And enter aw'd the Temple of my Theme.
Is it his Death-bed? No; It is his Shrine;
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 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 unreftor'd by This, despair your Cure.
For, Here, refiftless Demonftration 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 fee the Man; you fee his Hold on Heaven:
If found his Virtue; as Philander's found;
Heav'n waits not the last moment, owns her Friends
On this Side Death; and points them out to men,.
A Lecture, filent, but of fov'reign Pow'r!
To Vice Confufion; and to Virtue Peace.
Whatever Farce the boastful Hero plays,.
Virtue alone has Majefty in Death;
And greater ftill, the more the Tyrant frowns.. Philander! He feverely frown'd on Thee. "No Warning giv'n! Unceremonious Fate! "A fuddain Rufh from Life's meridian Joys! "A Wrench from all we Love! from all we are! "A restlefs bed of Pain! a Plunge opaque "Beyond Conjecture! Feeble Nature's dread!
Strong Reafon's fhudder at the dark Unknown! "A Sun extinguifh'd! a juft op'ning Grave! "And oh! the laft, laft, what? (can words express? "Thought reach ?) the laft, laft-Silence of a Friend!" Where are Thofe 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' vanquifh'd Agonies,
Like the Stars ftruggling 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 Soul Sublime; and clofes with his Fate:
How our Hearts burn'd 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 Heav'n vouchfafes to call her own.
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 Darkness drown the Spacious Vale::
Undampt by Doubt, Undarken'd by Defpair,
Philander, thus, auguftly rears his Head,
At that Black Hour, which gen'ral Horror fheds-
On the low Level of th' Inglorious Throng:
Sweet Peace, and Heav'nly 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 Good man's Mifery!
How dim the Ray, the Luftre, now, how pale
Of tarnisht Pageantries, of wither'd Joy,
Of beggar'd Opulence, disgrac'd Renown,
Deep-darken'd Empire, Conqueft overcome?
Envy's bright Buts! the Pant of evr'y Breast!
Envy the greateft Ideot of all Crimes!
Who pains herself for That, wou'd pain her more
Is there on Earth what can abfolve her? Yes;
One radiant Mark; the Death-bed of the Juft:
That Gaze of Angels! That glad Fame of Heaven
That Joy to Joy Celestial!-O my Soul!
Bleft, ravish'd with this Providential Scene!
Heav'n plans her gracious Stratagems for All.
A Scene fo ftrong to strike, so sweet to charm,
So Great to raise, fo Heav'nly to inspire,
So Solid to fupport fair Virtue's Throne,
What Tranfport Thine to fee? what Zeal to fing?
Sing First, and send it thro' the Souls of men ?
And fent thro' Their's with ease, if from our own.
Nor haft Thou Sung in vain: Philander hears,
Lorenzo feels, thy Song. Lorenzo feels,
Or He, and not Philander, is the Dead.
Life, take thy Chance; But Oh for fuch an End!
There point, My wishes! center There; and burn.
Smile you, ye poor Dependents on a Pulse!
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 Smiles miftaken what Tear half fo fad ?
Is it your Pride? Wou'd you be prais'd for This?
Scorn'd be the man, who thinks himself a Brute;
Affronts his Species; and his God blafphemes;
Vile Laughter! at whom Pity cannot laugh;
Scorner of All, but what deferves his Scorn!
Who thinks it is Ingenious to be Mad,
And is quite Fool enough to be a Wit.
Wits fpare not Heav'n, C
ROM Dreams, where Thought in Fancy's
maze runs mad,
To Reason, that Heav'n-lighted Lamp in
Man,
Once more I wake; and at the Deftin'd hour;
Punctual as Lovers to the moment fworn,
I keep my Affignation with my Woe.
O! Loft to Virtue, Loft to manly Thought, Loft to the noble Sallies of the Soul !
Who think it Solitude to be Alone.
Communion Sweet! Communion large, and High!
Our Reason; Guardian Angel; and our God!
Then nearest These, when Others moft Remote;
And All, ere long, fhall be remote, but These.
How dreadful, Then, to meet them all alone,
A Stranger! Unacknowledg'd! Unapprov'd!
Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy breast ;
To win thy With Creation has no more.
Or if we wish a Fourth, it is a Friend ;
But Friends, how mortal? Dang❜rous the Defire.
Alone indeed, the Banish'd from Himself,
By Day's Intrufions loud, and rude Affaults,
A tide of Tumult, and a Storm of Tongues.
Take Phabus to yourselves, ye basking Bards!
Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain-head:
And reeling thro' the wilderness of Joy;
Where Sense runs favage, broke from Reafon's chain,
And fings falfe Peace, till fmother'd by the Pall.
My Fortune is unlike; unlike my Song;
Unlike the Deity my Song invokes.
I to Day's foft-ey'd Sifter pay my Court,
(Endymion's Rival!) and her aid implore;
Now firft implor'd in fuccour to the Mufe.
Thou, who didft lately borrow * Cynthia's form,
And modeftly forego thine Own! O Thou
Who didft, thyself, at midnight Hours inspire!
Say, why not Cynthia Patronefs of Song?
As Thou her Crefcent, fhe thy Character
Affumes; ftill more a Goddess by the Change.
Are there demurring Wits, who dare difpute
This Revolution in the World inspir'd?
Ye Train Pierian! to the Lunar Sphere,
In filent Hour, addrefs your ardent Call
For aid Immortal; Lefs her Brother's Right.
* At the Duke of Norfolk's Mafquerade.
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