You fee the Man; you fee his hold on heaven;
If found his virtue; as Philander's, found.
Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends 645
On this fide death; and points them out to men,
A lecture, filent, but of fovereign power!
To vice, confufion; and to virtue, peace.
Whatever farce the boaftful 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 joy!
"A wrench from all we love! from all we are! 655
"A reftless bed of pain! a plunge opaque
"Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread!
"Strong Reafon's fhudder at the dark unknown!
"A fun extinguifht! a juft-opening grave!
"And Oh! the last, last, what? (can words exprefs? 660
Thought reach it?) the laft-Silence 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. 664
Through nature's wreck, through vanquisht agonies,
(Like the stars ftruggling through 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 fixt to man?
His God fuftains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God!
Man's glory heaven vouchfafes to call her own.
We gaze, we weep; mixt tears of grief and joy! 680
Amazement ftrikes! devotion burfts to flame!
Chriftians 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 shades,
With damps, and darkness, drown the spacious vale;
Undampt by doubt, undarken'd by despair,
Philander, thus, auguftly rears his head,
At that black hour, which general horror fheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:
Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul;
Deftruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable luftre, bright.
HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND.
"Ignofcenda quidem, fcirent fi ignofcere manes."
ROM Dreams, where thought in fancy's maze
runs mad,
To Reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake; and at the destin'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 Reason, Guardian Angel, and our God! Then nearest Thefe, when Others moft remote; And All, ere long, fhall be remote, but Thefe. How dreadful, Then, to meet them all alone, A ftranger! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd! Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy breast; r's 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 through the wilderness of joy;
Where Sense runs favage, broke from Reason's chain,
And fings falfe peace, till fmother'd by the pall.
My fortune is unlike; unlike my song;
Unlike the deity my fong invokes.
I to Day's foft-ey'd fifter pay my court,
(Endymion's rival !) and her aid implore;
Now firft implor'd in fuccour to the Mufe.
Thou, who didst lately borrow * Cynthia's form,
And modeftly forego thine Own! O Thou,
Who didft thyfelf, at midnight hours, infpire!
Say, why not Cynthia patronefs of song?
As thou her crefcent, fhe thy character
Affumes; ftill more a goddess by the change.
Are there demurring wits, who dare difpute
This revolution in the world inspir'd?
Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar fphere,
In filent hour, address your ardent call
For aid immortal; lefs her brother's right.
She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads
The mazy dance, and hears their matchlefs ftrain,
A ftrain for gods, deny'd to mortal ear.
Tranfmit it heard, thou filver queen of heaven!
What title, or what name, endears thee moft?
Cynthia Cyllené! Phoebe !-or doft hear
* At the duke of Norfolk's mafquerade.
With higher guft, fair Portland of the skies!
Is that the foft inchantment calls thee down,
More powerful than of old Circean charm?
Come; but from heavenly banquets with thee bring
The foul of fong, and whisper in my ear
The theft divine; or in propitious dreams
(For dreams are Thine) transfuse it through the breast Of thy first votary-But not thy last;
If, like thy Namesake, thou art ever kind.
And kind thou wilt be; kind on fuch a theme; 55
A theme fo like thee, a quite lunar theme,
Soft, modeft, melancholy, female, fair!
A theme that rofe all pale, and told my foul,
'Twas Night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;
A night which ftruck a damp, a deadlier damp,
Than that which fmote me from Philander's tomb.
Narciffa follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.
Woes cluster; rare are folitary woes;
They love a train, they tread each other's heel ;
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims 65
The grief that started from my lids for Him:
Seizes the faithlefs, alienated tear,
Or fhares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow he more than caufes, he confounds;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make ditress, diftraction. Oh Philander !
What was thy fate? A double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace,
Not lefs a bird of omen, than of prey.
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