!

And gay as soft! and innocent as gay
And happy (if aught happy here) as good!
For fortune fond had built her nest on high
Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume,
Transfixt by fate (who loves a lefty mark)
How from the summit of the grove she fell,
And left it unharmonious! All its charms
Extinguish'd in the wonders of her song!
Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(0 to forget her!) thrilling through my heart.
Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy, this grou).
Of bright ideas, flow'rs of paradise,

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 she was mine; and I was-was-most blest-
Gay title of the deepest misery!

As bodies grow more pond'rous, robb'd of life;
Good lost weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy.
Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storbi,
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 aslam'd to weep;
Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e'er lost an augel, pity me!

Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human sight;
And on her cheek, the residence of spring,
Pale omen sat; and scatter'd fears around
On all that saw (and who would cease to gaze,
That once had seen?) with haste, 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 sun; the sun
(As if the sun could envy) check'd his beam,
Deny'd his wonted succour; 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 ambrosial lives;
In morn and ev'ning dew, your beauties bathe,
And drink the sun; which gives your cheeks to glow,
And out-blush (mine excepted) ev'ry fair;
You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand,
Which often cropt your odours, incense meet
To thought so pure. Ye lovely fugitives!
Coëval race with man! for man you smile;
Why not smile at him too? You share, indeed,
His sudden pass; but not his constant pain.
So man is made, nought ministers delight,
By what his glowing passions can engage;
And glowing passious, bent on aught below,
Must, soon 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, presuming on the rights of heav'n.
For transport dost thou call on ev'ry hour,
LORENZO? At thy friend's expense be wise;
Lean not on earth; 'twill pierce thee to the heart;
A broken reed, at best; but, oft, a spear;

On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires. Turn, hopeless thought, turn from her :-thought repell'd

Resenting rallies, and wakes ev'ry woe.

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 op'ning joys!
And when blind man pronounc'd thy bliss complete!

And on a foreign shore; where strangers wept!
Strangers to thee; and more surprising still,
Strangers to kindness, wept: their eyes let fall
Inhuman tears! strange tears! that trickled down
From marble hearts! obdurate tenderness!
A tenderness that call'd them more severe;
In spite of nature's soft persuasion, steel'd;
While Nature melted, Superstition raved;
That mourn'd the dead; and this deny'd a grave.
Their sighs incens'd; sighs foreign to the will!.
Their will the tiger suck'd, outrag'd the storm.
For oh!. the curst ungodliness of zeal!
While sinful flesh relented, spirit nurst
In blind Infallibility's embrace,
The sainted spirit petrify'd the breast;
Deny'd the charity of dust, to spread
O'er dust! a charity their dogs enjoy.

What could I do? What succour? What resource :
With pious sacrilege a grave I stole:
With impious piety that grave I'wrong'd;
Short in my duty; coward in my grief!
More like her murderer, than friend, I crept,
With soft suspended step, and muffled deep
In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last sigh.
I whisper'd what should echo through their realms
Nor writ her naine, whose tomb should pierce the
skies.

Presumptuous fear! How durst I dread her foes,
While Nature's loudest dictates I obey d?
Pardon necessity, blest shade! Of grief
And indignation rival bursts I pour'd;
Half execration mingled with my prayer;
Kindled at man, while I his God ador d;
Sore-grudg'd the savage and her sacred-dust;
Stampt the curst soil; an with humanity
(Deny'd NARCISSA) wish them dia grave.

Glows my resentment into guilt? What guilt Can equal violations of the dead?

The dead how sacred! Sacred is the dust
Of this heav'n-labour'd form, erect, divine!
This heav'n-assum'd majestic robe of earth,
He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse
With azure bright, and cloth'd the sun in gold.
When ev'ry passion sleeps that can offend;
When strikes us ev'ry motive that can melt;
When man can wreak his rancour uncontrol'd,
That strongest curb on insult and ill-will;
Then, spleen to dust? the dust of innocence?
An angel's dust ?----This Lucifer transcends;
When he contended for the patriarch's bones,
"Twas not the strife of malice, but of pride;
The strife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall.

Far less than this is shocking in a race
Most wretched, but from streams of mutual love;
And uncreated, but for love divine;

And, but for love divine; this moment, lost,
By fate resorb'd, and sunk in endless night.
Man hard of heart to man! Of horrid things
Most horrid! 'Midst stupendous, highly strange!
Yet oft his courtesies are smoother wrongs;
Pride brandishes the favours he confers,
And contumelious his humanity:

What then his vengeance? Hear it not, ye stars!
And thou, pale moon, turn paler at the sound;
Man is to man the sorest, surest ill.

A previous blast foretells the rising storm;
O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall;
Volcanos bellow ere they disembogue;

Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour,
And smoke betrays the wide consuming fire;
Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near,
And sends the dreadful tidings in the blow.

Is this the flight of fancy? Would it were?
Heav'n's sovereign sayes all beings, but himself,
That hideous sight, a naked human heart.

Fir'd is the muse? And let the muse be fir'd: Who not inflam'd, when what he speaks, he feels, And in the nerve most tender, in his friends? Shame to mankind! PHILANDER had his foes; He felt the truths I sing, and I in him.' But he, nor I, feel more: past ills, NARCISSA, Are sunk in thee, thou recent wound of heart! Which bleeds with other cares, with other pangs; Pangs num'rous, as the num'rous ills that swarm'd O'er thy distinguish'd fate, and clust'ring there Thick as the locusts on the land of Nile, Made death more deadly, and more dark the grave. Reflect (if not forgot my touching tale) How was each circumstance with aspics arm'd? An aspic, each! and all, an hydra woe: What strong Herculean virtue could suffice? Or is it virtue to be conquer'd here? This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews; And each tear mourns its own distinct distress; And each distress, distinctly mourn'd, demands Of grief still more, as heighten'd by the whole. A grief like this proprietors excludes: Not friends alone such obsequies deplore; They make mankind the mourner; carry sighs Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way; And turn the gayest thought of gayest age, Down their right channel, through the vale of death. The vale of death! that hush'd Cimmerian vale, Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd fates, With raven wing incumbent, waits the day (Dread day!) that interdicts all future change! That subterranean world, that land of ruin! Fit walk, LORENZO, for proud human thought!