And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
It is his deathbed? No; it is his fhrine;
The chamber where the good man meets his fate
Behold him there juft rifing to a god.
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk
Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n.
Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe,
Receive the bleffing, and adore the chance
That threw in this Bethesda your disease:
If unreftor'd by this, defpair your cure.
For here refiftless Demonftration dwells;
A deathbed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd Diffimulation drops her mask
Thro' life's grimace, that mistress of the scene!
Here real and apparent are the fame.
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
On this fide death, and points them out to men, 646
A lecture filent, but of fov'reign power!
To Vice confufion, and to Virtue peace.
Whatever farce the boaftful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majesty in death,
And greater ftill, the more the tyrant frowns.
Philander! he severely frown'd on thee.
"No warning given! unceremonious fate!
"A fudden rufh 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 fhudder at the dark unknown! "A fun extinguish'd! a juft opening grave! "And, oh! the laft, laft; what? (can words express? "Thought reach it ?) the laft-filence of a friend !" Where are thofe horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which fingly fhock, Demand from man.—I thought him man till now.
Thro' Nature's wreck, thro' vanquish'd agonies,665 (Like the ftars ftruggling thro' 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,
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 fix'd to man?
His God fuftains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God!
Man's glory heav'n vouchsafes to call her own,
We gaze, we weep; mix'd tears of grief and joy! 680 Amazement ftrikes! devotion burfts to flame! Chriftians adore! and infidels believe.
As fome tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the fun, illuftrious, from its height, While rifing vapours, and defcending fhades, 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 gen'ral horror sheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:
Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul;
Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable luftre bright.
THE COMPLAINT.
NIGHT III.
NARCISSA.
Humbly infcribed to
HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND.
Ignofcenda quidem, fcirent fi ignofcere manes.
ROM dreams, where thought in Fancy's maze runs
To reafon, that heav'n-lighted lamp in man, [mad,
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! loft to virtue, loft to manly thought, Loft to the noble fallies of the foul!
Who think it folitude to be alone.
Communion fweet! communion large and high !
Our reafon, 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 with creation has no more :
Or if we with a fourth, it is a friend.
But friends how mortal dang'rous the defire.
Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking bards! Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain head,
And reeling thro' the wilderness of joy,
Where Senle runs savage, broke from Reason's chain,
And fings falfe peace, till fmother'd by the pall.
My fortune is unlike, unlike my song,
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 Mufe.
Thou who didft 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 long?
As thou her crefcent, the thy character
Affumes, ftill more a goddess by the change.
Are there demurring wits who dare difpute
This revolution in the world infpir'd?
Ye train Pierian! to the lunar fphere,
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 matchlefs ftrain;
A ftrain for gods, deny'd to mortal ear.
Tranfmit it heard, thou filver queen of heav'n!
What title or what name endears thee moft?
* At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade.
Cynthia! Cyllene! Phoebe !-or doft hear
With higher guft, fair Portland of the skies?
Is that the foft enchantment calls thee down,
More pow'rful than of old Circean charm?
Come, but from heav'nly banquets with thee bring
The foul of fong, and wifper in mine ear
The theft divine; or in propitious dreams
(For dreams are thine) transfule it thro' 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 rofe 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 fimote 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;
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims
The grief that started from my lids for him;
Seizes the faithlefs, alienated rear,
Or fhares it ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow he more than causes; he confounds;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make diitrefs diftraction. Oh, Philander !
What was thy fate? a double fate to me;
Portent and pain! a menace and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not lefs a bird of omen than of prey.
It call'd Narciffa long before her hour;
It call'd her tender foul by break of blifs,
From the first bloffom, from the buds of joy;
Thofe few our noxious fate unblatted leaves
In this inclement clime of human life.
Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as fweet!
And
young as beautiful and foft as young!
And gay as
foft! and innocent as gay!
And happy (if aught happy here) as good L
For Fortune fond had built her neft on high.
Like birds quite exquifite of note and plume,
Transfix'd by fate (who loves a lofty mark)
How from the fummit of the grove the fell,
And left it unharmonious! all its charms
Extinguifh'd in the wonders of her fong!
Her fong ftill vibrates in my ravish'd ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(0 to forget her!) thrilling thro' my heart!
Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this group
Of bright ideas, flow'rs of Paradise,
As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the skies, as all
We guess of heav'n; and these were all her own;
And the was mine; and I was-was!-moft bleft-
Gay title of the deepest misery!
As bodies grow more pond'rous robb'd of life.
Good loft weighs more in grief than gain in joy.
Like bloffom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal form,
Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;
And if in death ftill lovely, lovelier there,
Far lovelier! pity fwells the tide of love.
And will not the severe excuse a sigh ?
Scorn the proud man that is afham'd to weep.
Our tears indulg'd indeed defɩrve our fhame.
Ye that e'er loft an angel, pity me!
Soon as the luftre languish'd in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human fight,
And on her cheek, the refidence of spring,
Pale Omen fat, and scatter'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) check'd his beam,
Deny'd his wonted fuccour; nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping than the bells
Of lilies, faireft lilies, not fo fair!
Queen lilies! and ye painted populace!
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