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Speech, thought's cana!! speech, thought's criterion | The wise extract Earth's most Hyblean bliss, too!

Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy. Thought, in the mine, may come forth gold, or dross; But for whom blossoms this Elysian flower ? When coin'd in word, we know its real worth. Abroad they find, who cherish it at home. If sterling, store it for thy future use :

Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts, 'T will buy thee benefit ; perhaps renown.

An honest love, and not afraid to frown. Thought, too, deliver’d, is the more possest; Though choice of follies fasten on the great, 'Teaching, we learn ; and, giving, we retain None clings more obstinate than fancy, fond, The births of intellect; when dumb, forgot That sacred Friendship is their easy prey ; Speech ventilates our intellectual fire;

Caught by the wafture of a golden lure, Speech burnishes our mental magazine ;

Or fascination of a high-born smile. Brightens, for ornament; and whets, for use. Their smiles, the great, and the coquet, throw out What numbers, sheath'd in erudition, lie,

For others' hearts, tenacious of their own; Plung'd to the hilts in venerable tomes,

And we no less of ours, when such the bait. And rusted in ; who might have borne an edge, Ye fortune's cofferers! Ye powers of wealth! And play'd a sprightly beam, if born to speech; Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope! If born blest heirs of half their mother's tongue ! As well mere man an angel might beget. ’T is thought's exchange, which, like th' alternate Love, and love only, is the loan for love. push

Lorenzo! pride repress ; nor hope to find Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned scum, A friend, but what has found a friend in thee. And defecates the student's standing pool.

All like the purchase ; few the price will pay; In contemplation is his proud resource ?

And this makes friends such miracles below. 'T is poor, as proud, by converse unsustain'd. What if (since daring on so nice a theme) Rude thought runs wild in contemplation's field; I show thee friendship delicate, as dear, Converse, the menage, breaks it to the bitt

Of tender violations apt to die? Of due restraint; and emulation's spur

Reserve will wound it; and distrust, destroy. Gives graceful energy, by rivals aw’d.

Deliberate in all things with thy friend. 'Tis converse qualifies for solitude ;

But since friends grow not thick on every bough, As exercise, for salutary rest.

Nor every friend unrotten at the core ; By that untutor’d, Contemplation raves ;

First, on thy friend, deliberate with thyself; And Nature's fool, by Wisdom is undone.

Pause, ponder, sift; not eager in the choice, Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, Nor jealous of the chosen ; fixing, fix; And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive, Judge before friendship, then contide till death What is she, but the means of happiness?

Well, for thy friend; but nobler far for thee; That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool ;

How gallant danger for Earth's highest prize! A melancholy fool, without her bells.

A friend is worth all hazards we can run. Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly gives « Poor is the friendless master of a world : The precious end, which makes our wisdom wise. A world in purchase for a friend is gain." Nature, in zeal for human amity,

So sung he, (angels hear that angels sing! Denies, or damps, an undivided joy.

Angels from friendship gather half their joy,) Joy is an import; joy is an exchange;

So sung Philander, as his friend went round Joy flies monopolists : it calls for two;

In the rich ichor, in the generous blood Rich fruit! Heaven-planted! never pluckt by one. Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit, Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give

A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye. To social man true relish of himself.

He drank long health, and virtue, to his friend; Full on ourselves, descending in a line,

His friend, who warm’d him more, who more is Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight :

spir’d. Delight intense is taken by rebound;

Friendship 's the wine of life; but friendship na Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.

(Not such was his) is neither strong, nor pure. Celestial Happiness, whene'er she stoops O! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth, To visit Earth, one shrine the goddess finds, And elevating spirit, of a friend, And one alone, to make her sweet amends

For twenty summers ripening by my side, For absent Heaven the bosom of a friend; All feculence of falsehood long thrown down; Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,

All social virtues rising in his soul; Each other's pillow to repose divine.

As crystal clear; and smiling as they rise ! Beware the counterfeit ; in passion's flame

Here nectar flows; it sparkles in our sight; Hearts melt, but melt like ice, soon harder froze, Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart: True love strikes root in reason ; passion's foe : High-flavour'd bliss for gods ! on Earth how rare ! Virtue alone entenders us for life :

On Earth how lost ! Philander is no more. I wrong her much - entenders us for ever:

Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my song? Of Friendship’s fairest fruits, the fruit most fair Am I too warm ? Too warm I cannot be. Is virtue kindling at a rival fire,

I lov'd him much ; but now I love him more. And, emulously, rapid in her race.

Like birds, whose beauties languish, half-conceal'd, O the soft enmity! endearing strife!

Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes This carries friendship to her noon-tide point, Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold; And gives the rivet of eternity.

(themes, How blessings brighten as they take their flight! From Friendship, which outlives my former His flight Philander took ; his upward flight, Glorious survivor of old Time and Death;

If ever soul ascended. Had he dropt, From Friendship, thus, that flower of heavenly seed; (That eagle genius!) O had he let fall

One feather as he flew ; I, then, had wrote, With unreluctant grandeur, gtves, not yields
What friends might flatter ; prudent foes forbear; His soul sublime; and closes with his fate.
Rivals scarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.

How our hearts burnt within us at the scene ! Yet what I can, I must; it were profane

Whence this brave bound o'er limits tixt to man? To quench a glory lighted at the skies,

His God sustains him in his final hour ! And cast in shadows his illustrious close.

His final hour brings glory to his God! Strange! the theme most affecting, most sublime, Man's glory Heaven vouchsafes to call her own. Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung ! We gaze, we weep; mixt tears of grief, of joy! And yet it sleeps, by genius unawak'd,

Amazement strikes ! devotion bursts to fame! Painim or Christian; to the blush of wit.

Christians adore! and Infidels believe ! Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall! As some tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow, The death-bed of the just! is yet undrawn

Detains the Sun, illustrious, from its height; By mortal hand! it merits a divine :

While rising vapours, and descending shades, Angels should paint it, angels ever there :

With damps and darkness, drown the spacious vale; There, on a post of honour, and of joy.

Undampt by doubt, undarken’d by despair, Dare I presume, then? but Philander bids; Philander, thus, augustly rears his head, And glory tempts, and inclination calls –

At that black hour, which general horrour sheds Yet am I struck; as struck the soul, beneath On the low level of th' inglorious throng: Aerial groves' impenetrable gloom;

Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Joy, Or, in some mighty ruin's solemn shade ;

Divinely beam on his exalted soul;
Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust, Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings; With incommunicable lustre bright.
Or, at the midnight altar's hallow'd flame.
Is it religion to proceed? I pause
And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.

Is it his death-bed? No: it is his shrine :
Behold him, there, just rising to a god.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate,
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND. Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of Heaven.

Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes, Fly, ye profane! If not, draw near with awe,

VIRG. Receive the blessing, and adore the chance, That threw in this Bethesda your disease ; From dreams, where thought in fancy's maze runs If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure.

mad, For, here, resistless demonstration dwells;

To reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man, A death-bed 's a detector of the heart.

Once more I wake; and at the destin'd hour, Here tir'd dissimulation drops her mask,

Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn, Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene ! I keep my assignation with my woe. • Here real, and apparent, are the same.

0! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, You see the man; you see his hold on Heaven, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul ! If sound his virtue; as Philander's sound.

Who think it solitude to be alone. Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends Communion sweet! communion large and high! On this side death, and points them out to men; Our reason, guardian angel, and our God ! A lecture, silent, but of sovereign power !

Then nearest these, when others most remote ; To vice, confusion; and to virtue, peace.

And all, ere long, shall be remote, but these. Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,

How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone, Virtue alone has majesty in death!

A stranger ! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd! And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. Now woo them ; wed them; bind them to thy breast; Philander ! he severely frown'd on thee.

To win thy wish, creation has no more. “ No warning given ! Unceremonious Fate ! Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend A sudden rush from life's meridian joy!

But friends, how mortal ! dangerous the desire ! A wrench from all we love! from all we are ! Take Phæbus to yourselves, ye basking bards A restless bed of pain ! a plunge opaque

Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain-head; Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread! And reeling through the wilderness of joy ; Strong Reason's shudder at the dark unknown ! Where Sense runs savage, broke from Reason's chain! A sun extinguisht ! a just-opening grave!

And sings false peace, till smother'd by the pall. And oh! the last, last, — what? (can words express? My fortune is unlike ; unlike my song ; Thought reach it?) the last — silence of a friend !” Unlike the deity my song invokes. Where are those hortours, that amazement, where, I to Day's soft-ey'd sister pay my court, This hideous group of ills, which singly shock, (Endymion's rival !) and her aid implore ; Demand from man ? - I thought him man till now. Now first implor'd in succour to the Muse. Through Nature's wreck, through vanquisht Thou, who didst lately borrow Cynthia's form, agonies,

[gloom,) | And modestly forego thine own! O thou, (Like the stars struggling through this midnight Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire ! What gleams of joy! what more than human peace! Say, why not Cynthia patroness of song? Where, the frail mortal ? the poor abject worm? As thou her crescent, she thy character No, not in death, the mortal to be found.

Assumes; still more a goddess by the change. His conduct is a legacy for all;

Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute Richer than Mammon's for his single heir. His comforters he cornforts ; great in ruin,

• At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade.


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 swells 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; 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, 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 to ’T was night ; on her fond hopes perpetual night;

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 sinile! 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 scale; 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 wrath Portent, and pain ! a menace, and a blow !

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

While here, presuming on the rights of Heaven. It callid 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 expires 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 joys! Transfixt by fate (who loves a lofty mark), And when blind man pronounc'd thy bliss complete! How from the summit of the grove she fell, And on a foreign shore; where strangers wept! 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 ravish'd ear,

Inhuman tears! strange tears! that trickled down 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 ravid; 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 will ! We guess of Heaven : and these were all her own, Their will the tiger suck'd, outrag'd the storm. And she was mine; and I was — was! — most For, oh! the curst ungodliness of zeal ! blest

While sinful flesh relented, spirit nurst
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;

W7** uld I do? What succour? What resource?

With pious sacrilege, a grave I stole ;

How was each circumstance with aspics arı'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; And indignation rival bursts I pour'd;

And turn the gayest thought of gayest age, Half 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, Sore grudg'd the savage land her sacred dust; Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd fates, Stampt 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 subterrancan world! that land of ruin ! Can equal violations of the dead?

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

There let my thought expatiate, and explore Of this Heaven-labour'd form, erect, divine ! Balsamic truths and healing sentiments, This Heaven-assum'd majestic robe of Earth, Of all most wanted, and most welcome, here. He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse For gay Lorenzo's sake, and for thy own, With azure bright, and cloth'd the Sun in gold. My soul! “ The fruits of dying friends survey; When every passion sleeps that can offend; Expose the vain of life; weigh life and death; When strikes us every motive that can melt ; Give death his eulogy; thy fear subdue ; When man can wreak his rancour uncontrold, And labour that first palm of noble minds, That strongest curb on insult and ill-will;

A manly scorn of terrour from the tomb." Then, spleen to dust! the dust of innocence ! This harvest reap from thy Narcissa's grave. An angel's dust! - This Lucifer transcends; As poets feign'd from Ajax' streaming blood When he contended for the patriarch's bones, Arose, with grief inscrib'd, a mournful flower; 'T was not the strife of malice, but of pride; Let wisdom blossom from my mortal wound. The 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 Most wretched, but from streams of mutual love; To chase our thoughtlessness, fear, pride, and guilt. And uncreated, but for love divine,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just skim Earth's surface, ere we break it up, Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour ; O'er putrid earth to scratch a little dust, And smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire: And save the world a nuisance. Smitten friends Ruin from man is most conceal’d when near, Are angels sent on errands full of love; And sends the dreadful tidings in the blow. For us they languish, and for us they die : Is this the flight of fancy? Would it were ! And shall they languish, shall they die, in vain ? Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hovering shades, That 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 ; Who not inflam'd, when what he speaks, he feels, Their posthumous advice, and pious prayer ? And in the nerve most tender, in his friends ? Senseless, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves, Shame to mankind! Philander had his foes : Tread under foot their agonies and groans; He felt the truths I sing, and I in him.

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

Auspicious era! golden days, begin! Made death more deadly, and more dark the grave. The thought of death shall, like a god, inspire. Reflect (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 beams, 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, farne ; 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 erery 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 !
Disown 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 Apostates; 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 neri." Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat What is this life? How few their favourite kuov! 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

Lor'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 port. 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 nougts; Through loaded vessels, and a laxer tone ? A nest of pains: when held as nothing, much : 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, when disesteen'd: 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 praise ! 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 shree? 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, flights)

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 rich 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 tlow. 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 moinent 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 goats; 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 cheerd: 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, wbat it presumes. And ever must, o'er those, whose joys are joys Life is much flatter'd, Death is much tradur'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! strange But what those seasons, from the teeming Earth, So little life can cast into the scale. To doating sense indulge. But nobler minds, Lif makes the soul dependent on the dust :

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