Gives graceful energy, by rivals aw'd.
'Tis converfe qualifies for folitude;
As exercise, for falutary rest.
By that untutor'd, Contemplation raves;
And Nature's fool, by Wisdom is undone.
Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines,
And sweeter than the sweet ambrofial hive,
What is she, but the means of Happiness?
That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool;
A melancholy 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! heaven-planted! never pluckt by One.
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give
To focial man true relish of himself.
Full on ourselves, defcending in a line,
Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight:
Delight intenfe is taken by rebound;
Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.
Celeftial Happiness, whene'er fhe stoops
To vifit earth, one fhrine the goddess finds,
And one alone, to make her sweet amends
For abfent heaven-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 strikes root in Reason; paffion's foe :
Virtue alone entenders us for life:
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 flower of heavenly feed; 535
The wife extract earth's moft Hyblean blifs,
Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy.
But for whom bloffoms this Elysian flower?
Abroad They find, who cherish it at Home.
Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts,
An honeft love, and not afraid to frown.
Though choice of follies fasten on the Great,
None clings more obftinate than fancy fond
That sacred friendship is their easy 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 less of ours, when fuch the bait.
Ye fortune's cofferers! Ye powers of wealth!
Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope!
As well mere man an angel might beget.
D 3
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 purchafe; 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 in all things with thy friend.
But fince friends grow not thick on every bough,
Nor every friend unrotten at the core;
First, on thy friend, deliberate with Thyself;
Paufe, 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 werth 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 generous blood
Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit,
A brow folute, and ever-laughing eye.
He drank long health, and virtue, to his friend; 580 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 spirit, of a friend,
For twenty fummers ripening by my fide;
All feculence of falsehood long thrown down;
All focial virtues rifing in his foul;
As crystal clear; and smiling as they rife!
Here Nectar flows; it fparkles in our fight;
Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart
High-flavour'd blifs for gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how loft!-Philander is no more.
Think'ft 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 soul 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; 605
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, 610 Momentous moft to man, fhould fleep unfung!
And yet it fleeps, by genius unawak`d,
Painim or Chriftian; 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 fhould 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 impenetratable 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; 615
Or, at the midnight Altar's hallow'd flame.
Is it religion to proceed? I paufe-
And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
Is it his death-bed? No: it is his fhrine:
Behold him, there, just 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 difeafe;
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 difimulation drops her mafque,
Through life's grimace, that miftrefs of the fcene!
Here Real, and Apparent, are the Same.
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