Ruin from man is moft conceal'd when near,
And fends the dreadful tidings in the blow.
Is this the flight of fancy? Would it were!.
Heav'n's Sov'reign faves all beings, but himself,
That hideous fight, a naked human heart.
Fir'd is the mufe? And let the mufe 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 bad his foes:
He felt the truths I fing, and I in Him.
But He, nor I, feel more: Paft ills, NARCISSA!
Are funk in Thee, thou recent wound of heart!
Which bleeds with other cares, with other pangs;
Pangs num'rous, as the num'rous ills that fwarm'd
O'er thy diftinguisht fate, and, cluff'ring There
Thick as the locuft 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 afpic, Each! and All, an Hydra woe:
What ftrong Herculean virtue could fuffice?
Or is it virtue to be conquer'd Here?
This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews;
And each tear mourns its own diftin&t distress;
And each distress, diftinctly mourn'd, demands
Of grief still more, as heighten'd by the whole.
A grief like this proprietors excludes:
Not friends alone fuch obfequies deplore;
They make Mankind the mourner; carry fighs
Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way;
And turn the gayest thought of gayest age,
Down their right chanel, thro' the vale of death.
The vale of death! that hufht Cimmerian vale,
Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinisht fates,
With raven wing incumbent, waits the day
(Dread day!) that interdi&s all future change!
That fubterranean world, that land of ruin!
Fit walk, LORENZO, for proud human thought!
There let my thought expatiate; and explore
Balfamic truths, and healing fentiments,
Of all most wanted, and moft welcome, here.
For gay LORENZo's fake, and for thy own,
My foul! "The fruits of dying friends furvey;
Expofe the vain of life; weigh life and death; "Give death his eulogy; thy fear fubdue; "And labour that first palm of noble minds, "A manly fcern of terror from the tomb."
This harvest reap from thy NARCISSA'S grave. As poets feign'd from AJAX' ftreaming blood Arofe, with grief infcrib'd, a mournful flow'r ; Let wisdom bloffom from my mortal wound, And first, of dying friends; what fruit from these? It brings us more than triple aid; an aid To chafe our thoughtlefnefs, fear, pride, and guilt. Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, To damp our brainless ardors; and abate That glare of life, which often blinds the wife. Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth Our rugged pafs to death; to break those bars Of terror, and abhorrence, nature throws
Cross our obftru&ted way; and, thus, to make
Welcome, as fafe, our port from ev'ry form.
Each friend by fate fnatch'd from us, is a plume
Pluckt from the wing of human vanity,
Which makes us ftoop from our aëreal heights,
And, dampt with omen of our own decease,
On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd,
Juft fkim earth's furface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid earth to fcratch a little duft,
And fave the world a nuisance. Smitten friends
Are angels fent on errands full of love;
For us they languish, and for us they die:
And fhall they languifh, fhall they die, in vain?
Ungrateful, fhall we grieve their hov`ring fhades,
Which wait the revolution in our hearts?...
Shall we difdain their filent, foft addrefs;
Their pofthumous advice, and pious pray'r?
Senfelefs, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves,
Tread under foot their agonies and groans;
Fruftrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths?
LORENZO! no; the thought of death indulge;
Give it its wholfome empire! let it reign,
That kind chaftifer of thy foul in joy!
Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far,
And fill the tumults of thy ruffled breast:
Aufpicious ra! golden days, begin!
The thought of death, fhall, like a god, inspire.
And why not think on death? Is life the theme
Of ev'ry thought? and wish of ev'ry hour?
And fong of ev'ry joy? Surprising truth!
D 5
The beaten fpaniel's fondnefs not fo ftrange.
To wave the num'rous ills that seize on life
As their own property, their lawful prey;
Ere man has meafur'd half his weary stage,
His luxuries have left him no reserve,
No maiden relishes, unbroacht delights;
On cold ferv'd repetitions he fubfists,
And in the taftelefs prefent chews the past;
Difgufted chews, and fearce can fwallow down.
Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years
Have difinherited his future hours,
Which starve on orts, and glean their former field.
Live ever here, LORENZO!-fhocking thought!
So fhocking, they who wish, difown it too;
Difown from shame, what they from folly crave.
Live ever in the womb, nor fee the light?
For what live ever here ?-With lab'ring step
To tread our former footsteps? Pace the round
Eternal? To climb life's worn, heavy wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat
The beaten track? To bid each wretched day
The former mock? To furfeit on the fame,
And yawn our joys? Or thank a misery
For change, tho' fad ? To fee what we have feen ?
Hear, till unheard, the fame old flabber'd tale ?
To tafte the tafted, and at each return
Lefs talleful? O'er our palates to decant
Another vintage? Strain a flatter year,
Thro' loaded vessels, and a laxer tone?
Crazy machines to grind earth's wafted fruits!
Ill-ground, and worfe concocted! Load, not Life! The rational foul kennels of excefs?
Still-ftreaming thorough-fares of dull debauch!
Trembling each gulp, left death fhould fnatch the bowl.
Such of our fine ones is the with refin'd!
So would they have it: Elegant defire!
Why not invite the bellowing ftalls, and wilds?
But fuch examples might their riot awe.
Thro' want of virtue, that is, want of thought,
(Tho' on bright thought they father all their flights)
To what are they reduc'd? To love, and hate,
The fame vain world; to cenfure, and efpoufe,
This painted fhrew of life, who calls them fool.
Each moment of each day; to flatter bad
Thro' dread of worfe; to cling to this rude rock,
Barren, to them, of good, and fharp with ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending ftorms,
And infamous for wrecks of human hope-
Scar'd at the gloomy gulph, that yawns beneath.
Such are their triumphs! fuch their pangs of joy!
'Tis time, high time, to fhift this difmal fcene.
This bugg'd, this hideous ftate, what art can cure ?
One only; but that one, what all may reach;
VIRTUE-fhe, wonder-working goddefs! charms
That rock to bloom; and tames the painted fhrew 3
And what will more furprife, LORENZO! gives
To life's fick, naufeous iteration, change;
And ftraitens nature's circle to a line.
Believ'ft thou this, LORENZO! lend an ear,
A patient ear, thou`lt blufh to disbelieve.
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