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With higher guft, fair Portland of the skies!
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 my ear
The theft divine; or in propitious dreams

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(For dreams are Thine) transfuse it through the breast Of thy first votary-But not thy laft;

If, like thy Namefake, thou art ever kind.

And kind thou wilt be; kind on fuch a theme; 55 A theme fo like thee, a quite lunar theme, Soft, modeft, melancholy, female, fair! A theme that rose all pale, and told my foul, 'Twas Night; on her fond hopes perpetual night; A night which ftruck a damp, a deadlier damp, Than that which fmote me from Philander's tomb. Narciffa follows, ere his tomb is clos'd. Woes cluster; rare are folitary woes;

They love a train, they tread each other's heel;

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Her death invades his mournful right, and claims 65
The grief that started from my lids for Him :
Seizes the faithlefs, alienated tear,

Or fhares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow he more than caufes, he confounds;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make diftrefs, diftraction. Oh Philander!
What was thy fate? A double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow !
Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace,
Not lefs a bird of omen, than of prey.

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It

It call'd Narciffa long before her hour;
It call'd her tender foul, by break of bliss,
From the first bloffom, from the buds of joy;
Thofe few our noxious fate unblafted leaves
In this inclement clime of 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 bere) as good!
For fortune fond had built her neft on high.

Like birds quite exquifite of note and plume,
Transfixt by fate (who loves a lofty mark),
How from the fummit of the grove fhe fell,
And left it unharmonious! All its charms
Extinguisht in the wonders of her fong!
Her fong ftill vibrates in my
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain

ravifht ear,

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(0 to forget her !) thrilling through my heart! Song, Beauty, Youth, Love, Virtue, Joy; this group

Of bright ideas, flowers of paradife,

As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,

Kneel and prefent it to the skies; as All

We guess of heaven: and these were all her own,
And she was mine; and I was-was!-most bleft-
Gay title of the deepest mifery!

As bodies grow more ponderous, robb'd of life;
Good loft weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy.
Like bloffom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm,
Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;

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And if in death ftill lovely, lovelier There

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Far

Far lovlier! pity fwells the tide of love.
And will not the severe excuse a sigh ?
Scorn the proud man that is asham'd to weep;
Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e'er loft an angel! pity me.

Soon as the luftre languifht in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human fight;
And on her cheek, the refidence of spring,
Pale omen fat; and fcatter'd fears around
On all that faw (and who would cease to gaze,
That once had feen ?) with hafte, parental haste,
I flew, I fnatch'd her from the rigid north,
Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the fun; the fun
(As if the fun could envy) checkt his beam,
Deny'd his wonted fuccour; nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells
Of lilies; faire ft lilies, not fo fair!

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Queen lilies! and ye painted populace.! Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrofial lives;

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In morn and evening dew, your beauties bathe,

And drink the fun; which gives your cheeks to glow,

And out-blufh (mine excepted) every fair;

You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand,

Which often cropt your odours, incense meet
To thought fo pure! Ye lovely fugitives!
Coeval race with man! for man you fmile;

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Why nor fmile at him too? You fhare indeed
His fudden pafs; but not his constant pain.

So

So man is made, nought minifters delight,
By what his glowing paffions can engage;
And glowing paffions, bent on aught below,
Muft, foon or late, with anguish turn the scale;
And anguish, after rapture, how fevere !

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Rapture? Bold man! who tempt'ft the wrath divine, 140.
By plucking fruit denied to mortal taste,
While here, prefuming on the rights of heaven.
For transport dost thou call on every hour,
Lorenzo? At thy friend's expence, be wise;

Lean not on earth; 'twill pierce thee to the heart; 145
A broken reed, at beft; but, oft, a spear;

On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires. Turn, hopeless thought! turn from her :-Thought

repell'd

Refenting rallies, and wakes every woe.

Snatch'd ere thy prime! and in thy bridal hour! 150
And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smil'd!
And when high flavour'd thy fresh opening joys!
And when blind man pronounc'd thy blifs complete!
And on a foreign fhore; where strangers wept!
Strangers to Thee; and, more furprising still,
Strangers to Kindness, wept: their eyes let fall
Inhuman tears! ftrange tears! that trickled down
From marble hearts! obdurate tenderness !

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A tenderness that call'd them more fevere;
In spite of nature's foft perfuafion, fteel'd;

While nature melted, fuperftition rav'd;

That mourn'd the dead; and this denied a grave.

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Their

Their fighs incens'd; fighs foreign to the will!
Their will the tiger fuck'd, outrag'd the form.
For, oh the curft ungodliness of zeal!
While finful fleb relented, Spirit nurst
In blind infallibility's embrace,
The fainted Spirit petrify'd the breast ;
Deny'd the charity of duft, to spread
O'er duft! a charity their dogs enjoy.

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What could I do? What fuccour? What resource ?

With pious facrilege, a grave I ftole;
With impious piety, that grave I wrong'd;

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Short in my duty; coward in my grief!
More like her murderer, than friend, I crept,
With foft-fufpended step, and muffled deep
In midnight darkness, whisper'd my laft figh.
I whisper'd what should echo through their realms;
Nor writ her name, whofe tomb should pierce the skies.
Prefumptuous fear! How durft I dread her foes, 180
While nature's loudeft. dictates I obey'd ?

Pardon neceffity, bleft fhade! Of grief
And indignation rival burfts I pour'd;
Half execration mingled with my prayer.;
Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd;
Sore grudg'd the favage land her facred duft;
Stampt the curft foil; and with humanity
(Denied Narciffa) wish'd them all a grave.
Glows my refentment into guilt? What guilt
Can equal violations of the dead ?

The dead how facred! Sacred is the duft
Of this heaven-labour'd form, erect, divine!

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VOL. LXI.

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