Has ventur'd into light, well-pleas'd the verse
Should be forgot, if you the truths retain,
And crown her with your welfare, not your praise.
But praise she need not fear: I see my fate,
And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf.
Since many an ample volume, mighty tome,
Must die, and die unwept; O thou minute,
Devoted page! go forth among thy foes;
Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth,
And die a double death: mankind, incens'd,
Denies thee long to live; nor shalt thou rest
When thou art dead, in Stygian shades arraign'd
By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne,

And bold blasphemer of his friend,-the World!
The world, whose legions cost him slender pay,
And volunteers around his banner swarm,
Prudent as Prussia in her zeal for Gaul.
... Are all, then, fools?' Lorenzo cries.-Yes, all
But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee)
'The mother of true wisdom is the will,'
The noblest intellect a fool without it.
World-wisdom much has done, and more may
In arts and sciences, in wars and peace;
But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee,
And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.

This is the most indulgence can afford,

Thy wisdom all can do but-make thee wise.'

Nor think this censure is severe on thee;

Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.

do,

THE

CONSOLATION.

NIGHT IX.

CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,

1. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS. 2. A NIGHT-ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

INSCRIBED TO

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.

Fatis contraria fata rependens.

VIRG.

As when a traveller, a long day past
In painful search of what he cannot find,
At night's approach, content with the next cot,
There ruminates a while his labour lost,

Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords,
And chants his sonnet to deceive the time,
Till the due season calls him to repose;
Thus I, long travell'd in the ways of men,
And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze,

6

Has ventur'd into light, well-pleas'd the verse
Should be forgot, if you the truths retain,
And crown her with your welfare, not your praise
But praise she need not fear: I see my fate,
And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf
Since many an ample volume, mighty tome,
Must die, and die unwept; O thou minute,
Devoted page! go forth among thy foes;
Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth,
And die a double death: mankind, incens'd,
Denies thee long to live; nor shalt thou rest
When thou art dead, in Stygian shades arraign
By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne,

And bold blasphemer of his friend,—the World!
The world, whose legions cost him slender pay
And volunteers around his banner swarm,
Prudent as Prussia in her zeal for Gaul.

'Are all, then, fools?' Lorenzo cries.-Yes, all But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee) 'The mother of true wisdom is the will,' The noblest intellect a fool without it. World-wisdom much has done, and more may d In arts and sciences, in wars and peace; But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee And make thee twice a beggar at thy death. This is the most indulgence can afford,

Thy wisdom all can do but-make thee wise. Nor think this censure is severe on thee; Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.

THE

CONSOLATION.

NIGHT IX.

CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,

1. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS. 2. A NIGHT-ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

INSCRIBED TO

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.

Fatis contraria fata rependens.

VIRG.

As when a traveller, a long day past
In painful search of what he cannot find,
At night's approach, content with the next cot,
There ruminates a while his labour lost,

Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords,
And chants his sonnet to deceive the time,
Till the due season calls him to repose;
Thus I, long travell'd in the ways of men,
And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze,

Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray,
At length have hous'd me in an humble shed,
Where, future wandering banish'd from my thought,
And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest,
I chase the moments with a serious song.

Song sooths our pains, and age has pains to sooth.
When age, care, crime, and friends, embrac'd

at heart,

Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade,

Which hovers o'er me, quench the' ethereal fire, Canst thou, O Night! indulge one labour more? One labour more indulge! then sleep, my strain! Till, haply, wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre, Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow

cease,

To bear a part in everlasting lays;

Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust,
Symphonious to this humble prelude here.

Has not the Muse asserted pleasures pure,
Like those above, exploding other joys?
Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh,
And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still?
I think thou wilt forbear a boast so bold.
But if, beneath the favour of mistake,
Thy smiles sincere, not more sincere can be
Lorenzo's smile than my compassion for him.
The sick in body call for aid; the sick
In mind are covetous of more disease,

And when at worst, they dream themselves quite

well.