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A grief like this proprietors excludes:
The vale of death! that hush'd Cimmerian valo, Where Darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd fates, 256 With raven wing incumbent, waits the day (Drezd day !) that interdicts all future change; That subterranean world, that land of ruin ! Fit walk, Lorenzo! for proud human thought ! 260 There let my thoughts expatiate, and explore Balsamic truths and healing sentiments, Of all most wanted, and most welcome, here. For gay Lorenzo's sake, and for thy own, My soul ! “The fruits of dying friends survey; 265 Expose the vain of life ; weigh life and death : Give Death his eulogy; thy fear subdued ; And labour that first palm of noble minds, A manly scorn of terror from the tomb.'
This harvest reap from thy Narcissa's grave. 270 As poets feign'd from Ajax' streaming blood Arose, with grief inscribed, a mournful flower, Let wisdom blossomu from my mortal wound. And first, of dying friends ; what fruit from these st brings us more than triple aid ; an aid
275 To chase our thoughtlessness, fear, pride, and guilt.
Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, To damp our brainless ardours, and abate That glare of life which often blinds the wise. Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth 280 Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars Əf terror and abhorrence Nature throws Cross our obstructed way, and thus to make Welcome, as safe, our port from every storm. Each friend by Fate snatch'd from us is a plume, 285 Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity,
Which makes us stoop from our aerial heights,
301 Frustrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths ?
Lorenzo! no; the thought of death indulge ; Give it its wholesome empire ! let it reign, That kind chastiser of thy soul, in joy!
305 Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far, And still the tumults of thy ruffled breast. Auspicious era! golden days, begin! The thought of death shall, like a god, inspire. And why not think on death ? Is life the theme 310 Of every thought? and wish of every hour ? And song of every joy ? surprising truth! The beaten spaniel's fondness not so strange. To wave the numerous ills that seize on life As their own property, their lawful prey ; 315 Ere man has measured half his weary stage, His luxuries have left him no reserve, No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights : On cold-served repetitions he subsists, And in the tasteless present chews the past ; 320 Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down. Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years Hlave disinherited his future hours, Which starve on orts, and glean their former field.
Live ever here, Lorenzo !-shocking thought ! 325 So shocking! they who wish, disown it ton; Disown frorn shume, what they from folly crave. Live ever in the womb, nor see the light? For what, live ever here ?—with labouring step To tread our former footsteps ? pace the round 330 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 surfeit on the same, And yawn vur joys? or thank a misery
335 For change though sad! to see what we have scen Hlear, till unhcard, the same old slabber'd tale ? To taste the tasted, and at each return Less tasteful? o'er our palates to descant Another vintage ? strain a flatter year
Such of our fire ones is the wish rehued !
360 Gared at the gloomy gulf that yawns beneath. Such are their triumphis! such their pangs of joy!
"Tis time, high time, to shift this dismal scene. This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can curo ? One only, but that one what all may reach : 365 Virtue-she, 'wonder-working goddess ! charms That rock to bloom, and tames the painted shrow, And what will more surprise, Lorenzo! gives To life's sick, nauseous iteration, change ; And straightens Nature's circle to a line.
370 Believest thou this, Lorenzo ? lend an ear, A patient ear ; thou’lt blush to disbelieve.
A languid, leaden iteration reigns, And ever must, o'er those whose joys are joys Of sight, smell, taste. The cuckoo-seasons sing 375 The same dull note to such as nothing prize But what those seasons, from the teening earth, To doting sense indulge: but nobler minds, Which relish fruits unripen’d by the Sun, Make their days various ; various as the dyes 380 On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays. On minds of dovelike innocence possess'd, On lighten'd minds that bask in Virtue's beams, Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves In that for which they long, for which they live. 385 Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope, Each rising morning sees still higher rise ; Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents To worth maturing, new strength, lustre, fame ; While Nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel 390 Rolling beneath their elevated aims, Makes their fair prospect fairer every hour, Advancing virtue in a line to bliss ; Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire ; 393 And bliss, which Christian schemes alone ensure
And shall we then, for Virtue's sake, commence Apostate, and turn infidels for joy ? A truth it is few doubt, but fower trust, • Ho sins against this life, who slights the next. Wbat is this life ? how few their favourite krow! 400
Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace,
Where now the barren rock ? the painted shrew ?
420 To what compare we then this varying scene, Whose worth, ambiguous, rises and declines, Waxes and wanes ? (in all propitious Night Assists me here) compare it to the moon ; Dark in herself, and indigent, but rich
Nor is that glory distant. Oh, Lorenzo