And thou, pale Moon! turn paler at the Sound;
Man is to Man the foreft, fureft Ill.

A previous Blast foretells the rifing Storm;
O'erwhelming Turrets threaten ere they fall;
Volcano's bellow ere they difembogue;
Earth trembles ere her yawning Jaws devour:
And Smoak betrays the wide-confuming Fire:
Ruin from Man is moft conceal'd when near,
And fends the dreadful Tidings in the Blow.
Is this the Flight of Fancy? Would it were!
Heav'n's Sov'reign faves all Beings but Himself,
That hideous Sight, a naked human Heart.

Fir'd is the Mufe? and let the Muse be fir'd:
Who not inflam'd, when what He speaks he feels,
And in the Nerve moft tender, in his Friends?
Shame to Mankind! Philander had his Foes:
He felt the Truths I fing, and I in Him:
But he, nor I, feel more. Paft Ills, Narciffa
Are funk in Thee: Thou recent wound of Heart!
Which bleeds with other Cares, with other Pangs;
Pangs num'rous, as the num'rous Ills that fwarm'd
O'er thy distinguish'd Fate, and cluft'ring There
Thick as the Locust on the land of Nile,

Made Death more deadly, and more dark the Grave.
Reflect (if not forgot my touching Tale)

How was each Circumstance with Aspics arm'd?
An Afpic, Each; and All, an Hydra-Woe.
What ftrong Herculean Virtue could fuffice?
Or is it Virtue to be conquer'd Here?
This hoary Cheek a Train of Tears bedews,
And each tear mourns its own diftinct diftrefs;
And each Distress diftinctly mourn'd, demands
Of Grief still more, as heighten'd by the Whole.
A Grief like this Proprietors excludes ;
Not Friends alone fuch Obfequies deplore,
They make Mankind the Mourner; carry Sighs

Far

Far as the fatal Fame can wing her Way,

And turn the gayeft Thought of gayeft Age,
Down their right Channel, thro' the Vale of Death.
The Vale of Death! That husht Cimmerian Vale,
Where Darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd Fates,
With Raven wing incumbent, waits the Day
(Dread Day !) that interdicts all future Change.
That Subterranean World, that Land of Ruin!
Fit Walk, Lorenzo, for proud human Thought!
There let my Thought expatiate; and explore
Balfamic Truths, and healing Sentiments,

Of all most wanted, and moft welcome, Here.
For gay Lorenzo's fake, and for thine own,
My Soul!" The Fruits of Dying Friends furvey;

Expofe the Vain of Life; weigh Life and Death Give Death his Eulogy; Thy Fear fubdue; "And labour that First Palm of noble Minds, "A manly Scorn of Terror from the Tomb."

This Harvest reap from thy Narciffa's Grave.
As Poets feign'd from Ajax' ftreaming blood
Arofe, with Grief inscrib'd, a mournful Flow'r;
Let Wisdom blossom from my mortal Wound.
And first, of Dying Friends: what Fruit from These?
Rich Fruit this Tempelt in our Bofom throws,
Few Minds will gather in our Life's Serene :
It brings us more than triple Aid; an Aid
To chace our Thoughtleffnefs, Fear, Pride, and Guilt.
Our dying Friends come o'er us like a Cloud,
To damp our brainless Ardors; and abate

That Glare of Life, which often blinds the Wise.
Our dying Friends are Pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged Pass to Death; to break those Bars
Of Terror, and Abhorrence, Nature throws
Cross our obstructed way; and, thus, to make
Welcome, as fafe, our Port from ev'ry Storm.
C

Each

50

The COMPLAINT:

Each Friend by Fate fnatch'd from us, is a Plume
Pluck'd from the wing of human Vanity,
Which makes us ftoop from our aërial Heights,
And damp'd with Omen of our own Decease,
On drooping pinions of Ambition lower'd,
Juft skim Earth's Surface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid Pride to scratch a little Duft,
And fave the World a Nufance. Smitten Friends
Are Angels fent on Errands full of Love;
For us they languish, and for us they die :
And shall they languish, shall they die in vain ?
Ungrateful fhall we grieve their hov'ring Shades,
Which wait the Revolution in our Hearts?
Shall we difdain their filent, soft Address;
Their pofthumous Advice, and pious Pray'r?
Senfelefs, as Herds that graze their hallow'd Graves,
Tread under foot their Agonies and Groans;
Fruftrate their Anguish, and destroy their Deaths?
Lorenzo? no; the Thought of Death indulge;
Give it its wholfome Empire, let It reign,
That Kind Chastiser of the Soul to Joy!
Its reign will spread thy glorious Conquests far,
And ftill the Tumults of thy ruffled breast;
Aufpicious Æra! Golden Days begin!

The Thought of Death fhall, like a God, inspire.
And why not think on Death? Is Life the Theme
Of ev'ry Thought? and Wish of ev'ry Hour?
And Song of ev'ry Joy? Surprifing Truth!
The beaten Spaniel's fondness not so strange.
To wave the num'rous Ills that feize on Life
As their own Property, their lawful prey;
Ere man has meafur'd half his weary Stage,
His Luxuries have left him no reserve,
No maiden Relishes, unbroach'd Delights;
On cold-ferv'd Repetitions He fubfifts,

And

And in the tastless Present chews the Paft;
Difgufted chews, and scarce can swallow down.
Like lavish Ancestors, his earlier Years

Have difinherited his future Hours,

Which starve on Oughts, and glean their former Field.
Live ever Here, Lorenzo! fhocking Thought I
So fhocking, they who wish, difown it too;
Difown from shame, what they from Folly crave.
Live ever in the Womb, nor fee the Light?
For what live ever Here?-With labouring Step
To tread out former Footsteps? Pace the Round
Eternal? To climb daily Life's worn wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat,
The beaten Track? To bid each wretched day
The Former mock; To furfeit on the Same,
And yawn our Joys? or thank a Misery

For Change, tho' fad? To fee what we have feen?
Hear, till unheard, the fame old flobber'd Tale ?
To taste the tasted, and at each return
Lefs taftful? O'er our Palates to decant
Another Vintage? ftrain a flatter year,
Thro' loaded Veffels, and a laxer Tone!
Crazy Machines to grind Earth's wafted Fruits!
Ill-ground, and worse concocted; Load, not Life!
The Rational foul Kennels of Excefs!

Still-ftreaming Thorough-fairs of dull Debauch!
Trembling each Gulph, left Death fhould fnatch the
Bowl.

Such of our Fine Ones is the Wish refin'd
So would they have it: Elegant Defire!
Why not invite the bell'wing Stalls, and Wilds?
But fuch Examples might their riot awe.

Thro' want of Virtue, that is, want of Thought,
(Tho' on bright Thought they father all their Flights)
To what are they reduc'd? to love, and hate

The fame vain World; to cenfure and efpoufe
This painted Shrew of Life, who calls them Foo!
Each Moment of each Day: To flatter Bad
Thro' dread of Worfe; To cling to this rude Rock,
Barren, to them, of Good, and Sharp with Ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending Storms,
And Infamous for wrecks of human Hope,-
Scar'd at the gloomy Gulph that yawns Beneath.
Such are their Triumphs! Such their Pangs of Joy!
'Tis Time, high Time to fhift this difmal Scene.
This hugg'd, this hideous State, what Art can cure?
One only; but that One, what All may reach;
Virtue. She, wonder-working Goddess ! charms
That Rock to bloom; and tames the painted Shrew
And what will more furprize, Lorenzo! gives
To Life's fick, naufeous Iteration, Change;
And ftraitens Nature's Circle to a Line.
Believ'ft Thou This, Lorenzo? Lend an Ear,
A patient ear, Thou'lt blush to Difbelieve.
A languid, leaden Iteration reigns,
'And ever muft o'er Thofe, whose joys are joys
Of Sight, Smell, Tafte: The Cuckow-feafons fing
The fame dull Note to fuch as nothing prize,
But what those Seafons, from the teeming Earth,
To doating Senfe indulge: But nobler Minds,
Which relish Fruits unripen'd by the Sun,
Make their Days various; various as the Dies
On the Dove's Neck, which wanton in his rays.
On Minds of Dove-like innocence possest,
On lighten'd Minds that balk in Virtue's beams,
Nothing hangs Tedious, nothing Old revolves,
In That, for which they long; for which they live.
Their glorious Efforts wing'd with Heav'nly Hope,
Each rifing Morning fees ftill higher rise;
Each bounteous Dawn its Novelty prefents

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