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And make distress distraction. Oh, Philander!
Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!
Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this group
Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye, Dawning a dimmer day on human sight, And on her cheek, the residence of Spring, Pale Omen sat, and scatter'd fears around On all that saw, (and who would cease to gaze That once had seen ?) with haste, parental haste, I few, I snatch'd her from the rigid North, Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew, And bore her nearer to the sun; the sun (As if the sun could envy) check'd his beam, Denied his wonted succour; nor with more Regret beheld her drooping than the bells Of lilies; fairest lilies, not so fair!
Queeu lilies ! and ye painted populace Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives! In morn and evening dew your beauties pathe, And drink the sun, which gives your cheeks to
glow, And outblush (mine excepted) every fair ; You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand, Which often cropt your odours, incense meet To thought so pure ! Ye lovely fugitives ! Coëval race with man! for man you smile ; Why not smile at him too? You share, indeed, His sudden pass; but not his constant pain.
So man is made nought ministers delight But what his glowing passions can engage ; And glowing passions, bent on aught below, Must, soon or late, with anguish turn the scale; And anguish after rapture, how severe ! Rapture? bold man! who tempts the wrath divine, By plucking fruit denied to mortal taste, While here presuming on the rights of Heav'n. For transport dost thou call on every hour, Lorenzo ? At thy friend's expense be wise : Lean not on earth ; 'twill pierce thee to the heart; A broken reed at best ; but oft a spear : On its sharp point Peace bleeds, and Hope expires. Turn, hopeless thought! turn from her.-Thought
Resenting rallies, and wakes every woe.
Their sighs incens'd; sighs foreign to the will !
skies. Presumptuous fear! how durst I dread her foes, While Nature's loudest dictates I obey'd ? Pardon necessity, blest shade 1 of grief And indignation rival bursts I pour'd; Half-execration mingled with my pray'r ; Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd: Sore grudg’d the savage land her sacred dust;
Stamp'd the curs'd soil; and with humanity (Denied Narcissa) wish'd them all a grave.
Glows my resentment into guilt? what guilt Can equal violations of the dead? The dead how sacred ! sacred is the dust Of this heav'n-labour'd form, erect, divine ! This heav'n-assum'd, majestic, robe of earth He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse With azure bright, and cloth'd the sun in gold. When every passion sleeps that can offend; When strikes us every motive that can melt; When man can wreak his rancour uncontroll’d, That strongest curb on insult and ill-will; Then ! spleen to dust ? the dust of innocence? An angel's dust!--This Lucifer transcends ; When he contended for the patriarch's bones, 'Twas not the strife of malice, but of pride; The strife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall.
Far less than this is shocking in a race Most wretched, but from streams of mutual love, And uncreated, but for love divine; And but for love divine this moment lost, By Fate resorb’d, and sunk in endless night. Man hard of heart to man ! of horrid things Most horrid! mid stupendous highly strange! Yet oft his courtesies are smoother wrongs; Pride brandishes the favours he confers, And contumelious his humanity : What then his vengeance? Hear it not, ye Stars ! And thou, pale Moon ! turn paler at the sound Man is to man the sorest, surest ill. A previous blast foretells the rising storm; O'erwhelming turrets threaten 'ere they fall ; Volcanos bellow ere they disembogue; Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour; And smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire: Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near, And sends the dreadful tidings in the blow. Is this the flight of Fancy? would it were !
Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, That hideous sight, a naked human heart.
Fird is the Muse? and let the Muse be fir'd : Who not inflam'd when what he speaks he feels, And in the nerve most tender, in his friends; Shame to mankind ! Philander had his foes; He felt the truths I sing, and I in him : But he nor I feel more. Past ills, Narcissa! Are sunk in thee, thou recent wound of heart! Which bleeds with other cares, with other pangs; Pangs numerous as the numerous ills that swarm'd O'er thy distinguish'd fate, and, clustering there, Thick as the locust on the land of Nile, Made death more deadly, and more dark the grave. Reflect (if not forgot my touching tale) How was each circumstance with aspics arm'd ? An aspic each, and all an hydra-woe. What strong Herculean virtue could suffice ? Or is it virtue to be conquer'd here? This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews, And each tear mourns its own distinct distress, And each distress, distinctly mourn'd, demands Of grief still more, as heighten'd by the whole. A grief like this proprietors excludes : Not friends alone such obsequies deplore ; They make mankind the mourner; carry sighs Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way, And turn the gayest thought of gaye age Down their right channel, through the vale of death.
The vale of death! that hush'd Cimmerian vale, Where Darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd fates, With raven wing incumbent, waits the day (Dread day!) that interdicts all future change ; That subterranean world, that land of ruin ! Fit walk, Lorenzo ! for proud human thought! There let my thought 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 ;