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That threw in this Bethesda your disease ;
If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure.
For, here, resistless demonstration dwells ;
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here, tir'd dissimulation drops her mask,
Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene !
Here, real, and apparent, are the same.
You see the man; you see his hold on heav'n;
If sound his virtue; as PHILANDER's sound.
Heav'n waits not the last moment ; owns her friends
On this side death ; and points them out to men;
A lecture silent, but of sov’reign pow'r!
To vice, confusion ; and to virtue, peace.

Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majesty in death ;
And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.
PHILANDER! he severely frown'd on thee.
“No warning giv'n! Unceremonious fate!
A sudden 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 reason's shudder at the dark unknown!
A sun extinguish'd! a just op’ning grave!
And Oh! the last, last; what? (can words express?
Thought reach ?) the last, last-Silence of a friend !"
Where are those horrors, that amazement where,
This hideous group of ills, which singly shock,
Demand from man I thought him man till now.

Thro' nature's wreck, thro’ vanquish'd agonies, (Like the stars struggling thro' this midnight gloom) What gleams of joy! what more than human peace ! Where, the frai) 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 single heir.
His comforters he comforts; great in ruin,
With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields
His soul sublime ; and closes with his fate.

How our hearts burnt within us at the scene !
Whence, this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man?
His God sustains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God!
Man's glory heav'n vouchsafes to call her own.
We gaze; we weer; mixt tears of grief and joy!
Amazement strikes ! Devotion bursts to flame!
Christians adore! and Infidels believe.

As some tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the sun, illustrious from its height; While rising vapours, and descending shades, With damps, and darkness, drown the spacious vale, Undamp'd by doubt, undarken’d by despair, PAILANDER, thus, augustly rears his head, At that black hour, which gen’ral horror sheds On the low level of th' inglorious throng: Sweet peace, and heav'nly hope, and humble joy, Divinely beam on his exalted soul ; Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, With incommunicable lustre, bright.

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THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT THIRD.

NARCISSA.

To her Grace the Dutchess of P

Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere Manes. Virg.

FROM dreams, where thought in fancy's maze

runs mad,
To reason, that heav'n lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake; and at the destin'd hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,
I keep my assignation with my woe.
O ! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought,
Lost to the noble sallies of the soul !
Who think it solitude to be alone.
Communion sweet ! Communion large, and high!
Our reason, guardian angel, and our God!
Then nearest these, when others most remote ;
And all, ere long, shall 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! Dang’rous the desire.

Take PAEBUS to yourselves, ye basking bards !
Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head;
And reeling through the wilderness of joy!
Where sense runs savage, broke from reason's chain,
And sings false peace, 'till smother'd by the pall.
My fortune is unlike; unlike my song ;
Unlike the Deity my song invokes.
I to day's soft ey'd sister pay my court,
(ENDYMION's rival !) and her aid implore;
Now first implor'd in succour to the muse.

Thou, who didst lately borrow CYNTHIA's * form, And modestly forego thine own! O thou Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire ! Say, why not CYNTAIA, patroness of song? As thou her cresent, she thy character Assumes; still more a goddess by the change.

Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute This revolution in the world inspir'd? Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar sphere, In silent hour, address your ardent call For aid immortal ; less her brother's right. She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain ; A strain for Gods, deny'd to mortal ear. Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of heav'n! What title, or what name, endears thee most! CYNTHIA! CILLENE! PHOEBE Or dost hear

At the Duke of Norfolk's Masquerade,

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