Which well becomes her when she speaks to Profe,
Her younger Sister; haply, not more wise.
Think'ft thou, LORENZO! to find Paftimes here? No guilty Paffion blown into a Flame, No Foible fatter'd, Dignity difgrac'd, No fairy Field of Fiction all on Flower, No Rainbow Colours, here, or filken Tale; But folemn Counfels, Images of Awe, Truths, which Eternity lets fall on Man With double Weight, through thefe revolving Spheres, This Death-deep Silence, and incumbent Shade: Thoughts, fuch as fhall revifit your last Hour; Vifit uncall'd, and live when Life expires; And thy dark Pencil, Midnight, darker ftill In Melancholy dipt, embrowns the whole.
Yet this, ev'n This, my Laughter-loving Friends! LORENZO! and thy Brothers of the Smile! If, what imports you moft, can most engage, Shall fteal your Ear, and chain you to my Song. Or if you fail me, know, the Wife fhall tafte The Truths I fing; the Truths I fing shall feel; And, feeling, give Affent; and Their Affent Is ample Recompence; is more than Praife. But chiefly Thine, O LITCHFIELD! nor mistake; Think not un-introduc'd I force my Way; NARCISSA, not unknown, not unally'd, By Virtue, or by Blood, illuftrious Youth!
To thee, from blooming Amaranthine Bowers,
Where all the Language Harmony, defcends
Uncall'd, and afks Admittance for the Mufe:
A Mufe that will not pain thee with thy Praise
Thy Praise fhe drops, by nobler ftill inspir’d.
O Thou! Bleft Spirit! whether the Supreme,
Great antemundane Father! in whofe Breast
Embryo-Creation, unborn Being, dwelt,
And all its various Revolutions roll'd
Prefent, tho' future; prior to themselves;
Whofe Breath can blow it into Nought again;
Or, from his Throne fome delegated Pow'r,
Who, ftudious of our Peace, doft turn the Thought
From Vain and Vile, to Solid and Sublime!
Unseen thou lead'ft me to delicious Draughts
Of Infpiration, from a purer Stream,
And fuller of the God, than that which burst
From fam'd Caftalia: Nor is yet allay'd
My facred Thirst; tho' long my Soul has rang'd
Through pleafing Paths of Moral and Divine,
By Thee fuftain'd, and lighted by the Stars.
By Them best lighted are the Paths of Thought;
Nights are their Days, their moft illumin'd Hours.
By Day, the Soul o'erborne by Life's Career,
Stunn'd by the Din, and giddy with the Glare,
Reels far from Reafon, joftled by the Throng.
By Day the Soul is paffive, all her Thoughts
Impos'd, precarious, broken, ere mature.
By Night from Objects free, from Paffion cool,
Thoughts uncontroul'd, and unimpress'd, the Births
Of pure Election, arbitrary range,
Not to the Limits of one World confin'd;
But from Ethereal Travels light on Earth,
As Voyagers drop Anchor, for Repose.
Let Indians, and the Gay, like Indians, fond
Of feather'd Fopperies, the Sun adore :
Darkness has more Divinity for me;
It strikes Thought inward; it drives back the Soul
To fettle on Herself, our Point fupreme!
There lies our Theatre; there fits our Judge.
Darkness the Curtain drops o'er Life's dull Scene;
'Tis the kind Hand of Providence ftretcht out
'Twixt Man and Vanity; 'tis Reafon's Reign,
And Virtue's too; these Tutelary Shades
Are Man's Afylum from the tainted Throng.
Night is the good Man's Friend, and Guardian too
It no lefs refcues Virtue, than infpires.
Virtue for ever Frail, as Fair, below,
Her tender Nature fuffers in the Croud,
Nor touches on the World, without a Stain:
The World's infectious; few bring back at Eve,
Immaculate, the Manners of the Morn.
Something we thought, is blotted; we refolv'd,
Is fhaken; we renounc'd, returns again.
Each Salutation may flide in a Sin
Unthought before, or fix a former Flaw.
Nor is it ftrange: Light, Motion, Concourfe, Noife,
All, fcatter us abroad; Thought outward-bound
Neglectful of our Home-affairs, flies off
In Fume and Diffipation, quits her Charge,
And leaves the Breast unguarded to the Foe.
Prefent Example gets within our Guard,
And acts with double Force, by few repell'd.
Ambition fires Ambition; Love of Gain
Strikes, like a Peftilence, from Breast to Breaft
Riot, Pride, Perfidy, blue Vapours breathe ;
And Inhumanity is caught from Man;
From fmiling Man. A flight, a fingle Glance,
And fhot at random, often has brought home
A fudden Fever to the throbbing Heart,
Of Envy, Rancour, or impure Defire.
We fee, we hear, with Peril; Safety dwells
Remote from Multitude; the World's a School
Of Wrong, and what Proficients fwarm around!
We must or imitate, or difapprove ;
Muft lift as their Accomplices, or Foes;
That ftains our Innocence; This wounds our Peace.
From Nature's Birth, hence, Wisdom has been smit
With fweet Recefs, and languifht for the Shade.
This facred Shade, and Solitude, what is it? 'Tis the felt Prefence of the Deity.
Few are the Faults we flatter when alone.
Vice finks in her Allurements, is ungilt,
And looks, like other Objects, black by Night.
By Night an Atheist half-believes a God.
Night is fair Virtue's immemorial Friend;
The confcious Moon, through ev'ry diftant Age
Has held a Lamp to Wisdom, and let fall
On Contemplation's Eye, her purging Ray.
The fam'd Athenian, he who woo'd from Heav'n
Philofophy the fair, to dwell with Men,
And form their Manners, not inflame their Pride,
While o'er his Head, as fearful to molest
His lab'ring Mind, the Stars in Silence slide,
And feem all gazing on their future Guest,
See him foliciting his ardent Suit,
In private Audienee: All the live-long Night,
Rigid in Thought, and motionless, he stands;
Nor quits his Theme, or Pofture, till the Sun
Rude Drunkard rifing rofy from the Main!)
Disturbs his nobler intellectual Beam,
And gives him to the Tumult of the World.
Hail, precious Moments! ftol'n from the black Waste
Of murder'd Time! Aufpicious Midnight! Hail!
The World excluded, ev'ry Paffion hush'd,
And open'd a calm Intercourfe with Heav'n,
Here the Soul fits in Council; ponders past,
Predeftines future Action; fees, not feels,
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