"Takes his delights among the sons of men."*

What words are these!-And did they come from heaven?

And were they spoke to man? to guilty man?
What are all mysteries to love like this!
The song of angels, all the melodies

Of choral gods, are wafted in the sound;
Heal and exhilarate the broken heart;

Though plunged, before, in horrors dark as night:
Rich prelibation of consummate joy!
Nor wait we dissolution to be bless'd.
This final effort of the moral muse,
How justly titled !t Nor for me alone:
For all that read; what spirit of support,
What heights of consolation, crown my song!
Then, farewell Night! Of darkness, now, no more:
Joy breaks, shines, triumphs; 'tis eternal day.
Shall that which rises out of nought complain
Of a few evils, paid with endless joys?
My soul! henceforth, in sweetest union join
The two supports of human happiness,
Which some, erroneous, think can never meet;
True taste of life, and constant thought of death!
The thought of death, sole victor of its dread;
Hope, be thy joy; and probity, thy skill;
Thy patron, HE, whose diadem has dropp'd
Yon gems of heaven; eternity, thy prize:
And leave the racers of the world their own,

*Prov. chap. viii.

+ THE CONSOLATION.

Their feather, and their froth, for endless toils.
They part with all for that which is not bread;
They mortify, they starve, on wealth, fame, power;
And laugh to scorn the fools that aim at more.
How must a spirit, late escaped from earth,
Suppose PHILANDER'S, LUCIA's, or NARCISSA's,
The truth of things new-blazing in its eye,
Look back, astonish'd, on the ways of men,
Whose lives' whole drift is to forget their graves!
And when our present privilege is past,

To scourge us with due sense of its abuse,
The same astonishment will seize us all.

What then must pain us, would preserve us now.
LORENZO! 'tis not yet too late; LORENZO!
Seize wisdom, ere 'tis torment to be wise;
That is, seize wisdom, ere she seizes thee.
For what, my small philosopher! is hell?
'Tis nothing but full knowledge of the truth,
When truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe ;
And calls eternity to do her right.

Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light,
And sacred silence whispering truths divine,
And truths divine converting pain to peace,
My song the midnight raven has outwing'd,
And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes,
Beyond the flaming limits of the world,
Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight
Of fancy, when our hearts remain below?
Virtue abounds in flatterers, and foes:

'Tis pride, to praise her; penance, to perform.

To more than words, to more than worth of tongue, LORENZO! rise, at this auspicious hour;

;

An hour, when Heaven's most intimate with man;
When, like a falling star, the ray divine
Glides swift into the bosom of the just;
And just are all, determined to reclaim
Which sets that title high, within thy reach.
Awake, then; thy PHILANDER calls: awake!
Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps;
When, like a taper, all these suns expire;
When Time, like him of Gaza in his wrath,
Plucking the pillars that support the world,
In Nature's ample ruins lies entomb'd;
And Midnight, universal Midnight! reigns.

END OF VOL.

Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge.