Tumultuous Life; and reafons with the Storm;

All her Lyes anfwers, and thinks down her Charms.

What awful Joy! What mental Liberty!

I am not pent in Darkness; rather fay
(If not too bold) in Darkness I'm embower'd.
Delightful Gloom! the cluft'ring Thoughts around
Spontaneous rife, and bloffom in the Shade;

But droop by Day and ficken in the Sun.

Thought borrows Light elsewhere; from that First Fire, Fountain of Animation! whence defcends

URANIA, my celeftial Guest! who deigns

Nightly to vifit me, fo mean; and now
Conscious, how needful Difcipline to Man,

From pleasing Dalliance with the Charms of Night
My wand'ring Thought recalls, to what excites
Far other Beat of Heart; NARCISSA's Tomb!

my

Veins?

Or is it feeble Nature calls me back,
And breaks my Spirit into Grief again?
Is it a Stygian Vapour in my Blood?
A cold, flow Puddle, creeping thro'
Or is it thus with all Men ?-Thus, with all.
What are we? How unequal! Now we foar,
And now we fink; to be the fame, tranfcends
Our prefent Prowefs. Dearly pays the Soul
For lodging ill; too dearly rents her Clay.
Reafon, a baffled Counfellor! but adds
The Blush of Weaknefs, to the Bane of Woe.

The

The nobleft Spirit fighting her hard Fate,
In this damp, dusky Region, charg'd with Storms,
But feebly flutters, yet untaught to fly;

Or, flying, fhort her Flight, and fure her Fall.
Our utmost Strength, when down, to rife again;
And not to yield, tho' beaten, all our Praise.

'Tis vain to feek in Men for more than Man.
Tho' proud in Promife, big in previous Thought,
Experience damps our Triumph. I, who late,
Emerging from the Shadows of the Grave,
Where Grief detain'd me Pris'ner, mounting high
Threw wide the Gates of everlasting Day,

And call'd Mankind to Glory, fhook off Pain,
Mortality fhook off, in Æther pure,

And struck the Stars; now feel my Spirits fail;
They drop me from the Zenith; down I rush,
Like him whom Fable fledg'd with waxen Wings,
In Sorrow drown'd-but not, in Sorrow, loft.
How wretched is the Man, who never mourn'd!
I dive for precious Pearl, in Sorrow's Stream :
Not fo the thoughtless Man that only grieves;
Takes all the Torment, and rejects the Gain
(Inestimable Gain!) and gives Heav'n Leave
To make him but more Wretched, not more Wife.

If Wisdom is our Leffon (and what elfe Ennobles Man? what elfe have Angels learnt ?) Grief! more Proficients in thy School are made,

Than

Than Genius, or proud Learning, e'er could boast.
Voracious Learning, often over-fed,

Digests not into Senfe her motly Meal.
This Book-cafe, with dark Booty almost burst,
This Forager on others Wisdom, leaves
Her Native Farm, her Reafon, quite untill'd.
With mixt Manure fhe furfeits the rank Soil,
Dung'd, but not dreft; and rich to Beggary.
A Pomp untameable of Weed prevails.
Her Servant's Wealth incumber'd Wifdom mourns.

And what fays Genius ? "Let the Dull be Wife.
Genius, too hard for Right, can prove it Wrong;
And loves to boaft, where blush Men lefs infpir'd.
It pleads Exemption from the Laws of Sense;
Confiders Reafon as a Leveller;

And scorns to share a Bleffing with the Croud.
That Wife it could be, thinks an ample Claim
To Glory, and to Pleasure gives the rest.
CRASSUS but fleeps, ARDELIO is undone,
Wisdom lefs fhudders at a Fool, than Wit.

But Wisdom fmiles, when humbled Mortals weep. When Sorrow wounds the Breaft, as Ploughs the Glebe, And Hearts obdurate feel her foft'ning Shower; Her Seed Celestial, then, glad Wisdom sows; Her golden Harvest triumphs in the Soil. If fo, NARCISSA! welcome my Relapse; I'll raise a Tax on my Calamity,

And

And reap rich Compenfation from my Pain.
I'll range the plenteous intellectual Field;
And gather ev'ry Thought of fov'reign Power
To chafe the moral Maladies of Man

Thoughts, which may bear tranfplanting to the Skies,
Tho' Natives of this coarse penurious Soil;
Nor wholly wither there, where Seraphs fing,
Refin'd, exalted, not annull'd in Heaven.
Reason, the Sun that gives them Birth, the fame
In either Clime, tho' more illuftrious There.
These choicely cull'd, and elegantly rang'd,
Shall form a Garland for Narciffa's Tomb;
And, peradventure, of no fading Flowers.

Say, On what Themes fhall puzzled Choice defcend! "Th' Importance of Contemplating the Tomb; Why Men decline it; Suicide's foul Birth; "The various Kinds of Grief; the Faults of Age; "And Death's dread Character-invite my Song.'

And, firft, th' Importance of our End furvey'd.
Friends counsel quick Difimiffion of our Grief:
Mistaken Kindness! our Hearts heal too soon.
Are They more kind than He, who ftruck the Blow ?
Who bid it do his Errand in our Hearts,

And banish Peace, till nobler Guests arrive,
And bring it back, a true, and endless Peace?
Calamities are Friends: As glaring Day

Of these unnumber'd Luftres robs our Sight;

Profperity

Prosperity puts out unnumber'd Thoughts

Of Import high, and Light divine, to Man.

The Men how bleft, who, fick of gaudy Scenes,
(Scenes
apt to thrust between Us and ourselves!)

Is led by Choice to take his fav'rite Walk,
Beneath Death's gloomy, filent, Cyprefs Shades,
Unpierc'd by Vanity's fantastic Ray;

To read his Monuments, to weigh his Duft,
Vifit his Vaults, and dwell among the Tombs!
LORENZO! read with me NARCISSA's Stone;
(NARCISSA was thy Fav'rite) let us read
Her moral Stone; féw Doctors preach fo well;
Few Orators fo tenderly can touch

The feeling Heart. What Pathos in the Date!
Apt Words can strike, and yet in them we fee
Faint Images of what we, here, enjoy.

What Caufe have we to build on Length of Life?
Temptations feize, when Fear is laid asleep;

And Ill foreboded is our strongest Guard.

See from her Tomb, as from an humble Shrine,
Truth, radiant Goddefs! fallies on my Soul,
And puts Delufion's dufky Train to Flight;
Difpels the Mifts our fultry Paffions raife,
From Objects low, terreftrial, and cbfcene;
And fhews the Real Eftimate of Things;
Which no Man, unafflicted, ever faw;
Pulls off the Veil from Virtue's rifing Charms;