Of virtuous Life, quite in the Verge of Heav'n.
Fly, ye Profane! If not, draw near with Awe,
Receive the Bleffing, and adore the Chance,
That threw in this Bethesda your Disease;
If unreftor'd by This, defpair your Cure.
For, Here, refiftless Demonstration dwells;
A Death-bed's a Detector of the Heart.
Here tir'd Diffimulation drops her Mafque,
Thro' Life's Grimace, that Mistress of the Scene!
Here Real, and Apparent, are the Same.
You fee the Man; you fee his Hold on Heav'n ;
If found his Virtue; as PHILANDER's, found.
Heav'n waits not the laft Moment; owns her Friends
On this Side Death; and points them out to Men,
A Lecture, filent, but of fov'reign Pow'r!
To Vice, Confufion; and to Virtue, Peace.
Whatever Farce the boastful Hero plays,
Virtue alone has Majefty in Death;
And greater ftill, the more the Tyrant frowns.
PHILANDER! he feverely frown'd on Thee.
"No Warning giv'n! Unceremonious Fate!
"A fudden Rufh from Life's meridian Joys!
"A Wrench from all we love! from all we are!
"A restless Bed of Pain! a Plunge opaque
Beyond Conjecture! Feeble Nature's Dread!
"Strong Reafon's Shudder at the dark Unknown!
"A Sun extinguisht! a just opening Grave! "And Oh! the laft, laft, what? (can Words exprefs? Thought reach?) the laft, laft,-Silence of a Friend!" Where are thofe Horrors, that Amazement, where, This hideous Group of Ills, which fingly fhock, Demand from Man?-I thought him Man till now.
Thro' Nature's Wreck, thro' vanquifht Agonies,
(Like the Stars struggling thro' this Midnight Gloom)
What Gleams of Joy? what more than Human Peace?
Where, the frail Mortal? the poor abject Worm?
No, not in Death, the Mortal to-be found.
His Conduct is a Legacy for All.
Richer than Mammon's for his fingie Heir.
His Comforters he comforts; Great in Ruin,
With unreluctant Grandeur, gives, not yields
His Soul Sublime; and clofes with his Fate.
How our Hearts burnt within us at the Scene!
Whence, This brave Bound o'er Limits fixt to Man?
His God fuftains him in his final Hour!
His final Hour brings Glory to his God!
Man's Glory Heav'n vouchfafes to call her own.
We gaze; we weep; mixt Tears of Grief and Joy!
Amazement strikes! Devotion burfts to Flame!
Chriftians Adore! and Infidels Believe.
As fome tall Tow'r, or lofty Mountain's Brow,
Detains the Sun, illuftrious from its Height;
While rifing Vapours, and defcending Shades,
With Damps, and Darkness, drown the fpacious Vale:
Undampt by Doubt, undarken'd by Despair,
PHILANDER, thus, augustly rears his Head,
At that black Hour, which gen'ral Horror fheds
On the low Level of th' inglorious Throng:
Sweet Peace, and Heav'nly Hope, and Humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted Soul;
Destruction gild, and crown him for the Skies,
With incommunicable Luftre, Bright.
NIGHT the THIRD.
NARCISSA.
Humbly Infcribed to her GRACE The DUCHESS of P
Ignofcenda quidem, fcirent fi ignofcere Manes.
ROM Dreams, where Thought in Fancy's Maze
runs mad,
To Reafon, that Heav'n-lighted Lamp in Man,
Once more I wake; and at the deftin'd Hour,
Punctual as Lovers to the Moment fworn,
I keep my Affignation with my Woe.
O! Loft to Virtue, Loft to manly Thought,
Loft 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 Thefe, when Others moft remote;
And All, ere long, fhall be remote, but These.
How dreadful, Then, to meet them all alone,
A Stranger! Unacknowleg'd! Unapprov'd!
Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy Breaft
To win thy Wifh, Creation has no more.
Or if we wish a Fourth, it is a Friend
But Friends, how mortal! Dang'rous the Defire.
Take PHOEBUS to yourselves, ye basking Bards!
Inebriate at fair Fortune's Fountain-head;
And reeling thro' the Wilderness of Joy ;
Where Sense runs favage, broke from Reafon's Chain,
And fings falfe Peace, till fmother'd by the Pall.
My Fortune is unlike; unlike my Song;
Unlike the Deity my Song invokes.
I to Day's foft-ey'd Sifter pay my Court,
(ENDYMION'S Rival!) and her Aid implore;
Now firft implor'd in Succour to the Muse.
Thou, who didft lately borrow * CYNTHIA'S Form,
And modeftly forego thine Own! O Thou,
Who didft thyfelf, at midnight Hours, infpire!
Say, why not CYNTHIA, Patronefs of Song?
As Thou her Crefcent, the thy Character.
Affumes; still more a Goddess by the Change.
Are there demurring Wits, who dare dispute
This Revolution in the World inspir'd?
Ye Train Pierian! to the Lunar Sphere,
In filent Hour, addrefs your ardent Call
* At the Duke of Norfolk's Mafquerade.
E
|