Pause, ponder, fift; not eager in the choice,
Nor jealous of the chosen; 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 hazard we can run.
"Poor is the friendless master of the world:
" A world in purchase for a friend is gain."

So fung he (angels hear that angels fing!
Angels from friendship gather half their joy);
So fung PHILANDER, as his friend went round
In the rich ichor, in the gen'rous blood
Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit,
A brow folute, and ever-laughing eye.
He drank long health and virtue to his friend;
His friend, who warm'd him more, who more infpir'd.
Friendship's the wine of life; but friendship new
(Not fuch was his is neither ftrong nor pure.
O! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,
And elevating spirit, of a friend,

For twenty fummers ripening by-my fide;
All feculence of falsehood long thrown down;
All social virtues rising in his foul;
As crystal clear; and fimiling, as they rife!.
Here nectar flows; it fparkles in our fight;
Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart.
High-flavour'd blifs for gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how lost!-PHILANDER is no more.)
Think'st 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, whose beauties languish, half, conceal'd,
Till mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes
Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold;
How blessings brighten as they take their flight!
His flight PHILANDER took; his upward flight,
If ever foul afcended. Had he dropt,
(That eagle genius!) O had he let fall
One feather as he flew; 1, then, had wrote.
What friends might flatter; prudent-foes forbear;
Rivals fcarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.
Yet what I can, I muft: it were profane

C

To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
And cast in shadows his illustrious close.
Strange! the theme most affecting, most sublime,
Momentous most to man, shou'd steep unsung!
And yet it sleeps, by genius unawak'd,
Painim or Christian; to the blush of wit,
Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!
The deathbed of the just! is yet undrawn
By mortal hand; it merits a divine:
Angels should paint it, angels ever there;
There, on a post of honour, and of joy.
Dare I presume, then? But PHILANDER bids;
And
and inclination calls-
Yet am I ftruck; as struck the foul, beneath
Aëreal groves impenetrable gloom;
Or in some mighty ruin's folemn shade;
Or gazing by pale lamps on high-born duft,
In vaults; thin courts of poor'unflatter'd kings!
Or at the midnight-altar's hallow'd flame.
It is religion to proceed: I pause-
And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
Is it his deathbed? No: it is his shrine:
Behold him, there, just rising to a god.

glory tempts,

The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common walk 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 this Bethesda your disease; If qurestor'd by this, despair your cure; For, here, refiftless demonstration dwells; A deathbed's a detector of the heart. Here tir'd Diffimulation drops her maik, Through life's grimace that mistress of the scene ! Here real, and apparent, are the fame. You fee the man; you fee his hold on heav'n; If found his virtue; as PHILANDER'S found. Heav'n waits not the last moment, owns her friends On this fide death; and points them out to men, A lecture, filent, but of fovereign pow'r! To vice, confation; and to virtue, peace. Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, Virtue alone has majesty in death;

1

And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.
PHILANDER! he severely frown'd on thee.
"No warning given! unceremonious fate!
"A fudden rush from life's meridi
"A wrench from all we love! from all we are!

joys!

"A restless bed of pain! a plunge opaque
"Beyond-conjecture! feeble Nature's dread!

66

Strong Reason's shudder at the dark unknown!

:

"A fun extinguish'd! a just opening grave! "And oh! the last, last; what? (can words exprefs? "Thought reach it?) the last-filence of a friend!" Where are those horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which fingly shock, Demand from man?-I thought him man till now.

Thro' Nature's wreck, thro' vanquilh'd 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 fingle heir. His comforters he comforts; great in ruin, With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields His foul fublime; and closes with his fate.

How our hearts burnt within us at the scene! Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man? His God sustains him in his final hour! His final hour brings glory to his God! Man's glory heav'n vouchsafes to call her own. We gaze; we weep; mix'd tears of grief and joy! Amazement ftrikes! devotion burits to flame! Christians adore! and Infidels believe.

As fome tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the fun, illustrious from its height; While rifing vapours, and descending shades, With damps, and darkness, drown the spacious vale: Undamp'd by doubt, undarken'd by defpair, PHILANDER, thus, augustly rears his head, At that black hour, which gen'ral horror sheds On the low level of th' inglorious throng: Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Foy, Divinely beam on his exalted foul;

Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable lustre, bright.

LORENZO! fuch the good man's mifery!
How dim the ra the luftre, now, how pale
Of tarnith'd pageantries, of wither'd joy,
Of beggar'd opulence, disgrac'd renown,
Deep-darken'd empire, conquest overcome !
Envy's bright buts! the pant of every breast!
Envy! the greatest idiot of all crimes !
Who pains herself for that, wou'd pain her more;
Is there on earth what can abfolve her? Yes:
One radient mark; the deathbed of the just :
That gaze of angels! that glad fame of heav'n!
That joy to joy celestial!-O my foul!
Blefs'd, ravith'd with this providential scene!
Heaven plans her gracious stratagems for all.
A fcene so strong to strike, so sweet to charm,
So great to raise, so heavenly to infpire,
So folid to fupport fair Virtue's throne,
What transport thine, to fee? what zeal to fing?
Sing first, and send it through the fouls of men;
And fent through theirs with ease, if from our own.
Nor haft thou fung in vain: PHILANDER hears,
LORENZO feels, thy song. LORENZO feels,
Or he, and not PHILANDER, is the dead.
Life, take thy chance but oh for such an end!
There point, my wishes! center there; and burn.
Smile you, ye poor dependents on a pulfe!
A pulfe, your falient god! as that decrees,
Pleasur'd or pain'd, exalted or forlorn-
Smile on; and prove your misery by your smiles.
As smiles mistaken, what tear half fo fad?
Is it your pride? wou'd you be prais'd for this?
Scorn'd be the man who thinks himself a brute;
1. Affronts his species, and his God blafphemes:
Vile laughter! at whom pity cannot laugh;
Scorner of all, but what deserves his scorn!
Who thinks it is ingenious to be mad,
And is quite fool enough to be a wit.

Wits fpare not heaven, O Vilinington!-nor thee.

NIGHT THE THIRD.

NARCISSA.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED

TO HER GRACE

1

The DUCHESS of P

Ignofcenda quidam, fcirent fi ignofcere manes. VIRG.

C3