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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 !
Take Phæbus to yourselves, ye basking bards!
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
And kind thou wilt be, kind on such a theme;
From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ;
Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!
Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue,joy! this group
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!