Paufe, ponder, fift; not eager in the choice,
Nor jealous of the chofen; fixing, fix;
Judge before friendship; then confide till death.
Well, for thy friend; but nobler far for thee;
How gallant danger for earth's highest prize!
A friend is worth all hazard we can run.
"Poor is the friendlefs mafter of the world:
"A world in purchafe for a friend is gain."
So fung he (angels hear that angels fing!
Angels from friendship gather half their joy);
So fung PHILANDER, as his friend went round
In the rich ichor, in the gen'rous blood
Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit,
A brow folute, and ever-laughing eye.

He drank long health and virtue to his friend;
His friend, who warm'd him more, who more infpir'd.
Friendship's the wine of life; but friendship new
(Not fuch was his) is neither ftrong nor pure.
O! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,
And elevating fpirit, of a friend,

For twenty fummers ripening by my fide;
All feculence of falsehood long thrown down;
All focial virtues rifing in his foul;

As crystal clear; and fmiling, as they rife!
Here nectar flows; it fparkles in our fight;
Rich to the tafte, and genuine from the heart.
High-flavour'd blifs for gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how loft!-PHILANDFR is no more.
Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my fong?
Am I too warm?-Too warm I cannot be..
I lov'd him much; but now I love him more.
Like birds, whofe beauties languish, half conceal'd,
Till mounted on the wing, their gloffy plumes
Expanded thine with azure, green, and gold;
How bleffings brighten as they take their flight!
His flight PHILANDER took; his upward flight,
If ever foul afcended. Had he dropt,
(That eagle genius!) O had he let fall
One feather as he flew; 1, then, had wrote,
What friends might flatter; prudent-foes forbear
Rivals fcarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.
Yet what I can, I muft: it were profane
C

To quench a glory lighted at the skies,

And caft in fhadows his illuftrious clofe.
Strange! the theme moft affecting, moft fublime,
Momentous most to man, fhou'd steep unfung!
And yet it fleeps, by genius unawak'd,
Painim or Chriftian; to the blufh of wit,
Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!
The deathbed of the juft! is yet undrawn
By mortal hand; it merits a divine:
Angels fhould paint it, angels ever there;
There, on a post of honour, and of joy.

Dare I prefume, then? But PHILANDER bids;
And glory tempts, and inclination calls-
Yet am I flruck; as ftruck the foul, beneath
Aereal groves impenetrable gloom;

Or in fome mighty ruin's folemn fhade;
Or gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust,
In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings!
Or at the midnight-altar's hallow'd flame.
It is religion to proceed I paufe-
And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
Is it his deathbed? No: it is his thrine:
Behold him, there, juft rifing to a god.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common walk

Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n.
Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe,
Receive the bletling, and adore the chance,
That threw in this Bethesda your disease;
If qureftor'd by this, despair your cure;
For, here, refiftless demonftration dwells;
A deathbed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd Diffimulation drops her mask,
Through life's grimace that miftrels of the fcene!
Here real, and apparent, are the fame.

You fee the man'; you fee his hold on heav'n;

If found his virtue; as PHILANDER'S found.

Heav'n waits not the laft moment, owns her friends
On this fide death; and points them out to men,
A lecture, filent, but of fovereign pow'r !
To vice, confufion; and to virtue, peace.
Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,

Virtue alone has majefty in death;

And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.
PHILANDER! he feverely frown'd on thee.
4No warning given! unceremonious fate!

A fudden ruth from life's meridian joys! A wrench from all we love! from all we are! "A restless bed of pain! a plunge opaque "Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread! Strong Reafon's fhudder at the dark unknown ! A fun extinguish'd! a juft opening grave! "And oh! the laft, laft; what? (can words exprefs? Thought reach it?) the last-filence of a friend!" Where are thofe horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which singly fhock, Demand from man?—I thought him man till now.

Thro' Nature's wreck, thro' vanquill'd agonies.
(Like the stars struggling thro' this midnight-gloom),
What gleams of joy? what more than human peace?
Where the frail mortal? the poor abject worm?
No, not in death the mortal to be found.
His conduct is a legacy for all,

Richer than Mammon's for his fingle heir.
His comforters he comforts; great in ruin,
With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields
His foul fublime; and clofes with his fate.

How our hearts burnt within us at the scene!
Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man?
His God fuftains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God!

Man's glory heav'n vouchfafes to call her own. We gaze; we weep; mix'd tears of grief and joy! Amazement ftrikes! devotion burts to flame! Chriftians adore! and Infidels believe.

As fome tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow,.
-Detains the fun, illuftrious from its height;
! While rifing vapours, and defcending fhades,
With damps, and darkness, drown the fpacious vale:
Undamp'd by doubt, undarken'd by despair,
PHILANDER, thus, auguftly rears his head,
At that black hour, which gen'ral horror sheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:

Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Foy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul;

Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable luftre, bright.

LORENZO!h the good man's mifery!
How dim the rag the luftre, now, how pale
Of tarnish'd pageantries, of wither'd joy,
Of beggar'd opulence, 'difgrac'd renown,
Deep-darken'd empire, conqueft overcome!
Envy's bright buts! the pant of every breast!
Envy! the greateft idiot of all crimes!

Who pains herself for that, wou'd pain her more;
Is there on earth what can abfolve her? Yes:
One radient mark; the deathbed of the juft:
That gaze of angels! that glad fame of heav'n!
That joy to joy celeftial !-O my foul!

Blefs'd, ravifh'd with this providential scene!
Heaven plans her gracious ftratagems for all.
A scene so strong to ftrike, fo fweet to charm,
So great to raife, fo heavenly to infpire,
So folid to fupport fair Virtue's throne,

What tranfport thine, to fee? what zeal to fing?
Sing first, and fend it through the fouls of men;
And fent through theirs with eale, if from our own.
Nor haft thou fung in vain: PHILANDER hears,
LORENZO feels, thy fong. LORENZO feels,
Or he, and not PHILANDER, is the dead.
Life, take thy chance but oh for fuch an end!
There point, my wifhes! center there; and burn.
Smile you, ye poor dependents on a pulfe!
A pulfe, your falient god! as that decrees,
Pleafur'd or pain'd, exalted or forlorn-
Smile on; and prove your mifery by your smiles.
As fmiles mistaken, what tear half to fad?
Is it your pride? wou'd you be prais'd for this?
Scorn'd be the man who thinks himself a brute;
1. Affronts his fpecies, and his God blafphemes:
Vile laughter! at whom pity cannot laugh;
Scorner of all, but what deferves his fcorn!
Who thinks it is ingenious to be mad,
And is quite fool enough to be a wit.

Vits fpare not heaven, O Wilmington!-nor thee,