Painim or Chriftian; to the blush of wit Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall! Dare I prefume, then? but Philander bids; 615 620 Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born Dust, In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings; 625 Or, at the midnight Altar's hallow'd flame. Is it religion to proceed? I paufe And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme. 630 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, 635 Receive the bleffing, and adore the chance, Here tir'd diffimulation drops her mafque, 640 Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene! Here Real, and Apparent, are the fame. You You fee the Man; you fee his hold on heaven; If found his virtue; as Philander's found. Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends 645 On this fide death; and points them out to men, A lecture, filent, but of fovereign power! To vice, confufion; and to virtue, peace. Virtue alone has majesty in death! A wrench from all we love! from all we are! 650 655 "And Oh! the laft, laft, what? (can words exprefs? 660 "Thought reach it ?) the laft-Silence of a friend!” Where are thofe horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which fingly shock, Demand from man ?—I thought him man till now. 665 Through nature's wreck, through vanquifht agonies, (Like the stars ftruggling 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. Richer than Mammon's for his fingle heir. 670 With 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 fixt to man? His God fuftains him in his final hour! His final hour brings glory to his God! 675 Man's glory heaven vouchfafes to call her own. 685 As fome tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow, Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Joy, Deftruction gild, and crown him for the fkies, 690 NIGHT N NIGHT THE THIRD. ARCISSA. то HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND. "Ignofcenda quidem, fcirent fi ignofcere manes." VIRG. FROM Dreams, where thought in fancy's maze runs mad, To Reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man, I keep my affignation with my woe. O! lott to virtue, loft to manly thought, Loft to the noble fallies of the foul! 5 10 Who think it folitude, to be Alone. Or Or if we wish a fourth, it is a Friend But friends, how mortal, dangerous the defire! And reeling through the wilderness af joy; Unlike the deity my fong invokes. I to Day's foft-ey'd fifter pay my court, Thou, who didit lately borrow * Cynthia's form, Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute This revolution in the world infpir'd.? 20 25 30 3.5 In filent hour, address your ardent call For aid immortal; lefs her brother's right. She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads At the duke of Norfolk's masquerade. 40 45 |