Hearts melt, but melt like ice, foon harder froze. 'True love frikes root in Reafon; paffion's foe: Virtue alone entenders us for life: I wrong her much-Entenders us for ever; Of Friendfip's fairest fruits, the fruit molt fair Is Virtue kindling at a rival fire, And, emulously, tapid in her race. O the foft enmity endearing ftrife!
This carries friendship to her noon-tide point, And gives the rivet of eternity.
From Friendship, which outlives my former themes,
Glorious furvivor of old Time and Death;
From Friendship, thus, that flower of heavenly feed; 535
The wife extraes earth's moft Hyblean bliss, Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy. But for whom bloffoms this Elysian forver? Abroad They find, who cherifh it at Home. Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts, An honeft love, and not afraid to frown. Though choice of follies faften on the Great, None clings more obftinate than fancy fond That facred friendship is their easy prey; Caught by the wafture of a golden lure, Or fascination of a high-born fmile.
(Not fuch was His) is neither Strong, nor Pure. O for the bright complexion, cordial warmth, And elevating fpirit, of a friend, 585
For twenty fummers ripening by my fide! All feculence of falfehood long thrown down; All focial virtues rifing in his foul;
As crystal clear; and fmiling as they rife! Here Nectar flows; it sparkles in our fight: 590 Rich to the tafle, and genuine from the heart High-flavour'd blifs for gods! on earth how rare! On earth how ft Philander is no more,
Think't thou the theme intoxicates my fong? Am I too warm? Too warm i cannot be. I lov'd him much; but now I love him more Like birds, whole beautics languish, half-conceal'd, Till, mounted on the wing, their glofy plumes Expanded fine with azure, green, and gold; How bleflings brighten as they take their flight! His flight Philander took; his upward flight, 601 I ever foul afcended. Had he dropt, (That eagle genius!) O had he let fall One feather as he flew; I, then, had wrote, What friends might flatter; prudent foes forbear; Rivals fearce darnn; and Zoilus reprieve.
545 Yet what I can, I muft; it were profane To quench a glory lighted at the fkies,
Strange the therae most affecting, moft fublime,
Their smiles, the Great, and the Coquet, throw out And cafl in fhadows his illustrious close. For Others hearts, tenacious of their Own; And we no lefs of ours, when fuch the bait. Ye fortune's cofferers! Ye powers of wealth! 550 Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope! As well mere man an angel might beget. Love, and Love only, is the loan for love. Lorenzo! pride reprefs; nor hope to find A friend, but what has found a friend in Thee. All like the purchase; few the price will pay ; And this makes friends fuch miracles below. What if (fince daring on fo nice a theme) fhew thee friendship Delicate, as Dear, Of tender violations apt to die? Referve will wound it; and Diftrust, destroy. Deliberate in all things with thy friend. But fince friends grow not thick on every bough Nor every friend unrotten at the core; First, on thy friend, deliberate with Thyfelf; 565 Paufe, ponder, fift; not Eager in the choice, Nor jealous of the chofen; Fixing, Fix; Judge before friendship, then confide till death. Well, for thy friend; but nobler far for Thee; How gallant danger for earth's highest prize! A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
Momentous moft to man, fhould fleep unfung! And yet it fleeps, by genius unawak'd, Painim or Chriftian; to the blush of wit Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall! The Death-bed of the just ! is yet undrawn By mortal hand it merits a Divine: Angels fhould paint it, angels ever There; There, on a pot of honour, and of joy. Dare I prefume, then? but Philander bids; And glory tempts, and inclination calls- Yet am I ftruck; as ftruck the foul, beneath Aerial Groves impenetrable gloom's
Poor is the friendlefs matter of a world: "A world in purchafe for a friend is gain."
So fung He (angels hear what angels fing! Angels from friendship gather half their joy) 575 So fung Philander, as his friend went round In the rich icbor, in the generous blood Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit, A brow folute, and ever-laughing eye.
He drank long health, and virtue, to his friend ;580 His friend, who warm'd him more, who more infpir'd.
Friendfbip's the wine of life; but friendship new
Or, in fome mighty Ruin's folenin fhade; Or, gazing by pale lamps on bigb-born Duf, In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings; Or, at the midnight Altar's hallow'd flame. 626 Is it religion to proceed? I paufe-- And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme. Is it his death bed? No: it is his fhrine: Behold him, there, just rifing to a god. The chamber where the good man meets his fate,
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven. Fly, yerofane! If not, draw near with awe, Receive the bleffing, and adore the chance, 635 That threw in this Bethesda your disease; If unreftor'd by This, defpair your cure. For, Here, refiftlefs demonftration dwells; A death-bed's a detector of the heart. Here tir'd diffimulation drops her masque, Through life's grimace, that mistress of the fcene!
Here Real, and Apparent, are the fame
On this fide death, and points them out to men, A lecture, filent, but of fovereign power! 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 given! Unceremonious fate! A fudden rush from life's meridian joy! A wrench from all we love! from all we are! A reflefs bed of pain! a plunge opaque 656 "Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread!
Strong Reafon's fhudder at the dark unknown! "A fun extinguifht! a juft-opening grave! "And oh the laft, laft, what? (can words exprefs? 660
Thought reach it ?) the last-Silence of a friend!"
Where are thofe horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which fingly shock, Demand from man?-I thought him man till 665
Through nature's wreck, through vanquisht
agonies, (Like the ftars ftruggling through 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 Mantmon's for his fingle heir. His comforters he comforts; Great in ruin, With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields His foul fublime; and clofes with his fate.
How our hearts burnt within us at the fcene ;675 Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man? His God fuftains him in his final hour! His final hour brings glory to his God! Man's glory heaven vouchfafes to call her own. We gaze, we weep; mix tears of grief of joy! Amazement strikes! devotion burts to flame!681 Chriftians Adore! and Infidels Believe.
As fome tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the fun, Illuftrious from its height; While rifing vapours, and defcending fhades, 685 With damps and darkness, drown the fpacious vale; Undampt by doubt, undarken'd by defpair, Philander, thus, auguflly rears his head, At that black hour, which general horror fheds On the low level of th' inglorious throng. Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Joy, Divinely beam on his exalted foul; Deftruction gild, and crown him for the skies, With incommunicable luftre, bright.
NIGHT THE THIRD.
NARCISSA.
THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND. Ignofcenda quidem, feirent fi ignofcere manes."
Virg ROM Dreams, where thought in fancy's maze runs mad,
To Reafon, that heaven-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 fallies of the foul! Who think it folitude, to be Alone.
Communion fweet! communion large and high! Our Reafon, Guardian Angel, and our God ! 10 Then nearest Thefe, when Others moft remote ; And All, ere long, fhall be remote, but Thefe. How dreadful, Then, to meet them all alone, Aftranger! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd! Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy breaft; To win thy with, creation has no more.
Or if we with a fourth, it is a Friend- But friends, how mortal, dangerous the defire! Take Phœbus to yourselves, ye basking bards! Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head; And reeling through the wilderness of joy ; Where Senfe runs favage, broke from Reafun's
And fings falfe peace, till fmother'd by the pall. My fortune is unlike; unlike my fong; Unlike the deity my foug invokes.
I to Day's foft-ey'd fifter pay my court, (Endymion's rival!) and her aid implore; Now firft implor'd in fuccour to the Mufe. Thou, who didft lately borrow Cynthia's form,
And modeftly forego thine Own! O Thou, Who didft thyself, at midnight hours, infpire! Say, why not Cynthia patronefs of fong? As thou her crefcent, the thy character Affumes; ftill more a goddefs by the change. Are there demurring wits, who dare difpute 35 l'his revolution in the world infpir'd? Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar sphere, In filent hour, addrefs your ardent call For aid immortal; lefs her brother's right. She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads 40 The mazy dance, and hears their matchlefs ftrain. A ftrain for gods, deny'd to mortal ear. What title, or what name, endears thee moit franfmit it heard, thou filver queen of heaven! Cynthia Cyllené! Phœbe! or doft hear
At the duke of Norfolk's mafquerade.
With higher guft, fair Portland of the fkies! Is that the foft enchantment calls thee down, More powerful than of old Circean charm? Come; but from heavenly banquets with thee bring
The foul of fong, and whisper in my ear The theft divine; or in propitious dreams
Scorn the proud man that is afham'd to weepi Our tears indulg'd indeed deferve our fhame. Ye that e'er loft an angel pity me.
Soon as the luftre languifht in her eye, Dawning a dimmer day on human fight: And on her cheek, the refidence of fpring, Pale omen fat; and fcatter'd fears around
(For dreams are Thine) transfufe it through the On all that faw (and who would ceafe to gaze, 115
And kind thou wilt be; kind on fuch a theme; A theme fo like thee, a quite lunar theme, Soft, modeft, melancholy, female, fair! A theme that rufe all pale, and told my foul, "Twas Night; on her fond hopes perpetual night; A night which ftruck a damp, a deadlier damp,60 Than that which fmote me from Philander's tonib. Narcilla follows, ere his tomb is clos'd. Woes cluster: rare are folitary woes;
They love a train, they tread each other's heel; Her death invades bis mournful right, and claims The grief that started from my lids for Him: 66 Seizes the faithlefs, alienated tear,
Or fhares it, ere it falls. So frequent death, Sorrow he more than caufes, he confounds; For human fighs his rival ftrokes contend, And make diftrefs, diftraction. Oh Philander! What was thy fate? A double fate to me; Portent, and pain! a menace and a blow ! Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace, Not lefs a bird of omen than of prey. It call'd Narciffa long before her hour; It call'd her tender foul, by break of blifs, From the first bloffom, from the buds of joy ; Thofe few our noxious fate unblafted leaves In this inclement clime of human life.
That once had feen?) with hafte, parental hafte, few, I fnatch'd her from the rigid north, Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew, And bore her nearer to the fun; the fun (As if the fun could envy) checkt his beam, 120 Deny'd his wonted fuccour; nor with more Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells Of lilies; fairest lilies, not fo fair!
Queen lilies! and ye painted populace! Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrofial lives; 125 In morn and evening dew, your beauties bathe, And drink the fun; which gives your cheeks to glow,
And out-blush (mine excepted) every fair; You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand, Which often cropt your odours, incenfe meet 130 To thought fo pure! ye lovely fugitives! Coeval race with man! for man you fmile; Why nor fmile at him too? You share indeed His fudden país; but not his conftant pain.
So man is made, nought minifters delight, 135 But what his glowing paffions, can engage; And glowing paffions, bent on aught below, Muft, foon or late, with anguish turn the scale; And anguish, after rapture, how fevere! Rapture? Bold man! who tempt'st the wrath di-
By plucking fruit denied to mortal tafte, While bere, prefuming on the rights of heaven. For transport doft thou call on every hour, Lorenzo? At thy friend's expence, be wife;
Lean not on earth; twill pierce thee to the
85 A broken reed, at beft; but, oft, a spear; On its fharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires. Turn, hopeless thought! turn from her;
Sweet harmonist and Beautiful as fweet! And Young as beautiful! and Soft as young! And Gay as foft! and Innocent as gay! And Happy (if anght Happy bere) as good! For fortune fond had built her neft on high. Like birds quite exquifite of note and plume, Transfixt by fate (who loves a lofty mark), How from the fummit of the grove fhe fell, And left it unharmonious! All its charms Extinguisht in the wonders of her fong! Her fong ftill vibrates in my ravisht car, Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain (0 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 prefent it to the skies as All We guefs of heaven; and these were all her own, And he was mine; and I was-was!-moft bleft-
Refenting rallies, and wakes every woe. [150 Snatch'd ere thy prime! and in thy bridal hour! And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smil'd! And when high flavour'd thy fresh opening joys! And when blind man pronounc'd thy blifs complete!
And on a foreign fhore; where strangers wept Strangers to Thee; and, more furprifing ftill, 155 Strangers to Kindnefs, wept their eyes let fall Inhuman tears! ftrange tears! that trickled down Frem marble hearts! obdurate tenderness! A tenderness that call'd them more fevere; In fpite of nature's foft perfuafion, steel'd; 160 While nature melted, fuperftition rav'd; That mourn'd the dead; and this denied a grave. Their fighs incens'd; fighs foreign to the will!
Gay title of the deepest mifery! 100 As bodies grow more ponderous, robb'd of life, Good loft weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy. Like bloffom'd trees o'er turn'd by vernal ftorm,Their will the Tiger fuck'd, outrag'd the storm.
Deny'd the charity of duft, 'to tpread O'er duft! a charity their dogs enjoy. What could I do? What fuccour? What refource? With pious facrilege, a grave I ftole; With impious piety, that grave I wrong'd; Short in my duty; coward in my grief! More like her murderer, than friend, I crept, 175 With foft-fufpended ftep, and muted deep In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last figh. I whisper'd what should echo through their realms; Nor writ her name, whofe tomb fhould pierce the fkies.
Prefumptuous fear! How durft I dread her foes, While nature's loudeft dictates I obey'd? 181 Pardon neceflity, bleft fhade! Of grief And indignation rival bursts I pour'd ; Half execration mingled with my prayer; Kindled at man, while 1 his God ador'd; Sore grudg'd the favage land her facred duft; Stampt the curft foil; and with humanity (Denied Narciffa) wifh'd them all a grave."
Glows my refentment into guilt? What guilt Can equal violations of the dead? 'The dead how facred! Sacred is the duft Of this heaven-labour'd form, erect, divine! This heaven-affum'd majestic robe of earth, He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanfe With azure bright, and cloath'd the fun in gold. When every paffion sleeps that can offend; When ftrikes us every motive that can melt; When man can wreak his rancour uncontrol'd, That strongest curb on infult and ill-will; Then, spleen to duft ? the dust of innocence? 200 An angel's duft?-This Lucifer tranfcends; When he contended for the patriarch's bones, 'Twas not the ftrife of malice, but of pride; The ftrife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall. For less than This is fhocking in a race Molt wretched, but from ftreams of mutual love; And uncreated, but for love divine; And, but for love divine, this moment loft, By fate reforb'd, and funk in endless night. Man hard of heart to man! of horrid things 210 Moft horrid! 'Mid ftupendous, highly ftrange! Yet oft his courtefies are fimoother wrongs; Pride brandishes the favours He confers, And contumelious his humanity: What then his vengeance? Hear it not, ye ftars! And thou, pale moon! turn paler at the found; Man is to man the foreft, furest ill. A previous blaft foretels the rifing florm; O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they falls Volcanos bellow ere they difembogue ; Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour; And smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire: Ruin from man is moft conceal'd when near, And fends the dreadful tidings in the blow. Is this the flight of fancy? Would it were! 225 Heaven's Sovereign faves all beings, but himself, That hideous fight, a naked human heart.
Fir'd is the Mufe? And let the Mufe be fir'd: Who not enflam'd, when what he fpeaks, he feels, And in the nerve moft tender, in his friends? 230
Shame to mankind! Philander had his foes: He felt the truths I fing, and I in Him. But He, nor I, feel more : paft ills, Narciffa! Are funk in Thee, thou recent wound of heart! Which bleeds with other cares, with other pangsz Pangs numerous, as the numerous ills that fwarm'd 236
Oe'r thy diftinguish'd fate, and, clustering There Thick as the locufts on the land of Nile, Made death more deadly, and more dark the 240
Reflect (if not forgot my touching tale) How was each circumftance with afpics arm'd? An afpie, Each! and All, an Hydra woe: What ftrong Herculean virtue could fuffice? Or is it virtue to be conquer'd Here? This hoary cheek a train of tears bedcws; And each tear mourns its own diftinct diftrefs; And each diftrefs, diftinctly mourn'd, demands. Of grief ftill more, as heighten'd by the whole. A grief like this proprietors excludes Not friends alone fuch obfequies deplore; They make mankind the mourner; carry fighs Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way; And turn the gayeft thought of gayett age, Down their right channel, through the vale of death.
Of all moft wanted, and moft welcome, here. For gay Lorenzo's fake, and for thy own, [265 My foul!" The fruits of dying friends furvey; Expofe the vain of life; weigh life and death; "Give death his eulogy; thy fear tubdue; "And labour that firft palm of noble minds, "A manly fcorn of terror from the tomb."
This harvest reap from thy Narcia's grave 270 As poet's feign'd from Ajax' ftreaming blood Arofe, with grief inferib'd, a mournful flower; Let wifdom bloffom from my mortal wound. And fir, of dying friends; what fruit from thefe? 275
It brings us more than triple aid; an aid To chafe our thoughtlesnefs, fear, pride and guilt. Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, l'o damp our brainless ardors; and abate That glare of life which often blinds the wife. Our dying friends are pioneers, to fmooth Our rugged pafs to death; to break thofe bars Of terror, and abhorrence, nature throws Cross our obstructed way; and thus to make Welcome, as fafe, our port from every storm. Each friend by fate fuatch'd from us, is a plume Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity, Wh ch makes us ftoop from our aerial heights, And, dampt with omen of our own deceale,
To what are they reduc'd? To love, and late,
On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd, Juft fkun earth's furface, ere we break it up, 290 The fame vain world; to cenfure, and efpouse,
O'er putrid earth to scratch a little duft, And fave the world a nuifance. Smitten friends Are angels fent on errands full of love; For us they languifh, and for us they die : And fhall they languish, fhall they die in vain ?295 Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hovering fhades, Which wait the revolution in our hearts? Shall we difdain their filent, foft addrefs, Their pofthumous advice, and pious prayer? Senfelefs, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves, Tread under-foot their agonies and groans; Fruftrate their anguish, and deftroy their deaths? Lorenzo! no; the thought of death indulge; Give it its whole fome empire! let it reign, That kind chaftifer of thy foul in joy! Its reign will spread thy glorious conquefts far, And fill the tumults of thy ruffled breast: Aufpicious era! golden days, begin!
The thought of death fhall, like a god, infpire. And why not think on death? Is life the theme 310 Of every thought? and wish of every hour? And fong of every joy? Surprising truth! The beaten fpaniel's fondness not so strange, To wave the numerous ills that feize on life As their own property, their lawful prey.; Ere man has meafur'd half his weary stage, His luxuries have left him no referve, No maiden relifhes, unbroach'd delights;
On cold ferv'd repetitions he fubfifts,
This painted threw of life, who calls them fool Each moment of each day; to flatter bad 356 Through dread of worfe to cling to this rude rock,
Barren to them, of good, and fharp with ills, And hourly acken'd with impending storms, And infamous for wrecks of human hope- 360 Scar'd at the gloomy gulph that yawns beneath. Such are their triumphs! fuch their pangs of joy!
"Tis time, high time, to fhift this difmal scene. This bugg'd, this bideous state, what art can cure? One only; but that one, what all may reach; 365 Virtue-fhe, wonder-working goddefs! charms That rock to bloom, and tanies the painted brewi And, what will more furprize, Lorenzo! gives To life's fick, naufeous iteration, change; And ftraightens nature's circle to a line. Believ't thou this, Lorenzo? lend an ear, A patient ear, thou 'It blush to difbelieve. And ever muft, o'er thofe, whofe joys are joys A languid, leaden, iteration reigns, Of fight, fmell, tafte: the cuckow feafons fing The fame dull note to fuch as nothing prize, 375 But what those feafons, from the teeming earth, To doating fenfe indulge. But nobler minds, Which relish fruits unripen'd by the fun, Make their days various; various as the dyes 389 On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays, On minds of dove-like innocence poffeft, On lighten'd minds, that baik in virtue's beams, Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves [385 In that, for which they long; for which they live. Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope, Each rifing morning fees ftill higher rife; Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents. To worth maturing, new ftrength, luftre, fame; While nature's circle, like a chariot wheel Rolling beneath their elevated aims, Makes their fair profpect fairer every hour; Advancing virtue, in a line to blifs; Virtue, which Chriftian motives best infpire! [395 And bliss, which Chriftian íchemes alone enture? And fhall we then, for virtue's fake, commence Apoftates; and turn infidels for joy? A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer truft, have" He fins against this life, who flights the nest." What is this life? How few their favourite know! Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace, 401 By paffionately loving life, we make Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death. We give to Time Eternity's regard;
And in the taftclefs prefent chews the past; Difgufted chews, and fcarce can swallow down. Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years Have difinherited his future hours,
Which ftarve on orts, and glean their former field. Live ever here, Lorenzo-fhocking thought! So fhocking, they who wifh, difown it too; 326 Difown from fhame, what they from folly crave. Live ever in the womb, nor fee the light? For what live ever here?-With labouring step To tread our former footsteps? Face the round 330 Eternal? To climb life's worn, heavy wheel, Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat The beaten track? To bid each wretched day The former mock? To furfeit on the fame, And yawn our joys? Or thank a mifery For change, though fad? To fee what we feen?
Hear, till unheard, the fame old flabber'd tale? To tafte the tafted, and at each return Lefs tafteful? O'er our palates to decant Another vintage? Strain a fatter year, Through loaded veffels, and a laxer tone? Crazy machines to grind carth's wafted fruits! Ill-ground, and worse concocted! Load, not life! The rational foul kennels of excefs!
Still-ftreaming thoroughfares of dull debauch! 345 Trembling each gulp left death fhould fnatch the bowl.
Such of our fine-ones is the wish refin'd! So would they have it; elegant defire! Why not invite the bellowing ftalls, and wilds? But fuch examples might their riot awe. Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought, (Though on bright thought they father all their flights)
And dreaming, take our paffage for our port. 40$ Life has no value as an end, but means; An end deplorable! a means divine! When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worse than nought;
A neft of pains: when held as nothing, much: Like fome fair humourifts, life is most enjoy'd, When courted least; most worth, when dif efteem'd:
Then 'tis the feat of comfort, rich in peace; In profpect richer far; important! awful! Not to be mention'd, but with fhouts of praife! Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy! 415
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