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NIGHT THE NINTH AND LAST.

THE CONSOLATIO N.

CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,

I. A MORAL Survey of the NOCTURNAL Heavens. II. A NIGHT-ADDRESS to the DEITY.

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S when a traveller, a long day past

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In painful fearch of what he cannot find, At night's approach, content with the next cot, There ruminates, a while, his labour loft; Then chears his heart with what his fate affords, And chaunts his fonnet to deceive the time, Till the due feafon calls him to repose: Thus I, long-travel'd in the ways of men, And dancing, with the reft, the giddy maze, Where disappointment fmiles at hope's career; 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,

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I chace

I chace the moments with a serious song.

Song fooths our pains; and age has pains to footh.

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When age, care, crime, and friends embrac'd at heart, Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark fhade, Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire; Canft 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 fet, in aim, I trust,

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Symphonious to this humble prelude here.

Has not the Mufe afferted pleasures pure,

Like those above; exploding other joys?
Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh;
And tell me, haft thou cause to triumph still?

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I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold.
But if, beneath the favour of mistake,

Thy fmile 's fincere; not more fincere can be
Lorenzo's fmile, than my compaffion for him.
The fick in body call for aid; the fick

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In mind are covetous of more disease ;

And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well.
To know ourfelves difeas'd, is half our cure.
When nature's blush by cuftom is wip'd off,
And confcience, deaden'd by repeated strokes,
Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes;
The curfe of curfes is, our curfe to love;

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To triumph in the blackness of our guilt

(As Indians glory in the deepest jet),

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And throw afide our fenfes with our peace..

But grant no guilt, no fhame, no least alloy;
Grant joy and glory quite unfully'd fhone;
Yet, ftill, it ill deferves Lorenzo's heart.
No joy, no glory, glitters in thy fight,
But, through the thin partition of an hour,
I fee its fables wove by destiny;

And that in forrow bury'd; this, in shame;
While howling furies ring the doleful knell;
And confcience, now fo foft thou scarce canft hear
Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.

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Where, the prime actors of the last year's scene;
Their port fo proud, their buskin, and their plume?
How many fleep, who kept the world awake
With luftre, and with noise! has death proclaim'd
A truce, and hung his fated lance on high?
'Tis brandifh'd ftill; nor fhall the prefent year
Be more tenacious of her human leaf,
Or fpread of feeble life a thinner fall.

But needlefs monuments to wake the thought;
Life's gayeft fcenes fpeak man's mortality;
Though in a ftyle more florid, full as plain,
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs.
What are our noblest ornaments, but deaths
Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint, or marble,
The well-ftain'd canvas, or the featur'd stone?
Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene,
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.

"Profefi diverfions! cannot these escape ?". Far from it thefe prefent us with a shroud; B 2

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And..

And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave.
As fome bold plunderers, for bury'd wealth,
We ranfack tombs for pastime; from the duft
Call
up the fleeping hero; bid him tread
The scene for our amufement: how like gods
We fit; and, wrapt in immortality,
Shed generous tears on wretches born to die;
Their fate deploring, to forget our own!

What all the pomps and triumphs of our lives,
But legacies in blossom? Our lean foil,
Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities,
From friends interr'd beneath; a rich manure !
Like other worms, we banquet on the dead;
Like other worms, fhall we crawl on, nor know
Our present frailties, or approaching fate ?

Lorenzo! fuch the glories of the world!
What is the world itfelf? Thy world—a grave.
Where is the duft that has not been alive?
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors;
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes,
And is the cieling of her fleeping fons.
O'er devastation we blind revels keep;
Whole bury'd towns fupport the dancer's heel.
The moist of human frame the fun exhales;
Winds scatter through the mighty void the dry;
Earth repoffeffes part of what fhe gave,
And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire;
Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils;
As nature, wide, our ruins spread: 'man's death

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