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This revolution in the world inspir'd?

And if in death still lovely, lovelier there, Ye train Pierian ! to the lunar sphere,

Far lovelier! pity gwells the tide of love. In silent hour, address your ardent call

And will not the severe excuse a sigh? For aid immortal ; less her brother's right. Scorn the proud man that is asham'd to weep; She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame. The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain, Ye that e'er lost an angel! pity me. A strain for gods, denied to mortal ear.

Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye, Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of Heaven ! Dawning a dimmer day on human sight; dar What title, or what name, endears the most ! And on her cheek, the residence of spring, Cynthia ! Cyllené! Phæbe ! or dost hear

Pale omen sat ; and scatter'd fears around With higher gust, fair Portland of the skies? On all that saw, (and who would cease to gaze, Is that the soft enchantment calls thee down, That once had seen ?) with haste, parental haste

, bende More powerful than of old Circean charm? I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid North, Come; but from heavenly banquets with thee bring Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew, The soul of song, and whisper in my ear

And bore her nearer to the Sun; the Sun The theft divine; or in propitious dreams (breast (As if the Sun could envy) check'd his beam, (For dreams are thine) transfuse it through the Deny'd his wonted succour; nor with more Of thy first votary. - But not thy last;

Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells
If, like thy namesake, thou art ever kind.

Of lilies; fairest lilies, not so fair!
And kind thou wilt be; kind on such a theme; Queen lilies! and ye painted populace !
A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme,

Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives! Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair!

In morn and evening dew, your beauties bathe

, A theme that rose all-pale, and told my soul And drink the Sun; which gives your cheeks t ! 'T was night ; on her fond hopes perpetual night;

glow,
A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp, And out-blush (mine excepted) every fair;
Than that which smote me from Philander's tomb. You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand,
Narcissa follows, ere his tomb is clos’d.

Which often cropt your odours, incense meet
Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes ;

To thought so pure! Ye lovely fugitives ! They love a train, they tread each other's heel; Coëval race with man! for man you smile! Her death invades his mournful right, and claims Why not smile at him too? You share indeed The grief that started from my lids for him : His sudden pass; but not his constant pain. Seizes the faithless, alienated tear,

So man is made; nought ministers delight, Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent death, But what his glowing passions can engage; Sorrow he more than causes, he confounds; And glowing passions, bent on aught below, For human sighs his rival strokes contend, Must, soon or late, with anguish turn the scak; And make distress, distraction, Oh Philander ! And anguish, after rapture, how severe! What was thy fate? A double fate to me ; Rapture? Bold man who tempt'st the wall Portent, and pain ! a menace, and a blow!

divine, Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace, By plucking fruit denied to morial taste, Not less a bird of omen, than of prey.

While here, presuming on the rights of Heaven. It call'd Narcissa long before her hour;

For transport dost thou call on every hour, It call'd her tender soul, by break of bliss, Lorenzo? At thy friend's expense, be wise ; From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ; Lean not on Earth; 't will pierce thee to the heart Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves A broken reed, at best; but oft, a spear; In this inclement clime of human life.

On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope espins Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!

Turn, hopeless thought ! turn from her: And young as beautiful! and soft as young!

Thought repellid And gay as soft! and innocent as gay!

Resenting rallies, and wakes every woe. And happy (if aught happy here) as good! Snatch'd ere thy prime! and in thy bridal hour

! For fortune fond had built her nest on high. And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smild Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume, And when high-flavour'd thy fresh opening jers! Transfixt by fate (who loves a lofty mark), And when blind man pronounc'd thy bliss complex How from the summit of the grove she fell, And on a foreign shore; where strangers wert! And left it unharmonious! All its charms Strangers to thee; and more surprising still, Extinguisht in the wonders of her song!

Strangers to kindness, wept : their eyes let fall Her song still vibrates in my ravishd ear,

Inhuman tears ! strange tears! that trickled doet Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain From marble hearts ! obdurate tenderness! (O to forget her !) thrilling through my heart ! A tenderness that call'd them more severe;

Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy; this group In spite of Nature's soft persuasion, steel'd! Of bright ideas, flowers of Paradise,

While Nature melted, Superstition rar'd; As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,

That mourn'd the dead; and this denied a grave Kneel and present it to the skies; as all

Their sighs incens’d; sighs foreign to the el We guess of Heaven : and these were all her own, Their will the tiger suck'd, outrag'd the start And she was mine; and I was — was ! . - most For, oh! the curst ungodliness of zeal ! blest

While sinful flesh relented, spirit purst
Gay title of the deepest misery!

In blind Infallibility's embrace,
As bodies grow more ponderous, robb’d of life; The sainted spirit petrify'd the breast;
Good lost weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy, Denied the charity of dust, to spread
Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm, O'er dust! a charity their dogs enjoy.
Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;

What could I do? What succour? What resouro

With pious sacrilege, a grave I stole ;

How was each circumstance with aspiçs arın'd ? With impious piety, that grave I wrong'd ; An aspic, each! and all, an hydra woe: Short in my duty! coward in

my grief!

What strong Herculean virtue could suffice ? More like her murderer, than friend, I crept, Or is it virtue to be conquer'd here? With soft-suspended step, and muffled deep This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews; In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last sigh. And each tear mourns its own distinct distress ; I whisper'd what should echo through their realms; And each distress, distinctly mourn’d, demands Nor writ her name, whose tomb should pierce the Of grief still more, as heighten'd by the whole. skies.

A grief like this proprietors excludes : Presumptuous fear! How durst I dread her foes, Not friends alone such obsequies deplore; While Nature's loudest dictates I obey'd ?

They make mankind the mourner; carry sighs Pardon necessity, blest shade! Of grief

Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way; Ind indignation rival bursts I pour'd;

And turn the gayest thought of gayest age, Ialf execration mingled with my prayer ;

Down their right channel, through the vale of death. Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd;

The vale of death! that hush'd Cimmerian vale, ore grudg'd the savage land her sacred dust; Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd fates, tampt the curst soil; and with humanity

With raven wing incumbent, waits the day Denied Narcissa) wish'd them all a grave. (Dread day!) that interdicts all future change !

Glows my resentment into guilt? What guilt That subterranean world! that land of ruin! an equal violations of the dead?

Fit walk, Lorenzo, for proud human thought ! 'he dead how sacred! Sacred is the dust

There let my thought expatiate, and explore If this Heaven-labour'd form, erect, divine ! Balsamic truths and healing sentiments, his Heaven-assum'd majestic robe of Earth, Of all most wanted, and most welcome, here. 'e deign’d to wear, who hung the vast expanse For gay Lorenzo's sake, and for thy own,

ith azure bright, and cloth'd the Sun in gold. My soul! “ The fruits of dying friends survey; hen every passion sleeps that can offend; Expose the vain of life; weigh life and death; "hen strikes us every motive that can melt; Give death his eulogy; thy fear subdue ; hen man can wreak his rancour uncontrold, And labour that first palm of noble minds, hat strongest curb on insult and ill-will;

A manly scorn of terrour from the tomb." ken, spleen to dust! the dust of innocence ! This harvest reap from thy Narcissa's grave. n angel's dust! - This Lucifer transcends; As poets feign’d from Ajax' streaming blood hen he contended for the patriarch's bones, Arose, with grief inscrib'd, a mournful flower;

was not the strife of malice, but of pride; Let wisdom blossom from my mortal wound. he strife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall.

And first, of dying friends; what fruit from these For less than this is shocking in a race

It brings us more than triple aid ; an aid ost wretched, but from streams of mutual love ; To chase our thoughtlessness, fear, pride, and guilt. nd uncreated, but for love divine,

Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, nd, but for love divine, this moment lost,

To damp our brainless ardours; and abate fate resorb’d, and sunk in endless night. That glare of life which often blinds the wise. an hard of heart to man ! of horrid things Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth ost borrid ! 'Mid stupendous, highly strange! Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars it oft his courtesies are smoother wrongs; Of terrour and abhorrence Nature throws ide brandishes the favours he confers,

Cross our obstructed way; and, thus to make ad contumelious his humanity;

Welcome, as safe, our port from every storm. hat then his vengeance ? Hear it not, ye stars ! Each friend by fate snatch'd from us, is a plume id thou, pale Moon! turn paler at the sound; Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity, an is to man the sorest, surest ill.

Which makes us stoop from our aërial heights, previous blast foretels the rising storm;

And, dampt with omen of our own decease, erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall; On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd, lcanoes bellow ere they disembogue;

Just skim Earth's surface, ere we break it up, irth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour ; O’er putrid earth to scratch a little dust, id smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire: And save the world a nuisance. Smitten friends iin from man is most conceal'd when near, Are angels sent on errands full of love ; ad sends the dreadful tidings in the blow. For us they languish, and for us they die; this the flight of fancy? Would it were ! And shall they languish, shall they die, in vain? saven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hovering shades, lat hideous sight, a naked human heart.

Which wait the revolution in our hearts? Fir'd is the Muse ? And let the Muse be fir'd: Shall we disdain their silent, soft address; ho not inflam’d, when what he speaks, he feels, Their posthumous advice, and pious prayer ? id in the nerve most tender, in his friends ? Senseless, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves, ame to mankind! Philander had his foes : Tread under foot their agonies and groans; e felt the truths I sing, and I in him.

Frustrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths ? at he, nor I, feel more; past ills, Narcissa! Lorenzo! no; the thought of death indulge ; e sunk in thee, thou recent wound of heart ! Give it its wholesome empire ! let it reign, hich bleeds with other cares, with other pangs; That kind chastiser of thy soul in joy! ngs numerous, as the numerous ills that swarm'd Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far, er thy distinguish'd fate, and, clustering there And still the tumults of thy ruffled breast : ick as the locusts on the land of Nile,

Auspicious era! golden days, begin! de death more deadly, and more dark the grave. The thought of death shall, like a god, inspire. Aect (if not forgot my touching tale)

And why not think on death? Is life the theme

Of every thought ? and wish of every hour ? Which relish fruits unripen'd by the Sun,
And song of every joy ? Surprising truth! Make their days various ; various as the dyes
The beaten spaniel's fondness not so strange. On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays
To wave the numerous ills that seize on life On minds of dove-like innocence possest,
As their own property, their lawful prey ;

On lighten'd minds, that bask in virtue's beans,
Ere man has measur'd half his weary stage, Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves
His lururies have left him no reserve,

In that, for which they long; for which they live No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights ;

Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope On cold-serv'd repetitions he subsists,

Each rising morning sees still higher rise; And in the tasteless present chews the past ;

Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down. To worth maturing, new strength, lustre, far; Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years

While Nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel Have disinherited his future hours,

Rolling beneath their elevated aims, Which starve on arts, and glean their former field. Makes their fair prospect fairer every hour;

Live ever here, Lorenzo! - shocking thought ! Advancing virtue, in a line to bliss; So shocking, they who wish, disown it, too; Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire ! Dis:Jwn from shame, what they from folly crave. And bliss, which Christian schemes alone ensure. Live ever in the womb, nor see the light?

And shall we then, for Virtue's sake, commence For what live ever here ? — With labouring step A postates; and turn infidels for joy? To tread our former footsteps ? Pace the round A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer trust, Eternal ? To climb life's worn, heavy wheel, “ He sins against this life, who slights the riezt." Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat What is this life? How few their favourite know The beaten track ? To bid each wretched day Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace, The former mock ? To surfeit on the same, By passionately loving life, we make And yawn our joys? Or thank a misery

Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death For change, though sad? To see what we have seen? We give to time eternity's regard; Hear, till unheard, the same old slabber'd tale? And, dreaming, take our passage for our por To taste the tasted, and at each return

Life has no value as an end, but means; Less tasteful ? O'er our palates to decant An end deplorable! a means divine ! Another vintage? Strain a fatter year,

When 't is our all, 't is nothing! worse than nou Through loaded vessels, and a laxer tone? A nest of pains: when held as nothing, mueb: Crazy machines to grind Earth's wasted fruits ! Like some fair hum'rists, life is most enjoy'd, Ill-ground, and worse-concocted ! Load, not life! When courted least ; most worth, wben disestees.. The rational foul kennels of excess!

Then 't is the seat of comfort, rich in peace; Still-streaming thoroughfares of dull debauch ! In prospect richer far ; important! aweful! Trembling each gulp, lest death should snatch the Not to be mention'd, but with shouts of praat bowl.

Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy! Such of our fine-ones is the wish refin'

The mighty basis of eternal bliss ! So would they have it : elegant desire !

Where now the barren rock ? the painted skor! Why not invite the bellowing stalls, and wilds? Where now, Lorenzo! life's eternal round? But such examples might their riot awe.

Have I not made my triple promise good? Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought, Vain is the world; but only to the vain. (Though on bright thought they father all their To what compare we then this varying scene, frights,)

Whose worth ambiguous rises, and declines ? To what are they reduc'd ? To love, and hate Waxes, and wanes? (In all propitious, night The same vain world; to censure, and espouse, Assists me here) compare it to the Moon; This painted shrew of life, who calls them fool Dark in herself, and indigent; but rick Each moment of each day ; to flatter bad

In borrow'd lustre from a higher sphere. Through dread of worse; to cling to this rude rock, When gross guilt interposes, labouring Earth, Barren, to them, of good, and sharp with ills, O'ershadow'd, mourns a deep eclipse of joy ; And hourly blacken'd with impending storms, Her joys, at brightest, pallid, to that font And infamous for wrecks of human hope

Of full effulgent glory, whence they flow. Scar'd at the gloomy gulf, that yawns beneath. Nor is that glory distant: Oh Lorenzo! Such are their triumphs ! such their pangs of joy! A good man, and an angel! these between

'T is time, high time, to shift this dismal scene. How thin the barrier! what divides their fate? This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure ? Perhaps a moment, or perhaps a year; One only; but that one, what all may reach ; Or, if an age, it is a moment still ; Virtue — she, wonder-working goddess ! charms A moment, or eternity 's forgot. That rock to bloom ; and tames the painted shrew; Then be, what once they were, who now are gods And, what will more surprise, Lorenzo! gives Be what Philander was, and claim the skies To life's sick, nauseous iteration, change;

Starts timid Nature at the gloomy pass ? And straitens Nature's circle to a line.

The soft transition call it; and be cheer'd : Believ'st thou this, Lorenzo ? lend an ear,

Such it is often, and why not to thee? A patient ear, thou 'lt blush to disbelieve.

To hope the best, is pious, brave, and wise; A languid, leaden, iteration reigns,

And may itself procure, what it presumes. And ever must, o'er those, whose joys are joys Life is much latter'd, Death is much traduc'd; Of sight, smell, taste : the cuckow-seasons sing Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown. The same dull note to such as nothing prize, “ Strange competition !"-True, Lorenzo strany But what those seasons, from the teeming Earth, So little life can cast into the scale. To doating sense indulge. But nobler minds, Life makes the soul dependent on the dust;

Death gives her wings to mount above the splieres. Rich death, that realizes all my cares, Through chinks, stylid organs, dim life peeps at Toils, virtues, hopes ; without it a chirnera! light;

Death, of all pain the period, not of joy; Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day; Joy's source, and subject, still subsist unhurt: All eye, all ear, the disembody'd power.

One, in my soul; and one, in her great Sire; Death has feign'd evils, Nature shall not feel ; Though the four winds were warring for my dust. Life, ill substantial, Wisdom cannot shun.

Yes, and from winds, and waves, and central night, Is not the mighty Mind, that son of Heaven? Though prison'd there, my dust too I reclaim, By tyrant Life dethron'd, imprison'd, pain'd? (To dust when drop proud Nature's proudest By Death enlarg'd, ennobled, deify'd ?

spheres,) Death but entombs the body ; life the soul

And live entire. Death is the crown of life: “ Is Death then guiltless? How he marks his way were death denied, poor man would live in vain; With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine! Were death denied, to live would not be life; Art, genius, fortune, elevated power !

Were death denied, e'en fools would wish to die. With various lustres these light up the world, Death wounds to cure : we fall; we rise, we reign ! Which Death puts out, and darkens human race. Spring from our fetters; fasten in the skies; grant, Lorenzo! this indictment just :

Where blooming Eden withers in our sight: T'he sage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror ! Death gives us more than was in Eden lost. Death humbles these ; more barbarous life, the man. This king of terrours is the prince of peace. Life is the triumph of our mouldering clay ; When shall I die to vanity, pain, death? Death, of the spirit infinite ! divine !

When shall I die? - When shall I live for ever?
Death has no dread, but what frail life imparts ;
Nor life true joy, but what kind death improves.
No bliss has life to boast, till death can give
Par greater ; life's a debtor to the grave,

NIGHT THE FOURTH.
Dark lattice ! letting in eternal day.
Lorenzo! blush at fondness for a life,

THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH.
Vhich sends celestial souls on errands vile,
l'o cater for the sense; and serve at boards, Containing our only Cure for the Fear of Death ; and
Where every ranger of the wilds, perhaps

proper Sentiments of that inestimable Blessing. Each reptile, justly claims our upper hand. Luxurious feast ! a soul, a soul immortal,

TO THE HONOURABLE MR. YORKE in all the dainties of a brute bemir'd! Lorenzo ! blush at terrour for a death,

A MUCH-INDEBTED Muse, O Yorke! intrudes. Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers,

Amid the smiles of fortune, and of youth, Where nectars sparkle, angels minister,

Thine ear is patient of a serious song. And more than angels share, and raise, and crown,

How deep implanted in the breast of man And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.

The dread of death! I sing its sovereign cure. What need I more? O Death, the palm is thine.

Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arThen welcome, Death! thy dreaded harbingers,

riv'd, Age, and disease ; disease, though long my guest ; Is past; not come or gone, he's never here. Chat plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life ; Ere hope, sensation fails ; black-boding man Which, pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell, Receives, not suffers, Death's tremendous blow, That call my few friends to my funeral ;

The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a tear,

The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm; While Reason and Religion, better taught,

These are the bugbears of a winter's eve,
Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb The terrours of the living, not the dead.
With wreath triumphant. Death is victory; Imagination's fool, and errour's wretch,
It binds in chains the raging ills of life :

Man makes a death, which Nature never made ; Lust and ambition, wrath and avarice,

Then on the point of his own fancy falls; Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his power.

And feels a thousand deaths, in fearing one. That ills corrosive, cares importunate,

But were death frightful, what has age to fear ? Are not immortal too, O Death! is thine.

If prudent, age should meet the friendly foe, Our day of dissolution ! - name it right;

And shelter in his hospitable gloom. "T is our great pay-day; 't is our harvest, rich I scarce can meet a monument, but holds

What though the sickle, sometimes My younger ; every date cries “Come away.” keen,

And what recalls me? Look the world around Just scars us as we reap the golden grain ?

And tell me what; the wisest cannot tell. More than thy balm, 0 Gilead! heals the wound: Should any born of woman give his thought Birth's feeble cry, and Death's deep dismal groan,

Full range on just dislike's unbounded field; Are slender tributes low-tax'd Nature pays

Of things, the vanity; of men, the flaws ; For mighty gain ; the gain of each, of life! Flaws in the best ; the many, flaw all o'er ; But 0! the last the former so transcends,

As leopards, spotted, or, as Ethiops, dark;
Life dies, compar'd; life lives beyond the grave.

Vivacious ill ; good dying immature;
And feel I, Deuth ! no joy from thought of thee? (How immature, Narcissa's marble tells !)
Death, the great counsellor, who man inspires And at his death bequeathing endless pain ;

every nobler thought, and fairer deed ! His heart, though bold, would sicken at the sight, Death, the deliverer, who rescues man!

And spend itself in sighs, for future scenes. Death, the rewarder, who the rescued crowns! But grant to life (and just it is to grant Dead, that absolves my birth; a curse without it! To lucky life) some perquisites of joy ;

And ripe.

With

Nn3

A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale, Unbit by rage canine of dying rich;
Long-rified life of sweet can yield no more, Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of Hell.
But from our comment on the comedy,

O my coëvals! remnants of yourselves! Pleasing reflections on parts well sustain'd, Poor human ruins, tottering o'er the grave! Or purpos'd emendations where we fail'd,

Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees, Or hopes of plaudits from our candid Judge, Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, When, on their exit, souls are bid unrobe,

Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil? Toss Fortune back her tinsel, and her plume, Shall our pale, wither'd hands, be still stretch'd cut, And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene. Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age?

With me, that time is come; my world is dead; With avarice and convulsions, grasping hard ? A new world rises, and new manners reign : Grasping at air ! for what has Earth beside? Foreign comedians, a spruce band! arrive, Man wants but little; nor that little, long: To push me from the scene, or hiss me there. How soon must he resign his very dust, What a pert race starts up! the strangers gaze, Which frugal Nature lent him for an hour ! And I at them; my neighbour is unknown; Years unexperienc'd rush on numerous ills; Nor that the worst : Ah me! the dire effect And soon as man, erpert from time, has found Of loitering here, of death defrauded long ; The key of life, it opes the gates of death. Of old so gracious (and let that suffice),

When in this vale of years I backward look, My very master knows me not. —

And miss such numbers, numbers too of such, Shall I dare say, peculiar is the fate ?

Firmer in health, and greener in their age, I've been so long remember'd, I'm forgot.

And stricter on their guard, and fitter far An object ever pressing dims the sight,

To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe And hides behind its ardour to be seen.

I still survive; and am I fond of life, When in his courtiers' ears I pour my plaint, Who scarce can think it possible, I live? They drink it as the nectar of the great ;

Alive by miracle ! or, what is next, And squeeze my hand, and beg me come to-morrow. Alive by Mead ! if I am still alive, Refusal ! canst thou wear a smoother form ? Who long have buried what gives life to live,

Indulge me, nor conceive I drop my theme: Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought. Who cheapens life, abates the fear of death : Life's lee is not more shallow than imprare Twice told the period spent on stubborn Troy, And vapid ; sense and reason show the door, Court favour, yet untaken, I besiege;

Call for my bier, and point me to the dust. Ambition's ill-judged effort to be rich.

O thou great Arbiter of life and death! Alas! ambition makes my little less ;

Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun ! Embittering the possest. Why wish for more ? Whose all-prolific beam late call’d me forth Wishing, of all employments, is the worst ;

From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay Philosophy's reverse; and health's decay.

The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath Were I as plump as stall'd theology,

The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, Wishing would waste me to this shade again. To drink the spirit of the golden day, Were I as wealthy as a South-sea dream,

And triumph in existence; and could knos Wishing is an expedient to be poor.

No motive, but my bliss; and hast ordain'd Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool;

A rise in blessing! with the patriarch's joy, Caught at a court; purg'd off by purer air, Thy call I follow to the land unknown; And simpler diet ; gifts of rural life!

I trust thee, and know in whom I trust; Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid Or life, or death, is equal; neither weighs : My heart at rest, beneath this humble shed. All weight in this — O let me live to thee! The world 's a stately bark, on dangerous seas, Though Nature's terrours, thus, may be represt With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril ; Still frowns grim Death ; guilt points the tyrant's Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore,

spear. I hear the tumult of the distant throng,

And whence all human guilt? From death forgot As that of seas remote, or dying storms:

Ah me! too long I set at nought the swarm And meditate on scenes, more silent still;

Of friendly warnings, which around me flew; Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death. And smil'd, unsmitten : small my cause to smile! Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut, Death's admonitions, like shafts upward shot, Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, More dreadful by delay, the longer ere Eager ambition's fiery chase I see ;

They strike our hearts, the deeper is their wound; I see the circling hunt, of noisy men,

O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it stings: Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right, Who can appease its anguish ? how it burns! Pursuing, and pursued, each other's prey;

What hand the barb’d, envenom d, thought can draw? As wolves, for rapine; as the fox, for wiles; What healing hand can pour the balm of peace, Till Death, that mighty hunter, earthis them all. And turn my sight undaunted on the tomb ? Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour ?

With joy - with grief, that healing kand I *; What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame? Ah! too conspicuous ! it is fix'd oa high. Earth's highest station ends in, “ Here he lies,” On high? - What means my phrenzy? I blaspberse; And “ Dust to dust"' concludes her noblest song, Alas! how low! how far beneath the skies! If this song lives, posterity shall know

The skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, But bleeds the balm I want - Yet still it Needs; Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late; Draw the dire steel ah no! the dreadful blessing Nor on his subtle death-bed plann’d his scheme What heart or can sustain, or dares forego! For fu-ure vacancies in church or state ;

There hangs all human hope ; that nail supports Sure : notion deeming it to die,

The falling universe: that gone, we drop;

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