And all, ere long, shall be remote, but these.
How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone,
A stranger; unacknowledged! 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! dangerous the desire.'
Take PHOEBUS 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,
(ENDY MION'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 CYNTHIA patroness of song?
As thou her crescent, 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! CYLLENE! PHOEBE!-or dost hear With higher gust, fair P. D of the skies!
At the duke of Norfolk's masquerade.
Is that the soft enchantment calls thee down,
More pow'rful than of old Circean charm?
Come; but from heav'nly banquets with thee bring'
The soul of song, and whisper in mine ear
The theft divine; or in propitious dreams
(For dreams are thine) transfuse it through the breast Of thy first votary- -But not thy last;
If, like thy namesake, thou art ever kind.
And kind thou wilt be; kind on such a theme;
A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme,
Soft, modest, melancholy, female fair!
A theme that rose all pale, and told my soul
"Twas night; on her fond hopes perpetual night:
A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp,
Than that which smote me from PHILANDER'S tomb.
NARCISSA follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.
Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes;
They love a train, they tread each other's heel;
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims
The grief that started from my lids for him:
Seizes the faithless, alienated tear,
Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow he more than causes, he confounds;
For human sighs his rival strokes contend,
And make distress, distraction. O PHILANDER!
What was thy fate? A double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not less a bird of omen than of prey.
It call'd NARCISSA long before her hour;
It call'd her tender soul, by break of bliss,
From the first blossom, from the buds of joy,
Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves
In this inclement clime of human life.
Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!
And young as beautiful! and soft as young.
And gay as soft! and innocent as gay
And happy (if aught happy here) as good!
For fortune fond had built her nest on high
Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume,
Transfixt by fate (who loves a lofty mark)
How from the summit of the grove she fell,
And left it unharmonious! All its charms
Extinguish'd in the wonders of her song!
Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(0 to forget her!) thrilling through my heart.
Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy, this group
Of bright ideas, flow'rs of paradise,
As yet unforfeit; in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the skies; as all
We guess of heav'n: and these were all her own.
And she was mine; and I was-was-most blest-
Gay title of the deepest misery!
As bodies grow more pond'rous, robb'd of life;
Good lost weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy.
Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm,
Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;
And if in death still lovely, lovelier there;
Far lovelier: pity swells the tide of love.
And will not the severe excuse a sigh?
Scorn the proud man that is asham'd to weep;
Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e'er lost an angel, pity me!
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 flew, 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,
Deny'd his wonted succour; nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells
Of lilies; fairest lilies, not so fair!
Queen lilies! and ye painted populace!
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives;
In morn and ev'ning dew, your beauties bathe,
And drink the sun; which gives your cheeks to glow,
And out-blush (mine excepted) ev'ry fair;
You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand,
Which often cropt your odours, incense meet
To thought so pure. Ye lovely fugitives!
Coeval 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,
By what his glowing passions can engage;
And glowing passions, bent on aught below,
Mu.t, 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 deny'd to mortal taste,
While here, presuming on the rights of heav'n.
For transport dost thou call on ev'ry 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 repell❜d
Resenting rallies, and wakes ev'ry woe.
Snatch'd ere thy prime! and in thy bridal hour!
And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smil'd!
And when high flavour'd thy fresh op'ning joys!
And when blind man pronounc'd thy bliss complete!
And on a foreign shore; where strangers wept !
Strangers to thee; and more surprising still,
Strangers to kindness, wept: their eyes let fall
Inhuman tears! strange tears! that trickled down
From marble hearts! obdurate tenderness!
A tenderness that call'd them more severe;
In spite of nature's soft persuasion, steel'd;
While Nature melted, Superstition raved;
That mourn'd the dead; and this deny'd a grave.
Their sighs incens'd; sighs foreign to the will!
Their will the tiger suck'd, outrag'd the storm.
For oh! the curst ungodliness of zeal!
While sinful flesh relented, spirit nurst
In blind Infallibility's embrace,
The sainted spirit petrify'd the breast;
Deny'd the charity of dust, to spread
O'er dust! a charity their dogs enjoy.
What could I do? What succour? What resource?
With pious sacrilege a grave I stole :
With impious piety that grave I wrong'd;
Short in my duty; coward in my grief!
More like her murderer, than friend, I crept,
With soft suspended step, and muffled deep
In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last sigh.
I whisper'd what should echo through their realms
Nor writ her name, whose tomb should pierce the
skies.
Presumptuous fear! How durst I dread her foes,
While Nature's loudest dictates I obey'd?
Pardon necessity, blest shade! Of grief
And indignation rival bursts I pour'd;
Half execration mingled with my prayer;
Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd;
Sore grudg'd the savage land her sacred dust;
Stampt the curst soil; and with humanity
(Deny'd NARCISSA) wish'd them all a grave.
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