615

Painim or Christian; to the blush of wit
Man's highest triumph! man's profoundeft fall!
The Death-bed of the juft! is yet undrawn
By mortal hand! it merits a Divine:
Angels should paint it, angels ever There;
There, on a post of honour, and of joy.

Dare I presume, then? but Philander bids ;
And glory tempts, and inclination calls-

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

your

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

630

635

You see the Man; you see his hold on heaven;
If sound his virtue ; as Philander's sound.
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 sovereign power !
To vice, confufion; and to virtue, peace.

Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majesty in death!

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

With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields
His foul sublime; and closes with his fate.

How our hearts burnt within us at the scene; 675
Whence this brave bound o'er limits fixt to man?
His God sustains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God !
Man's glory heaven vouchsafes to call her own.
We gaze, we weep; mixt tears of grief of joy! 68.
Amazement strikes ! devotion bursts to flame !
Christians Adore ! and Infidels Believe.

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.

N A

A RC I I S S A.

TO

HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND.

Ignofcenda quidem, fcirent fi ignoscere manes.''

VIRG.

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.

20

Or if we wish a fourth, it is a Friend
But friends, how mortal, dangerous the desire !

Take Phæbus to yourselves, ye basking bards !
Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head;
And reeling through the wilderness of joy;
Where Sense runs savage, broke from Reason's chain,
And sings false peace, till smother'd by the pall.
My fortune is unlike; unlike my song;
Unlike the deity my song invokes.

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

45

• At the duke of Norfolk's masquerade.