What words are these-and did they come from
And were they spoke to man? to guilty man?
What are all mysteries to love like this?
The songs of angels, all the melodies
Of choral gods, are wafted in the sound;
Heal and exhilarate the broken heart,
Though plunged, before, in horrors dark as night:
Rich prelibation of consummate joy!
Nor wait we dissolution to be bless'd.
This final effort of the moral Muse,
How justly titled !* nor for me alone;
For all that read. What spirit of support,
What heights of Consolation crown my song!
Then farewell Night! of darkness, now, no more;
Joy breaks, shines, triumphs; 'tis eternal day!
Shall that which rises out of nought complain
Of a few evils, paid with endless joys?
My soul! henceforth, in sweetest union join
The two supports of human happiness,
Which some, erroneous, think can never meet,
True taste of life, and constant thought of death!
The thought of death, sole victor of its dread!
Hope be thy joy, and probity thy skill;
Thy patron He whose diadem has dropp'd
Yon gems of heaven, eternity thy prize;
And leaves the racers of the world their own,
Their feather and their froth, for endless toils:
They part with all, for that which is not bread,
They mortify, they starve, on weaith, fame, power,
And laugh to scorn the fools that aim at more.
How must a spirit, late escaped from earth,
Suppose Philander's, Lucia's, or Narcissa's,
The truth of things new-blazing in its eye,
Look back, astonish'd on the ways of men,
Whose lives' whole drift is to forget their graves!
And when our present privilege is pass'd,
To scourge us with due sense of its abuse,
The same astonishment will seize us all.
What then must pain us would preserve us now. 2400
Lorenzo! 'tis not yet too late. Lorenzo!
Seize wisdom, ere 'tis torment to be wise;
That is, seize Wisdom ere she seizes thee.
For what, my small philosopher! is hell?
'Tis nothing but full knowledge of the truth,
When Truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe,
And calls Eternity to do ner right.
Thus darkness aiding intellectual light,
And sacred Silence whispering truths divine,
And truths divine converting pain to peace,
My song the midnight raven has outwing'd,
And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes,
Beyond the flaming limits of the world
Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight
Of Fancy, when our hearts remain below?
Virtue abounds in flatterers and foes;
"Tis pride to praise her, penance to perform.
To more than words, to more than worth of tongue, Lorenzo! rise, at this auspicious hour,
An hour when Heaven's most intimate with man;
When, like a falling star, the ray divine
Glides swift into the bosom of the just;
And just are all, determined to reclaim ;
Which sets that title high within thy reach.
Awake, then; thy Philander calls: awake!
Thou, who shalt wake when the Creation sleeps;
When, like a taper, all these suns expire;
When Time, like him of Gaza in his wrath,
Plucking the pillars that support the world,
In Nature's ample ruins lies entomb'd,
And midnight, universal midnight! reigns.
FROM lofty themes, from thoughts that soar'd on high,
And open'd wondrous scenes above the sky,
My Muse descend: indulge my fond desire;
With softer thoughts my melting soul inspire,
And smooth my numbers to a female's praise :
A partial world will listen to my lays
While Anna reigns, and sets a female name
Unrival'd in the glorious lists of fame.
Hear, ye fair daughters of this happy land!
Whose radiant eyes the vanquish'd world command,
Virtue is beauty; but when charms of mind
With elegance of outward form are join'd;
When youth makes such bright objects still more bright
And Fortune sets them in the strongest light,
'Tis all of heaven that we below may view,
And all but adoration is your due.
Famed female virtue did this isle adorn
Ere Ormond, or her glorious Queen was born:
When now Maria's powerful arms prevail'd,
And haughty Dudley's bold ambition fail'd,
The beauteous daughter of great Suffolk's race,
In blooming youth, adorn'd with every grace,
Who gain'd a crown by treason not her own,
And innocently fill'd another's throne,
Hurl'd from the summit of imperial state,
With equal mind sustain'd the stroke of Fate.
But how will Guilford, her far dearer part,
With manly reason fortify his heart?
At once she longs, and is afraid to know ;
Now swift she moves, and now advances slow,
To find her lord; and, finding, passes by,
Silent with fear, nor dares she meet his eye,
Lest that, unask'd, in speechless grief disclose
The mournful secret of his inward woes :
Thus after sickness, doubtful of her face,
The melancholy virgin shuns the glass.
At length, with troubled thought, but look serene, And sorrow soften'd by her heavenly mien,
She clasps her lord, brave, beautiful, and young,
While tender accents melt upon her tongue;
Gentle and sweet, as vernal zephyr blows,
Fanning the lily, or the blooming rose:
'Grieve not, my lord; a crown, indeed, is lost,
What far outshines a crown we still may boast;
A mind composed, a mind that can disdain
A fruitless sorrow for a loss so vain.
Nothing is loss that virtue can improve
To wealth eternal, and return above;
Above, where no distinction shall be known
"Twixt him whom storms have shaken from a throne,
And him who, basking in the smiles of Fate,
Shone forth in all the splendour of the great:
Nor can I find the difference here below;
I lately was a queen; I still am so,
While Guilford's wife: thee rather I obey,
Than o'er mankind extend imperial sway.
When we lie down in some obscure retreat,
Incensed Maria may her rage forget;
And I to death my duty will improve,
And what you miss in empire, add in love-
Your godlike soul is open'd in your look,
And I have faintly your great meaning spoke.
For this alone I'm pleased I wore the crown;
To find with what content we lay it down.
Heroes may win, but 'tis a heavenly race
Can quit a throne with a becoming grace.'
Thus spoke the fairest of her sex, and cheer'd Her drooping lord, whose boding bosom fear'd A darker cloud of ills would burst, and shed Severer vengeance on her guiltless head.
Too just, alas! the terrors which he felt :
For, lo a guard !-forgive him if he melt-
How sharp her pangs, when sever'd from his side,
The most sincerely loved and loving bride
In space confined, the Muse forbears to tell;
Deep was her anguish, but she bore it well:
His pain was equal, but his virtue less;
He thought in grief there could be no éxcess.
Pensive he sat, o'er cast with gloomy care,
And often fondly clasp'd his absent fair;
Now, silent, wander'd through his rooms of state,
And sicken'd at the pomp, and tax'd his fate,
Which thus adorn'd, in all her shining store,
A splendid wretch, magnificently poor.
Now on the bridal bed his eyes were cast,
And anguish fed on his enjoyments past;
Each recollected pleasure made him smart,
And every transport stabb'd him to the heart.
That happy moon which summon'd to delight,
That moon which shone on his dear nuptial night, 90
Which saw him fold her yet untasted charms
(Denied to princes) in his longing arms,
Now sees the transient blessing fleet away,
Empire and love the vision of a day.
Thus, in the British clime, a summer storm
Will oft the smiling face of heaven deform;
The winds with violence at once descend,
Sweep flowers and fruits, and niake the forest bend;
A sudden winter, while the Sun is near,
O'ercomes the season, and inverts the year.
But whither is the captive borne away,
The beauteous captive! from the cheerful day?
The scene is changed indeed; before her eyes
Ill boding looks and unknown horrors rise:
For pomp and splendour, for her guard and crown, 105 A gloomy dungeon, and a keeper's frown:
Black thoughts each morn invade the lover's breast.
Each night a ruffian locks a queen to rest.
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