Dung'd, but not dreft; and rich to Beggary..
A Pomp untameable of Weed prevails..
Her Servant's Wealth encumber'd Wisdom 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 less inspir'd..
It pleads Exemption from the Laws of Senfe;
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 reft.
Craffus but fleeps, Ardelio is undone..
Wisdom lefs fhudders at a Fool, than Wit.

But Wisdom fmiles, when humbled Mortals weep. When Sorrow wounds the Breast, as Plows the Glebe,, And Hearts obdurate feel her foft'ning Show'r :

Her Seed Celeftial, then, glad Wisdom fows,

Her golden Harveft triumphs in the Soil.
If fo, Narciffa! welcome my Relapfe;
I'll raife a Tax on my Calamity,

And reap rich Compenfation from my Pain..
I'll range the plenteous Intellectual Field;
And gather ev'ry Thought of fovereign Power,
To chafe the Moral maladies of Man;

Thoughts, which may bear transplanting to the Skies,
Tho' Natives of this coarse penurious Soil,
Nor wholly wither there, where Seraphs fing;.
Refin'd, exalted, not annull'd in Heav'n.
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 Narcissa's Tomb ;
And, peradventure, of no fading Flow'rs.

Say on what Themes fhall puzzl'd Choice descend } "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 counfel quick Difmiffion of our Grief;
Miftaken Kindness! our Hearts heal too foon.
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 puts out unnumber'd Thoughts
Of Import high, and Light divine to Man.

The Man how bleft, who fick of gaudy Scenes,
(Scenes apt to thruft between us and ourselves!)
Is led by Choice to take his fav'rite Walks,
Beneath Death's gloomy, filent, Cypress 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 Narciffa's Stone;
(Narcia was thy Fav'rite) let us read
Her moral Stone; few 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 Cause have we to build on Length of Life ?
Temptations feize, when Fear is laid asleep;
And Ill foreboded is our ftrongest 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 raise,
From Objects low, terreftrial, and obscene,
And fhews the Real Eftimate of Things;

Which no Man, unafflicted, ever faw;
Pulls off the Veil from Virtue's rifing Charms;
Detects Temptation in a thousand Lies.

Truth bids me look on Men, as Autumn Leaves,
And all they bleed for, as the Summer's Duft,
Driv'n by the Whirlwind; lighted by her Beams,
I widen my Horizon, gain new Pow'rs,
See things invifible, feel Things remote,
Am present with Futurities; think nought
To Man fo foreign, as the Joys poffeft;
Nought fo much his as those beyond the Grave.
No Folly keeps its Colour in her Sight.
Pale Worldly Wisdom lofes all her Charms :
In pompous Promise from her Schemes profound,
If future Fate she plans, 'tis all in Leaves
Like Sibyl, unfubftantial, fleeting Blifs!
At the firft Blast it vanishes in Air.

Not fo, Celestial: wouldft Thou know, Lorenzo!
How differ worldly Wisdom, and Divine?
Juft as the waning, and the waxing Moon.
More empty worldly Wisdom ev'ry Day ;
And ev'ry Day more fair her Rival shines.
When Later there's lefs Time to play the Fool.
Soon our whole Term for Wisdom is expir'd.
(Thou know'ft she calls no Council in the Grave)
And everlafting Fool is writ in Fire,

Or real Wisdom wafts us to the Skies.

As worldly Schemes refemble Sibyl's Leaves,
The good Man's Days to Sibyl's Books compare,
(In antient Story read, Thou know'st the Tale)
In Price ftill rifing, as in Number less,
Ineftimable quite his Final Hour..

For That who Thrones can offer, offer Thrones;
Infolvent Worlds the Purchase cannot pay.
"Oh let me die His Death !" all Nature cries.
"Then live his Life"-All Nature falters there.

Our

Our great Phyfician daily to confult,

To commune with the Grave, our only Cure.

What Grave prescribes the best?-a Friend's; and

yet,

From a Friend's Grave, how foon we difengage?
Ev'n to the deareft, as his Marble, cold.

Why are Friends ravish'd from us? 'tis to bind,
By foft Affection's Tyes, on human Hearts,
The thought of Death, which Reason too fupine,
Or mifemploy'd, fo rarely faftens There."

Nor Reason, nor Affection, no, nor both
Combin'd, can break the Witchcrafts of the World.
Behold th' inexorable Hour at hand!
Behold th' inexorable Hour forgot!

And to forget it, the chief Aim of Life,
Tho' well to ponder it, is Life's chief End.

Is Death, that ever threat'ning, ne'er remote,,
That all-important, and that only fure,

Come when he will) an unexpected Guest ?
Nay, tho' invited by the loudeft Calls
Of blind Imprudence, unexpected ftill?
Tho' num'rous Meffengers are fent before
To warn his Great Arrival. What the Cause,
The wond'rous Caufe, of this Mysterious Ill?
All Heav'n looks down astonish'd at the Sight.
Is it, that Life has fown her Joys fo thick,
We can't thruft in a fingle Care between?
Is it, that Life has such a swarm of Cares,.

The Thought of Death can't enter for the Throng?
Is it, that Time steals on with downy Feet,
Nor wakes Indulgence from her Golden Dream?
To-day is fo like yesterday, it cheats;

We take the lying Sifter for the fame.
Life glides away, Lorenzo! like a Brook;
For ever changing, unperceiv'd the Change.
In the fame Brook none ever bath'd him twice:

To

To the fame Life none ever twice awoke.

We call the Brook the fame; the fame we think
Our Life, tho' still more rapid in its Flow;
Nor mark the Much irrevocably laps'd,
And mingled with the Sea. Or shall we say
(Retaining still the Brook to bear us on)
That Life is like a Veffel on the Stream?
In Life embark'd, we fmoothly down the Tide-
Of Time defcend, but not on Time intent ;
Amus'd, unconscious of the gliding Wave;
Till on a fudden we perceive a Shock;

We start, awake, look out; what fee we there?
Our brittle Bark is burst on Charon's Shore.

Is this the Caufe Death flies all human Thought
Or is it, Judgment by the Will ftruck blind,.
That domineering Mistress of the Soul !
Like him fo ftrong by Dalilah the fair?
Or is it Fear turns startled Reason back,
From looking down a Precipice fo steep?
'Tis dreadful; and the Dread is wifely plac'd,.
By Nature conscious of the Make of Man..
A dreadful Friend it is, a Terror kind,
A flaming Sword to guard the Tree of Life.
By that unaw'd, in Life's most smiling Hour,
The Good Man would repine; would fuffer Joys,
And burn impatient for his promis'd Skies..
The Bad on each punctilious Pique of Pride,
Or Gloom of Humour, would give Rage the Rein,.
Bound o'er the Barrier, rush into the Dark,
And marr the Schemes of Providence below.
What Groan was that, Lorenzo!-Furies! rife
And drown in your less execrable Yell,

Britannia's Shame. There took her gloomy Flight,
On Wing impetuous, a Black fullen Soul,
Blafted from Hell, with horrid Luft of Death.
Thy Friend, the Brave, the Gallant Altamont,

So