To quench a Glory lighted at the Skies,

And caft in Shadows his illuftrious Close.

Strange! the Theme most affecting, most sublime,
Momentous moft to Man, fhou'd sleep unfung;
And yet it fleeps, by Genius unawak'd,

Painim or Chriftian; to the Blush 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 Poft of Honour, and of Joy.

Dare I prefume, then? But Philander bids; And Glory tempts, and Inclination calls---Yet am I ftruck; as ftruck the Soul, beneath Aerial Groves impenetrable Gloom;

Or, in fome mighty Ruin's folemn shade;

Or, gazing by pale lamps on highborn Dust,

In Vaults; thin courts of poor Unflatter'd Kings!

Or,

Or, at the midnight Altar's hallow'd Flame.
It is Religion to proceed: I pause

And enter aw'd the Temple of my Theme.
Is it his Deathbed? No; It is his Shrine;

Behold him, there, juft rifing to a God.

The Chamber where the Goodman meets his Fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common Walk

Of virtuous life, quite in the Verge of Heaven.
Fly, ye Profane! If not, draw near with awe,
Receive the Bleffing, and adore the Chance,
That threw in this Bethesda your Disease ;
If unrestor❜d by This, defpair your Cure.
For, Here, refiftless Demonstration dwells;
A Death-Bed's a Detector of the Heart.
Here tir'd Diffimulation drops her Masque,
Thro' Life's Grimace, that Mistress of the Scene!
Here Real, and Apparent, are the Same.

You see the Man; you fee his Hold on Heaven :

If

If found his Virtue; as Philander's found

Heaven waits not the last moment, owns her Friends On this Side 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 boaftful Hero plays,

Virtue alone has Majesty in Death

;

And greater ftill, the more the Tyrant frowns,
Philander! He feverely frown'd on Thee.
"No Warning given! Unceremonious Fate!

"A fuddain Rufh from Life's meridian Joys!

"A Wrench from all we Love! from all we are! "A reftlefs bed of Pain! a Plunge opaque

Beyond Conjecture! Feeble Nature's dread! "Strong Reafon's fhudder at the dark Unknown! "A Sun extinguifht! a juft opening Grave!

"And oh! the laft, laft; what? (can words express?

Friend!" Where

Where are Those Horrors? That Amazement, where? This hideous Group of Ills, which fingly shock, Demand from man?--- I thought him Man till now.

Thro' Nature's wreck, thro' vanquifht 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 yeilds
His Soul Sublime; and clofes with his Fate.
How our Hearts burnt within us at the Scene?

Whence, This brave Bound o'er limits fixt to Man?
His God fuftains him in his final Hour:

His final Hour brings Glory to his God:

Man's Glory Heaven vouchfafes to call her own.

We

We gaze; we weep;

mixt Tears of Grief and Joy!

Amazement Strikes! Devotion burfts to flame! Chriftians Adore ! and Infidels Believe.

As fome tall Tow'r, or lofty Mountain's Brow, Detains the Sun, Illuftrious from its Height; While rifing Vapours, and defcending Shades, With Damps, and Darknefs drown the Spatious

Undampt by Doubt, Undarken'd by Despair,
Philander, thus, auguftly rears his Head,

Vale:

At that Black Hour, which general Horror sheds On the low Level of th' Inglorious Throng:

Sweet Peace, and Heavenly Hope, and humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted Soul ;

Destruction gild, and crown him for the Skies,
With incommunicable Luftre, Bright.

Lorenzo! fuch the Goodman's Misery! How dim the Ray, the Luftre, now, how pale

Of