By mortal hand: It merits a divine: Dare I presume, then? But PHILANDER bids; 620 Yet am I struck-as struck the soul, beneath Or, in some mighty ruin's solemn shade; 625 Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust, In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings! 630 The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg❜d beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of Heav'n. A death-bed's a detector of the heart. 635 640 You see the Man; you see his hold on Heav'n; 645 If sound his virtue; as PHILANDER's, sound. Heav'n waits not the last moment; owns her friends On this side death; and points them out to men; A lecture silent, but of sov'reign pow'r! Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. 66 650 655 Beyond conjecture! Feeble Nature's dread! "Strong Reason's shudder at the dark unknown! 660 "A sun extinguish'd! a just op'ning grave! "And oh! the last, last; what? (can words express? Thought reach?) the last, last-silence of a friend!” Where are those horrors, that amazement where, This hideous group of ills (which singly shock) 665 Demands from Man?—I thought him Man till now. 66 Through Nature's wreck, thro' vanquish'd 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? 670 No, not in death, the mortal to be found. His conduct is a legacy for all, Richer than Mammon's for his single heir. How our hearts burnt within us at the scene! 675 Whence, this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to Man? His God sustains him in his final hour! His final hour brings glory to his God! Man's glory Heav'n vouchsafes to call her own. 680 As some tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow, 685 At that black hour, which gen'ral horror sheds 690 Sweet Peace, and heav'nly Hope, and humble Joy, Divinely beam on his exalted soul; Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, 695 With incommunicable lustre bright. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT III. NARCISSA. Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes! VIRGIL. FROM ROM dreams, where thought in Fancy's maze runs mad, To Reason, that heav'n-lighted lamp in Man, I keep my assignation with my woe. O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude, to be alone. Communion sweet! communion large, and high! G 5 10 |