F
Rom dreams, where thought in Fancy's maze runs

mad,
To Reason, 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 allignation with my wo.
O! loft to virtue, loft to manly thought,
Loft to the noble fallies of the foul!
Who think it folitude to be alone.

Communion sweet! communion large, and high!
Our Reafon, 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! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd!.
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! dang'rous the defire.
Alone indeed, the banish'd from himself,

By day's intrufions loud, and rude aflaults,
A tide of tumult, and a storm of tongues.
Take Phabus to yourselves, ye basking bards!
Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain-head,
And reeling through the wilderness of joy;
Where Sense runs favage, broke from Reason's chain,
And fings false peace, till fmother'd by the pall.
My fortune is unlike; unlike, my fong;

Unlike the Deity my fong invokes:

I to Day's soft-ey'd fifter pay my court,
(Endymion's rival!), and her aid implore;
Now first implor'd in fuccour to the Muse.
Thou, who cut lately borrow * CYNTHIA'S form,

And modestly forego thine own! O thou,
Who didft thyself, at midnight-hours, inspire e!
Say, why not CYNTHIA patroness of fong?
As thou her crescent, she thy character
Affiumes; ftill 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, address your ardent call
For aid immortal; less her brother's right.
She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads
The mazy dance, and bears their matchless strain;
A ftrain for gods! deny'd to mortal ear.
Tranfmit it, heard, thou silver queen of heav'n!
What title, or what name endears thee most?
CYNTHIA! CYLLENE! PHOEBE! - or dost hear
With higher gust, fair PD of the skies?
Is that the foft inchantment calls thee down,
More pow'rful than of old Circean charm?
Come; but from heav'nly banquets with thee bring
The foul of fong; and whisper in mine ear
The theft divine; or in propitious dreams
(For dreams are thine) transfuse it through the breast
Of thy first votary-but not thy laft;

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, modeft, melancholy, famale, fair! A theme that rose all pale, and told my foul, 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 clos'd. Woes cluster; rare are folitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel: Her death invades his mournful right, and claims

• At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade.

:

!

The grief that started from my lids for him;
Seizes the faithless, alienated tear;

كم

Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow he more than causes, he confounds;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make distress, diftraction. Oh PHILANDER!
What was thy fate? a double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not less a bird of omen, than of prey.
It call'd NARCISSA long before her hour;
It call'd her tender foul, by break of blifs,
From the first blossom, from the buds of joy;
Those few our noxious fare 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 neft on high:
Like birds quite exquifite of note and plume,
Transfix'd by Fate (who loves a lofty mark),
How from the fummit of the grove the fell,
And left it unharmonious! all its charm
Extinguish'd in the wonders of her fong!
Her fong ftill 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, flow'rs of paradife
As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the skies; as all
We guess of heav'n; and these were all her own:
And the was mine; and I was was most bless'd,-
Gay title of the deepest mifery!

As bodies grow more pond'rous, robb'd of life;
Good lost weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy.
Like bloffom'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 fevere excuse a figh?

Scorn the proud man that is asham'd to weep;
Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e'er lost an angel! pity me.

Soon as the luftre languish'd in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human fight;
And on her cheek, the refidence of spring,
Pale omen fat, and scatter'd fears around
On all that faw, (and who could cease to gaze,
That once had seen?), with hafte, parental haste,
I flew, I snatch'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) check'd his beam,
Deny'd his wonted fuccour, nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells
Of lilies; fairest lilies, not so fair!

Queen lilies! and ye painted populace! Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrofial lives; In morn and ev'ning dew your beauties bathe, And drink the fun; which gives your cheeks to glow, And outblush (mine excepted) ev'ry fair; You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand, Which often cropt your odours, incense meet To thought so pure; her flow'ry state of mind In joy unfall'n. Ye lovely fugitives! Coæval race with man! for man ye smile; Why not smile at him too? you share indeed His fudden pass, but not his constant pain. So man is made, nought ministers delight, But what his glowing passions can engage; And glowing passions bent on aught below, Muft, foon or late, with anguish turn the scale; And anguish after rapture how severe! Rapture? bold man! who tempts the wrath divine, By plucking fruit deny'd to mortal taste, While here prefuming on the rights of heav'n. For transport dost thou call on ev'ry hour, LORENZO? At thy friend's expense be wife : Lean not on earth; 'twill pierce thee to the heart; A broken reed, at beft; but, oft, a spear; On its sharp point Peace bleeds, and Hope expires. Turn, hopeless thought! turn from her: -Thought repeff'd,