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Man's glory Heaven vouchsafes to call her own. We gaze, we weep; mix'd tears of grief and joy! Amazement strikes : devotion bursts to flame: Christians adore! and infidels believe!

As some tall tower, 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; Undamp'd by doubt, undarken’d by despair, Philander thus augustly rears his head, At that black hour which general horror sheds On the low level of the inglorious throng: Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy, Divinely beam on his exalted soul ; Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, With incommunicable lustre bright.




Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes.


FROM dreams, where thought in Fancy's maze

runs mad, To Reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man, Once more I wake; and at the destined hour, Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn, I keep my assignation with my woe.

0! 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! unacknowledged! unapproved !
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! dangerous the desire.

Take Phæbus to yourselves, ye basking bards!
Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain head,
And reeling through 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-eyed sister pay my court, (Endymion's rival) and her aid implore, Now first implored in succour to the Muse.

Thou who didst lately borrow Cynthia's' form, And modestly forego thine own: 0 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 inspired ? 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, denied to mortal ear. Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of Heaven ! What title or what name endears thee most?

1 At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade.

Cynthia ! Cyllene! Phoebe-or dost hear
With higher gust, fair Portland of the skies ?.
Is that the soft enchantment calls thee down,
More powerful than of old Circean charm ?
Come, but from heavenly banquets with thee bring
The soul of song, and whisper in mine ear
The theft divine ; or in propitious dreams
(For dreams are thive) transfuse it through the
Of thy first votary-but not thy last, [breast
If, like thy namesake, thou art ever kind.

And kind thou wilt be, kind on such a theme;
A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme,
Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair!
A theme that rose all pale, and told my soul
'Twas night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;
A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp
Than that which smote me from Philander's tomb!
Narcissa follows ere his tomb is closed.
Woes cluster; rare are solitary 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 faithless, alienated tear,
Or shares it ere it falls. So frequent Death,
Sorrow he more than causes, he confounds;
For human sighs his rival strokes contend,
And make distress distraction. Oh, Philander !
What was thy fate ? a double fate to me!
Portent and plain ! a menace and a blow !
Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace,
Not less a bird of omen than of prey.
It callid Narcissa long before her hour;
It call’d her tender soul by break of bliss,

From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ;
Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves,
In this inclement clime of human life.

Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!
And young as beautiful ! and soft as young!
And gay as soft! and innocent as gay!
And happy (if aught happy here) as good !
For Fortune fond, had built her nest on high.
Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume,
Transfix'd by Fate (who loves a lofty mark)
How from the summit of the grove she fell,
And left it unharmonious! all its charm
Extinguish'd in the wonders of her song!
Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(O to forget her !) thrilling through my heart.

Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue,joy! this group
Of bright ideas, flowers of Paradise,
As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the skies, as all
We guess of Heaven! and these were all her own;
And she was mine; and I was-was!-most

bless'dGay title of the deepest misery! As bodies grow more ponderous robb’d of life, Good lost, weighs more in grief, than gain’d, in joy. Like blossom'd trees o’erturn’d by vernal storm, Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay; And if in death still lovely, lovelier there; Far lovelier! pity swells the tide of love. And will not the severe excuse a sigh? Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep. Our tears indulged indeed deserve our shame. Ye that e'er lost an angel, pity me!

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