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Painim or Christian; to the blush of wit
Dare I presume, then? but Philander bids ;
620 Yet am I struck; as struck the soul, beneath Aërial Groves impenetrable gloom; Or, in fome mighty Ruin's folemn shade; Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born Duft, In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings; 625 Or, at the midnight Altar's hallow'd fame. Is it religion to proceed? I pause And enter, aw'd, the temple of
the temple of my theme. Is it his death-bed ? No: it is his shrine: Behold him, there, just rising to a god.
The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven. Fly, ye profane ! If not, draw near with awe, Receive the blessing, and adore the chance, That threw in this Bethesda
disease; If unrestor'd by This, despair your cure. For, Here, refiftless demonstration dwells; A death-bed's a detector of the heart. Here tir'd disimulation drops her mafque,
640 Through life’s grimace, that mistress of the scene ! Here Real, and Apparent, are the same.
You see the Man; you see his hold on heaven;
Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,
650 And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. Philander ! he severely frown'd on thee. "No warning given ! Unceremonious fate! “A sudden rush from life’s meridian joy! A wrench from all we love! from all we are!
655 “A restless bed of pain ! a plunge opaque “Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread! “Strong Reason's shudder at the dark unknown! “A sun extinguisht ! a juft-opening grave! “And Oh! the last, last, what? (can words express ? 660 “Thought reach it?) the last-Silence of a friend !” Where are those horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which singly shock, Demand from man ?-I thought him man till now. 665
Through nature's wreck, through vanquisht agonies, (Like the stars struggling through this midnight gloom) What gleams of joy? what more than human peace! Where, the frail mortal ? the poor abject worm ? No, not in death, the Mortal to be found. His conduct is a legacy for All.
670 Richer than Mammon's for his single heir. His comforters he comforts ; Great in ruin,
With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields
How our hearts burnt within us at the scene; 675
As some tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the sun, Illustrious from its height; While rifing vapours, and descending shades,
685 With damps and darkness, drown the spacious vale; Undampt by doubt, undarken'd by despair, Philander, thus, augustly rears his head, At that black hour, which general horror sheds On the low level of th' inglorious throng: 690 Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Joy, Divinely beam on his exalted foul; Destruction gild, and crown him for the kies, With incommunicable lustre, bright.
NIGHT THE THIRD.
A RC I I S S A.
HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND.
Ignofcenda quidem, fcirent fi ignoscere manes.''
ROM Dreams, where thought in fancy's mazs
, runs mad, To Reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man, Once more I wake; and at the destin'd hour, Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn, I keep my afsignation with my woe.
5 O! lott to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble fallies of the soul ! Who think it solitude, to be Alone. Communion sweet! communion large and high! Our Reason, Guardian Angel, and our God! Then nearest These, when Others most remote; And All, ere long, shall 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 breast; 15 To win thy wish, creation has no more.
Or if we wish a fourth, it is a Friend
Take Phæbus to yourselves, ye basking bards !
25 I to Day's soft-ey'd fifter pay my court, (Endymion's rival !) and her aid implore ; Now first implor'd in succour to the Muse.
Thou, who didst lately borrow * Cynthia's form, And modestly forego thine Own ! O Thou,
30 Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire ! Say, why not Cynthia patroness of song? As thou her crescent, she thy character Affumes; Itill more a goddess by the change.
Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute 35 This revolution in the world inspir'd.? Ye train Pierian ! to the Lunar sphere, In filent hour, address your ardent call For aid immortal ; less her brother's right. Ske, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads
40 The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain, A strain for gods, deny'd to mortal ear. Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of heaven! What title, or what name, endears the most! Cynthia! Cyllené! Phoebe! or doft hear
• At the duke of Norfolk's masquerade.