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Of Fortune; then the morsel of Despair.

Say, then, Lorenzo ! (for thou know'st it well)
What 's Vice?-Mere want of compass in our thought.
Religion, what?--The proof of Common-sense.
How art thou whooted, where the Least prevails! 2050
Is it

my fault, if these Truths call thee Fool?
And thou shalt never be miscall?d by me.
Can neither Sbame, nor Terror, stand thy Friend ?
And art thou still an insect in the mire ?
How, like thy guardian angel, have I down;

Snatch'd thee from earth ; escorted thee through all
Th'ethereal armies ; walk'd thee, like a God,
Through fplendours of first magnitude, arrang'd
On either hand, clouds thrown beneath thy feet;
Close-cruis’d on the bright paradise of God;

2060 And almost introduc'd thee to The Throne ! And art thou still carousing, for delight, Rank poison; first, fermenting to mere froth, And then subsiding into final gall ? To beings of sublime, immortal make,

2065 How shocking is all joy, whose end is sure ! Such joy, more shocking still, the more it charms ! And doft thou chuse what ends ere well-begun; And infamous, as short? And doft thou chuse (Thou, to whose palate Glory is so sweet) 2070 To wade into perdition, through contempt, Not of poor bigots only, but thy own? For I have peep'd into thy cover'd heart, And seen it blush beneath a boastful brow; For, by strong guilt's most violent assault,

2075 Conscience

Conscience is but disabled, not destroy d.

O thou most Aweful Being; and most Vain ! Thy will, how frail ! how glorious is thy power! Though dread Eternity has fown her seeds Of bliss, and woe, in thy despotic breast; 2080 Though heaven, and hell, depend upon thy choice ; A butterfly comes cross, and both are filed. Is This the picture of a rational ? This horrid image, shall it be most just ? Lorenzo ! No: it cannot --mall not, be, 2085 If there is force in Reason; or, in Sounds Chanted beneath the glimpses of the moon, A magic, at this planetary hour, When slumber locks the general lip, and dreams Through senseless mazes hunt souls un-inspir’d. 2090 Attend— The sacred mysteries begin---My folemn Night-born adjuration hear; Hear, and I'll raise thy spirit from the dust ; While the stars gaze on this inchantment new:: : Inchantment, not Infernal, but Divine !. 2095)

« By Silence, Death's peculiar attribute ; " By Darkness, Guilt's inevitable doom ; By Darkness, and by Silence, sisters dread ! “ That draw the curtain round Night's ebon throne, " And raise ideas, folemn as the scene! «. By Night, and all of aweful, night presents To Thought or Sense (of aweful much, to both, " The goddess brings)! By thefe her trembling Fires, “ Like Vestaʼs, ever-burning ; and, like kers, 5« Sacred to thoughts immaculate, and pure !



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“ By these bright orators, that prove, and praise, And press thee to revere, the Deity; “ Perhaps, too, aid thee, when rever'd awhile, “ To reach bis throne; as stages of the soul, “ Through which, at different periods, she thall pass, " Refining gradual, for her final height, And purging off fome dross at every sphere ! “ By this dark pall thrown o'er the filent world! “ By the world's kings, and kingdoms, most renown'd, « From short ambition's zenith fet for ever; 2115 “ Sad presage to vain boasters, now in bloom! " By the long list of swift mortality, “ From Adam downward to this evening knell, “ Which midnight waves in fancy's startled eye; " And shocks her with an hundred centuries, “ Round death's black banner throng'd, in human

" thought! By thousands, now, resigning tlieir last breath, “ And calling thee-wert thou so wise to hear ! “ By tombs o’er tombs arising ; human earth “ Ejected, to make room for-human earth;

2125 “ The monarch's terror! and the fexton's trade! “ By pompous obsequies that shun the day, “ The torch funereal, and the nodding plume, " Which makes poor man's humiliation proud; “ Boast of our ruin ! triumph of our dzft ! 2130 “ By the damp vault that weeps o'er royal bones; «s. And the pale lamp that shews the ghastly dead, More ghastly, through the thick incumbent gloom! By visits (if there are) from darker scenes,

« The


“ The gliding spectre! and the groaning grave ! 2135 By groans, and graves, and miseries that groan “ For the grave's shelter ! By desponding men, “ Senseleís to pains of death, from pangs of guilt ! “ By guilt's lait audit! By yon moon in blood, “ The rocking firmament, the falling stars, 1140 “ And thunder's last discharge, great nature's knell ! “ By Second chaos ; and Eternal nightBe wife-Nor let Philander blame my charm; But own not ill discharg‘d my double debt, Love to the living; duty to the dead.

2145 For know I'm but executor; he left This moral legacy; I make it o'er. By his command; Philander hear in me ; And heaven in both.-If deaf to these, Oh! hear Florello's tender voice; his weal depends 2150 On thy refolve; it trembles at thy choice; For his fake-love thyself: example strikes. All human hearts; a bad example more ; More still a father's; that ensures his ruin. As parent of his being, wouldst thou prove 2155 The unnatural parent of his miseries, And make him curse the being which thou gavest ? Is this the blessing of fo fond a father ? If careless of Lorenzo ! spare, Oh! spare Florello's father, and Philander's friend ! 2160 Florello's father ruin'd, ruins him ; And from Philander's friend the world expects A conduct, no dishonour to the dead. Let paflion do, what nobler motive Tould;


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Let love, and emulation, rise in aid

2165 To reason; and persuade thee to be---blest.

This seems not a request to be deny'd ;
Yet (such the infatuation of mankind !)
'Tis the most hopeless, man can make to man.
Shall I then rise, in argument, and warmth ? 2170
And urge Philander's posthumous advice,
From topics yet unbroach'd ----
But Oh! I faint! My spirits fail!---Nor strange!
So long on wing, and in no middle clime !
To which my great Creator's glory callid: 2175
And calls---but, now, in vain. Sleep's dewy wand
Has strok'd my drooping lips, and promises
My long arrear of rest; the downy god
(Wont to return with our returning peace)
Will pay, ere long, and bless me with repose. 2180
Haste, haste, sweet stranger ! from the peasant's cot,
The ship-boy's hammock, or the foldier's straw,
Whence forrow never chac'd thee; with thee bring,
Not hideous visions, as of late; but draughts
Delicious of well-tasted, cordial, rest;

Man's rich restorative; his balmy bath,
That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play
The various movements of this nice machine,
Which asks fuch frequent periods of repair.
When tir'd with vain rotations of the day, 2190
Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn;
Fresh we spin on, till fiekness clogs our wheels,
Or death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends.
When will it end with me?


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