Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, Virtue alone has majesty in death;

And greater ftill, the more the tyrant frowns. Philander! he feverely frown'd on thee. "No warning given! unceremonious fate! 'A fudden rush from life's meridian joys! A wrench from all we love! from all we are! • A restless bed of pain! a plunge opaque 'Beyond conjecture! feeble nature's dread! 'Strong reafon's fhudder at the dark unknown! A fun extinguish'd! a juft opening grave! 'And oh! the last, laft; what? (can words exprefs? Thought reach?) the laft, laft-filence of a friend!' Where are thofe horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which fingly fhock, Demand from man?--I thought him man till now.

Thro' nature's wreck, thro' vanquifh'd agonies,
(Like the stars ftruggling 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 clofes with his fate.

How our hearts burnt within us at the fcene! Whence, this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man? His God fuftains him in his final hour!

His final hour brings glory to his God!

Man's glory heav'n vouchfafes to call her own.
We gaze; we weep; mixt tears of grief and joy!
Amazement ftrikes! Devotion bursts to flame!
Christians adore! and Infidels believe.

As fome tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow,
Detains the fun, illuftrious from its height;
While rifing vapours, and defcending fhades,
With damps, and darkness, drown the fpacious vale:
Undampt by doubt, undarken'd by defpair,
Philander, thus, augustly rears his head,

At that black hour, which gen'ral horror fheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:

Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul;

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

THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT THE THIRD.

NARCISSA.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED

TO HER GRACE

THE DUCHESS OF P

Ignofcenda quidem, scirent fi ignoscere manes.

VIRG.

THE

Τ.

COMPLAIN T.

NIGHT THE THIRD.

FROM dreams, where thought in fancy's maze runs mad,
To reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake; and at the deftin'd hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment fworn,
I keep my affignation with my woe.
O! loft to virtue, loft to manly thought,
Loft to the noble fallies of the foul!

Who think it folitude to be alone.

Communion fweet! communion large, and high!
Our reafon, guardian angel, and our God!
Then nearest thefe, when others most remote;
And all, ere long, fhall 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! dangerous the defire.
Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking bards!
Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head,

And reeling thro' the wilderness of joy;

Where fenfe runs favage, broke from reafon's chain,