Painim or Chriftian; to the blush of wit

Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!
The Death-bed of the juft! is yet undrawn
By mortal hand! it merits a Divine:
Angels fhould paint it, angels ever There;
There, on a post of honour, and of joy.

Dare I prefume, then? but Philander bids;
And glory tempts, and inclination calls-
Yet am I ftruck; as ftruck the foul, beneath
Aërial Groves impenetrable gloom;
Or, in fome mighty Ruin's folemn shade;

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.
Is it his death-bed? No: it is his fhrine:
Behold him, there, juft rifing to a god.

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,
That threw in this Bethesda your difeafe;
If unreftor'd by This, defpair your cure.
For, Here, refiftless demonftration dwells;
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

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.
Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,

Virtue alone has majesty in death!
And greater ftill, the more the tyrant frowns.
Philander! he feverely frown'd on thee.
"No warning given! Unceremonious fate!
"A fudden rush from life's meridian joy!

A wrench from all we love! from all we are!
"A restless bed of pain! a plunge opaque
"Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread!
"Strong Reason's shudder at the dark unknown!!
"A fun extinguisht! a juft-opening grave!

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.
His comforters he comforts; Great in ruin,

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.
We gaze, we weep; mixt tears of grief of joy! 68,
Amazement ftrikes! devotion burfts to flame!
Chriftians Adore! and Infidels Believe.

685

As fome tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow,
Detains the fun, Illuftrious from its height;
While rifing vapours, and defcending fhades,
With damps and darknefs, drown the spacious vale;
Undampt by doubt, undarken'd by defpair,
Philander, thus, auguftly rears his head,
At that black hour, which general horror fheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:

Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul;

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

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,
Once more I wake; and at the deftin'd hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment fworn,

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.
Communion fweet! communion large and high!
Our Reason, Guardian Angel, and our God!
Then nearest Thefe, when Others moft 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 breast; 15
To win thy wish, creation has no more.

Or

Or if we wish a fourth, it is a Friend

But friends, how mortal, dangerous the defire!
Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking bards!
Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head;

And reeling through the wilderness af joy;
Where Senfe runs favage, broke from Reason'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 Muse.

Thou, who didit lately borrow * Cynthia's form,
And modeftly forego thine Own! O Thou,
Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire!
Say, why not Cynthia patronefs of fong?
As thou her crefcent, fhe thy character
Affumes; ftill more a goddess by the change.

Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute

This revolution in the world infpir'd.?
Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar sphere,

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
The mazy dance, and hears their matchless ftrain,
A ftrain for gods, deny'd to mortal ear.
Transmit it heard, thou filver queen of heaven!
What title, or what name, endears the most.!
Cynthia! Cyllené! Phœbe! or doft hear

At the duke of Norfolk's masquerade.

40

45