That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool;
A melancholly fool, without her bells.
Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly gives
The precious end, which makes our wifdom wife.
Nature, in zeal for human amity,

Denies, or damps, an undivided joy.
Joy is an import; joy is an exchange;
Joy flies monopolifts: it calls for two;

Rich fruit! heav'n-planted! never pluckt by one,
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give
To focial man true relifh of himself.
Full on ourselves defcending in a line
Pleafure's bright beam, is feeble in delight:
Delight intenfe, is taken by rebound;
Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.
Celestial happiness, whene'er fhe stoops
To vifit earth, one fhrine the goddefs finds,
And one alone, to make her sweet amends
For abfent heav'n-the bofom of a friend;
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally foft,
Each other's pillow to repofe divine.
Beware the counterfeit: in paffion's flame

Hearts melt; but melt like ice, foon harder froze,
True love ftrikes root in reafon; paffion's foe:
Virtue alone entenders us for life:

I wrong her much-entenders us for ever.
Of friendship's faireft fruits, the fruit moft fair
Is virtue kindling at a rival fire,

And, emulously, rapid 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 flow'r of heavenly feed,
The wife extract earth's most Hyblean blifs,
Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy.
But for whom bloffoms this Elyfian flower?
Abroad they find, who cherish it at home.
Lorenzo! pardon, what my love extorts,
An honest love, and not afraid to frown.
Tho' choice of follies faften on the great,
None clings more obftinate, than fancy fond,
That facred friendship is their eafy prey;
Caught by the wafture of a golden lure,
Or fafcination of a high-born fmile.

Their fmiles, the great, and the coquet, throw out
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!
You do your rent-rolls moft felonious wrong,
By taking our attachment to yourselves.
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)

I fhew thee friendship delicate, as dear,
Of tender violations apt to die?

Referve will wound it; and distrust, destroy.
Deliberate on all things with thy friend:
But fince friends grow not thick on ev'ry bough,
Nor every friend unrotten at the core;
First, on thy friend, deliberate with thyself;
Pause, 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.
Poor is the friendless mafter of a world:
• A world in purchase for a friend is gain.'
So fung he (angels hear that angel 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 strong, nor pure.
O! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,
And elevating fpirit, of a friend,

For twenty fummers ripening by my fide;
All feculence of falfhood long thrown down;
All focial virtues rifing in his foul;

As cryftal clear; and fmiling, as they rife!
Here nectar flows; it sparkles in our fight;
Rich to the tafte, and genuine from the heart.
High-flavour'd blifs for gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how loft!-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 gloffy plumes
Expanded fhine with azure, green, and gold;
How bleffings brighten as they take their flight!
His flight Philander took; his upward flight,
If ever foul ascended. 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 fcarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.
Yet what I can, I muft: it were profane
To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
And caft in fhadows his illuftrious clofe.
Strange! the theme moft affecting, moft fublime,
Momentous moft to man, fhou'd fleep unfung!
And yet it fleeps, by genius unawak'd,
Painim or Christian; to the blush of wit.
Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!
The death-bed of the juft! is yet undrawn
By mortal hand: it merits a divine:
Angels should paint it, angels ever there;
There, on a poft 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;

Or, in fome mighty ruin's folemn fhade;

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 paufe

And, enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
Is it his death-bed? No; it is his shrine:
Behold him, there, juft 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, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe,
Receive the bleffing, and adore the chance,
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 mafque,
Through life's grimace, that miftrefs of the fcene!
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 laft moment, owns her friends
On this fide death; and points them out to men,
A lecture, filent, but of fov'reign pow'r!
To vice, confufion; and to virtue, peace.