIGHT THE THIRD.

NARCISS A.

FROM dreams, where thought in Fancy's maze o

runs mad,

To Reason, that heav'n-lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake; and at the deftin'd hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment fworn,
I keep my affignation with my wo.
O! loft to virtue, loft to manly thought,
Loft to the noble fallies of the foul!
Who think it folitude to be alone.
Communion fweet! communion large, and high !
Our Reafon, guardian angel, and our God!
Then nearest these, when others most remote;
And all, 'ere long, fhall be remote, but these.
How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone,
A ftranger! unacknowledg'd! unapprov❜d!
Now woo them; wed them! bind them to thy breaft:
To win thy with, creation has no more;
Or if we with a fourth, it is a friend-
But friend, how mortal! dangerous defire.
Alone indeed, the banish'd from himself,
By day's intrufions loud, and rude affaults,
A tide of tumult, and a ftorm of tongues.
Take Phabus to yourfelves, ye baking bards!
Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain head,
And reeling through the wilderness of joy;
Where Senfe runs favage, broke from Reafon's chain,
And fings falfe peace, till fmother'd by the pall.

My fortune is unlike; unlike, my fong;
Unlike the Deity my fong invokes :
I to Day's foft-ey'd fifter pay my court,
(Endymion's rival!) and her aid implore;
Now firft implor'd in fuccour to the Mufe..

Thou, who didft lately borrow* CYNTHIA's form,, And modeftly forego thine own! O thou, Who didft thyself, at midnight hours, infpire! Say, why not CYNTHIA patronefs of fong? As thou her crefcent, fhe thy character Affumes: Still more a goddess by the change. Are there demuring wits, who dare dispute This revolution in the world infpir'd ? Ye train Pierian! to the lunar fphere, In filent hour, address your ardent call For aid immortal; lefs her brother's right. She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads The mazy dance, and hears their matchlefs ftrain; A ftrain for gods! deny'd to mortal ear. Tranfmit it, heard, thou filver queen of heav'n! What title, or what name endears the most ? CYNTHIA CYLENE! PHOEBE !-or doft hear With higher guft, fair P— D of the fkies? Is that the foft inchantment calls thee down,, More powerful than of old Circean charm? Come; but from heavenly banquets with thee bring The foul of fong; and whisper in mine ear The theft divine; or in propitious dreams (For dreams are thine) transfufe it thro' the breaft Of thy first votary--but not thy lat;

If, like thy namefake, thou art ever kind.

And kind thou wilt be; kind on fuch a theme ;
A theme fo like thee, a quite lunar theme,
Soft, modeft, melancholy, female fair!
A theme that rofe all pale, and told my foul;
"Twas night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;
A night which ftruck a damp, a deadlier damp

* At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade..

Than that which fmote me from PHILANDER's tomb.. NARCISSA follows, ere his tomb is clos,d.

Woes clufter; rare are folitary woes;

They love a train, they tread each other's heel:
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims
The grief that started from my lids for him;
Seizes the faithless, alienated tear ;
Or fhares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow he more than caufes, he confounds;
For human fighs his rival ftrokes contend,
And make diftrefs, distraction. O PHILANDER !!
What was thy fate? a double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not lefs a bird of omen, than of prey.
It call'd NARCISSA long before her hour;
It call'd her tender foul, by break of blifs,
From the first bloffom, from the buds of joy ;:
Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves
In this inclement clime or human life.

Sweet harmonift! and beautiful as fweet!
And young as beautiful! and soft as young!
And gay as foft! and innocent as gay ¡
And happy (if aught happy here) as good ¡
For Fortune fond had built her neft on high.
Like birds quite exquifite of note and plume,
Transfix'd by Fate (who loves a lofty mark),
How from the fummit of the grove fhe fell,
And left it unharmonious! all its charm
Extinguish'd in the wonders of her fong!
Her fong ftill vibrates în my ravish'd ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(0 to forget her!) thrilling through my heart!
Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this group
Of bright ideas, flow'rs of paradife,

As yet unforfeit ! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and prefent it to the fkies; as all

We guefs of Heaven; and these were all her own:
And he was mine; and I was-was moft blefs'd

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