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 heav'n vouchsafes to call her own.
We gaze, we weep; mixt tears of grief and joy!
Amazement strikes! devotion bursts to flame!
Christians Adore! and Infidels Believe!

As some tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow,
Detains the sun, Illustrious from its height;
While rising vapours, and descending shades,
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 heav'nly Hope, and humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted soul;

Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable lustre, bright.

NIGHT THE THIRD.

NARCISSA.

To Reason, that heav'n-lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake; and at the destin'd hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,

I keep my assignation with my woe.

O! Lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies 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 stranger! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd!

Now woo them: wed them; bind them to thy breast;
To win thy wish, creation has no more.

Or if we wish a fourth, it is a Friend

But friends, how mortal! dang'rous the desire.

Take PHOEBUS to yourselves, ye basking bards! Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head;

And reeling thro' 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.
I to Day's soft-ey'd sister 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,
Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire!
Say, why not CYNTHIA patroness of song?
As Thou her crescent, she thy character
Assumes; still more a goddess by the change.

Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute
This revolution in the world inspir'd?
Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar sphere,
In silent hour, address your ardent call
For aid immortal; less her brother's right.
She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads
The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain,
A strain for gods, deny'd to mortal ear.
Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of heav'n!
What title, or what name, endears thee most?
CYNTHIA! CYLLENE! PHOEBE !-or dost hear

* At the duke of NORFOLK's masquerade.