Of Fortune; then the morfel of Despair.

2055

Say, then, Lorenzo! (for thou know'ft 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 Leaft prevails! 2050 Is it my fault, if these Truths call thee Fool? And thou shalt never be miscall'd by me. Can neither Shame, nor Terror, stand thy Friend? And art thou fill an infect in the mire? How, like thy guardian angel, have I flown; Snatch'd thee from earth; escorted thee through all Th' ethereal armies; walk'd thee, like a God, Through fplendours of firit magnitude, arrang'd On either hand, clouds thrown beneath thy feet; Clofe-cruis'd on the bright paradise of God; And almoft introduc'd thee to The Throne! And art thou ftill caroufing, for delight, Rank poifon; firft, fermenting to mere froth, And then fubfiding into final gall?

2060

To beings of sublime, immortal make,
How fhocking is all joy, whofe end is fure!

2065

Such joy, more fhocking ftill, the more it charms!
And doft thou chufe what ends ere well-begun;
And infamous, as fhort? And doft thou chufe
(Thou, to whofe palate Glory is so sweet)
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 feen it blush beneath a boastful brow;
For, by ftrong guilt's most violent assault,

2070

2075 Confcience

Conscience is but disabled, not destroy'd.

O thou moft Aweful Being; and most Vain! Thy will, how frail! how glorious is thy power! Though dread Eternity has fown her feeds

2080

Of blifs, and woe, in thy defpotic breast;
Though heaven, and hell, depend upon thy choice;
A butterfly comes crofs, and both are fled.
Is This the picture of a rational ?
This horrid image, shall it be most just ?
Lorenzo! No: it cannot,-shall not, be,
If there is force in Reafon; or, in Sounds
Chanted beneath the glimpses of the moon,
A magic, at this planetary hour,

2085

When flumber locks the general lip, and dreams Through fenfelefs mazes hunt fouls un-infpir'd. 2090' Attend-The facred myfteries begin---

2095*

My folemn Night-born adjuration hear; Hear, and I'll raise thy fpirit from the duft; While the ftars gaze on this inchantment new: Inchantment, not Infernal, but Divine !. "By Silence, Death's peculiar attribute; "By Darkness, Guilt's inevitable doom; By Darkness, and by Silence, fifters 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

2100

"To Thought or Senfe (of aweful much, to both, "The goddess brings)! By thefe her trembling Fires, › “Like Vesta's, ever-burning; and, like hers,

"Sacred to thoughts immaculate, and pure!

F4

2105

"By these bright orators, that prove, and praife, "And prefs thee to revere, the Deity;

“Perhaps, too, aid thee, when rever'd awhile,
"To reach his throne; as ftages of the foul,
"Through which, at different periods, she shall pass,
"Refining gradual, for her final height,
"And purging off fome drofs 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;

"Sad presage to vain boasters, now in bloom!
"By the long lift of fwift mortality,
"From Adam downward to this evening knell,
"Which midnight waves in fancy's startled eye;
"And fhocks her with an hundred centuries,

2115

2120

“Round death's black banner throng'd, in human “thought!

"By thousands, now, refigning their last breath, "And calling thee-wert thou fo wife to hear! "By tombs o'er tombs arifing; human earth

2125

Ejected, to make room for-human earth; "The monarch's terror! and the fexton's trade! "By pompous obfequies that shun the day, "The torch funereal, and the nodding plume, "Which makes poor man's humiliation proud; "Boaft of our ruin! triumph of our duft ! "By the damp vault that weeps o'er royal bones; "And the pale lamp that fhews the ghaftly dead, "More ghaftly, through the thick incumbent gloom! "By vifits (if there are) from darker scenes,

2130

"The

"The gliding spectre! and the groaning grave! 2135
"By groans, and graves, and miferies that groan
"For the grave's fhelter! By defponding men,
"Senfelefs to pains of death, from pangs of guilt!
"By guilt's last audit! By yon moon in blood,
"The rocking firmament, the falling stars,
"And thunder's laft discharge, great nature's knell!
"By Second chaos; and Eternal night”—

Be wife-Nor let Philander blame my charm;
But own not ill discharg'd my double debt,
Love to the living; duty to the dead.

For know I'm but executor; he left

2140

2145

This moral legacy; I make it o'er

By his command; Philander hear in me;

And heaven in both.-If deaf to thefe, 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 ftill a father's; that enfures his ruin..
As parent of his being, wouldst thou prove
The unnatural parent of his miferies,

2155

And make him curfe the being which thou gavest?
Is this the bleffing of so fond a father?

If careless of Lorenzo! fpare, Oh! spare
Florello's father, and Philander's friend!
Florello's father ruin'd, ruins him

And from Philander's friend the world expects
A conduct, no dishonour to the dead.

Let paffion do, what nobler motive should;

2160

Let

Let love, and emulation, rise in aid

To reafon; and perfuade thee to be---bleft.
This seems not a request to be deny'd;
Yet (fuch the infatuation of mankind!)
'Tis the most hopeless, man can make to man.
Shall I then rife, in argument, and warmth ?
And urge Philander's posthumous advice,
From topics yet unbroach'd?-----

2165

2170

2175

2180

But Oh! I faint! My fpirits fail!---Nor strange!
So long on wing, and in no middle clime!
To which my great Creator's glory call'd:
And calls---but, now, in vain.
Sleep's dewy wand
Has ftrok'd my drooping lips, and promises
My long arrear of reft; the downy god
(Wont to return with our returning peace)
Will pay, ere long, and bless me with repose.
Hafte, hafte, fweet stranger! from the peafant's cot,
The fhip-boy's hammock, or the foldier's straw,
Whence forrow never chac'd thee; with thee bring,
Not hideous vifions, as of late; but draughts
Delicious of well-tafted, cordial, reft;
Man's rich restorative; his balmy bath,
That fupples, lubricates, and keeps in play
The various movements of this nice machine,
Which asks such frequent periods of repair.
When tir'd with vain rotations of the day,
Sleep winds us up for the fucceeding dawn;
Fresh we spin on, till fickness clogs our wheels,
Or death quite breaks the fpring, and motion ends.
When will it end with me?

2185

2190

-"THOU