Abbildungen der Seite

Is truly man's; 'tis fortune's-Time's a god.
Hast thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence;
For, or against, what wonders he can do!
And will: to stand blank neuter he disdains.
Not on those terms was Time (Heaven's stranger!)


On his important embassy to man.
Lorenzo! no: On the long-destin'd hour,
From everlasting ages growing ripe,
That memorable hour of wondrous birth,
When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent,
And big with Nature, rising in his might,
Call'd forth creation (for then Time was born,)
By Godhead streaming through a thousand worlds;
Not on those terms, from the great days of Heaven,
From old Eternity's mysterious orb,
Was Time cut off, and cast beneath the skies;
The skies, which watch him in his new abode,
Measuring his motions by revolving spheres ;
That horologe machinery divine.

Hours, days, and months, and years, his children play,
Like numerous wings around him, as he flies:
Or, rather, as unequal plumes, they shape
His ample pinions, swift as darted flame,
To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest,
And join anew Eternity, his sire;
In his immutability to nest,

When worlds, that count his circles now, unhing'd (Fate the loud signal sounding) headlong rush To timeless night and chaos, whence they rose.

Why spur the speedy? Why with levities New-wing thy short, short day's too rapid flight? Know'st thou, or what thou dost, or what is done? Man flies from Time, and Time from man; too soon In sad divorce this double flight must end; And then, where are we? where, Lorenzo! then Thy sports? thy pomps?-I grant thee, in a state Not unambitious; in the ruffled shroud, Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath. Has Death his fopperies? Then well may Life Put on her plume, and in her rainbow shine. Ye well-array'd! ye lilies of our land! Ye lilies male! who neither toil, nor spin, (As sister lilies might) if not so wise As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight! Ye delicate! who nothing can support, Yourselves most insupportable! for whom The winter rose must blow, the Sun put on A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid; And other worlds send odors, sauce, and song, And robes, and notions, fram'd in foreign looms! O ye Lorenzos of our age! who deem One moment unamus'd, a misery

Not made for feeble man! who call aloud
For every bawble drivel'd o'er by sense;
For rattles, and conceits of every cast,
For change of follies, and relays of joy,
To drag your patient through the tedious length
Of a short winter's day-say, sages! say,
Wit's oracles! say, dreamers of gay dreams!
How will you weather an eternal night,
Where such expedients fail?

O treacherous Conscience! while she seems to sleep
On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song;
While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein,
And give us up to license unrecall'd,
Unmark'd;-see, from behind her secret stand,
The sly informer minutes every fault,

And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the gross act alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band;
A watchful foe! the formidable spy,
Listening, o'erhears the whispers of our camp:
Our dawning purposes of heart explores,
And steals our embryoes of iniquity.
As all-rapacious usurers conceal
Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats
Us spendthrifts of inestimable time;
Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied;

In leaves more durable than leaves of brass
Writes our whole history: which Death shall read
In every pale delinquent's private ear;
And Judgment publish; publish to more worlds
Than this; and endless age in groans resound.
Lorenzo, such that sleeper in thy breast!
Such is her slumber; and her vengeance such
For slighted counsel; such thy future peace!
And think'st thou still thou canst be wise too soon?
But why on time so lavish is my song?
On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school,
To teach her sons herself. Each night we die,
Each morn are born anew: each day, a life!
And shall we kill each day? If Trifling kills;
Sure Vice must butcher. O what heaps of slain
Cry out for vengeance on us! Time destroy'd
Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Time flies, Death urges, knells call, Heaven invites
Hell threatens: All exerts; in effort, all;
More than creation labors!-labors more?
And is there in creation what, amidst
This tumult universal, wing'd dispatch,
And ardent energy, supinely yawns?

Man sleeps; and man alone; and man, whose fate,
Fate irreversible, entire, extreme,
Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulf
A moment trembles; drops! and man, for whom
All else is in alarm! man, the sole cause
Of this surrounding storm! and yet he sleeps,
As the storm rock'd to rest.-Throw years away!
Throw empires, and be blameless. Moments seize,
Heaven's on their wing: a moment we may wish.
When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid Day stand

Bid him drive back his car, and re-import
The period past, re-give the given hour.
Lorenzo, more than miracles we want;
Lorenzo-O for yesterdays to come!

Such is the language of the man awake;
His ardor such, for what oppresses thee.
And is his ardor vain, Lorenzo? No;
That more than miracle the gods indulge;
To-day is yesterday return'd; return'd
Full-power'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn,
And reinstate us on the rock of peace.
Let it not share its predecessor's fate;
Nor, like its elder sisters, die a fool.
Shall it evaporate in fume? fly off
Fuliginous, and stain us deeper still?
Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd?
More wretched for the clemencies of Heaven?

Where shall I find him? Angels! tell me where. You know him he is near you: point him out: Shall I see glories beaming from his brow? Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers? Your golden wings, now hovering o'er him, shed Protection; now, are waving in applause To that blest son of foresight! lord of fate!

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

That awful independent on to-morrow!

As man's despotic will, perhaps one hour,
Whose work is done ; who triumphs in the past ; (0 how omnipotent is time !) decrees;
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile ; Should not each warning give a strong alarm?
Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly; Warning, far less than that of bosom torn
That common, but opprobrious lot! past hours, From bosom, bleeding o'er the sacred dead!
If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, Should not each dial strike us as we pass,
If folly bounds our prospect by the grave, Portentous, as the written wall, which struck,
All feeling of futurity benumb'd;

O'er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian pale,
All godlike passion for eternals quencht;

Ere-while high-flusht with insolence and wine ?
All relish of realities expir'd;

Like that, the dial speaks; and points to thee,
Renounc'd all correspondence with the skies ; Lorenzo! loth to break thy banquet up.
Our freedom chain'd ; quite wingless our desire ; “O man, thy kingdom is departing from thee;
In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar; And, while it lasts, is emptier than my shade.”
Prone to the centre ; crawling in the dust; Its silent language such : nor need'st thou call
Dismounted every great and glorious aim; Thy Magi, to decipher what it means.
Embruted every faculty divine ;

Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls :
Heart-buried in the rubbish of the world.

Dost ask, How? Whence? Belshazzar-like, amaz'd?
The world, that gulf of souls, immortal souls, Man's make incloses the sure seeds of death ;
Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire

Life feeds the murderer: Ingrate! he thrives
To reach the distant skies, and triumph there On her own meal, and then his nurse devours.
On thrones, which shall not mourn their masters But here, Lorenzo, the delusion lies :

That solar shadow, as it measures life,
Though we from Earth ; ethereal, they that fell. It life resembles too: life speeds away
Such veneration due, O man, to man.

From point to point, though seeming to stand still.
Who venerate themselves, the world despise. The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth :
For what, gay friend ! is this escutcheon'd world, Too subtle is the movement to be seen ;
Which hangs out Death in one eternal night; Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone.
A night, that glooms us in the noontide ray, Warnings point out our danger; gnomons, time:
And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud ? As these are useless when the Sun is set;
Life's little stage is a small eminence,

So those, but when more glorious reason shines.
Inch-high the grave above ; that home of man, Reason should judge in all; in reason's eye,
Where dwells the multitude : We gaze around; That sedentary shadow travels hard.
We read their monuments; we sigh; and while But such our gravitation to the wrong,
We sigh, we sink; and are what we deplord; So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish,
Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot!

"Tis later with the wise than he's aware :
Is Death at distance ? No; he has been on thee, A Wilmington goes slower than the Sun:
And giv'n sure earnest of his final blow.

And all mankind mistake their time of day;
Those hours that lately smil'd, where are they now? E'en age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown
Pallid to thought, and ghastly! drown'd, all drown'd In furrow'd brows. To gentle life's descent
In that great deep, which nothing disembogues ! We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain.
And, dying, they bequeath'd thee small renown. We take fair days in winter, for the spring;
The rest are on the wing: how feet their flight ! And turn our blessing into bane. Since oft
Already has the fatal train took fire;

Man must compute that age he cannot feel,
A moment, and the world's blown up to thee ; He scarce believes he's older for his years.
The Sun is darkness, and the stars are dust. Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours; One disappointment sure, to crown the rest ;
And ask them, what report they bore to Heaven; The disappointment of a promis d hour.
And how they might have borne more welcome On this, or similar, Philander! thou

Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue,
Their answers form what men experience call; And strong, to wield all science, worth the name;
If wisdom's friend, her best ; if not, worst foe. How often we talk'd down the summer's Sun,
O reconcile them! Kind Experience cries,

And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream!
“ There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs; How often thaw'd and shorten'd winter's eve,
The more our joy, the more we know it vain; By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth,
And by success are tutor'd to despair."

Best found, so sought; to the recluse more coy!
Nor is it only thus, but must be so.

Thoughts disentangle passing o'er the lip;
Who knows not this, though grey, is still a child. Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,
Loose then from Earth the grasp of fond desire, Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song;
Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore. Song, fashionably fruitless ; such as stains

Art thou so moor'd thou canst not disengage, The fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires;
Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes ? Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane.
Since by life's passing breath, blown up from Earth, Know'st thou, Lorenzo! what a friend contains ?
Light as the summer's dust, we take in air

As bees mixt nectar draw from fragrant flowers,
A moment's giddy flight, and fall again ;

So men from friendship, wisdom and delight;
Join the dull mass, increase the trodden soil, Twins tied by Nature ; if they part, they die.
And sleep, till Earth herself shall be no more ; Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach?
Since then (as emmets, their small world o'erthrown) Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up want
We, sore amaz’d, from out Earth's ruins crawl,

And rise to fate extreme of foul or fair,

And spoil, like bales unopend to the Sun.
As man's own choice (controller of the skies ! Had thought been all, sweet speech had been denied;


Speech, thought’s canal! speech, thought's criterion The wise extract Earth's most Hyblean bliss, too!

Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy. Thought, in the mine, may come forth gold, or dross ; But for whom blossoms this Elysian flower ? When coin'd in word, we know its real worth. Abroad they find, who cherish it at home. If sterling, store it for thy future use :

Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts, 'Twill buy thee benefit; perhaps renown.

An honest love, and not afraid to frown. Thought, too, deliver'd, is the more possest; Though choice of follies fasten on the great, Teaching, we learn; and, giving, we retain None clings more obstinate than fancy, fond, The births of intellect; when dumb, forgot.

That sacred Friendship is their easy prey; Speech ventilates our intellectual fire ;

Caught by the wafture of a golden lure, Speech burnishes our mental magazine ;

Or fascination of a high-born smile. Brightens, for ornament; and whets, for use. Their smiles, the great, and the coquet, throw out What numbers, sheath'd in erudition, lie,

For others' hearts, tenacious of their own; Plung'd to the hilts in venerable tomes,

And we no less of ours, when such the bait. And rusted in ; who might have borne an edge, Ye fortune's cofferers! Ye powers of wealth! And play'd a sprightly beam, if born to speech; Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope! If born blest heirs of half their mother's tongue ! As well mere man an angel might beget. 'Tis thought's exchange, which, like th' alternate Love, and love only, is the loan for love. push

Lorenzo! pride repress; nor hope to find Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned scum, A friend, but what has found a friend in thee. And defecates the student's standing pool.

All like the purchase ; few the price will pay; In contemplation is his proud resource ?

And this makes friends such miracles below. 'Tis poor, as proud, by converse unsustain'd.

What if (since daring on so nice a theme) Rude thought runs wild in contemplation's field; I show thee friendship delicate, as dear, Converse, the menage, breaks it to the bit

of tender violations apt to die? Of due restraint; and emulation's spur

Reserve will wound it; and distrust, destroy. Gives graceful energy, by rivals aw'd.

Deliberate in all things with thy friend. 'Tis converse qualifies for solitude ;

But since friends grow not thick on every bough, As exercise, for salutary rest.

Nor every friend unrotten at the core ; By that untutor'd, Contemplation raves ;

First, on thy friend, deliberate with thyself; And Nature's fool, by Wisdom is undone.

Pause, ponder, sist; not eager in the choice, Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, Nor jealous of the chosen ; fixing, fix; And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive, Judge before friendship, then confide till death. What is she, but the means of happiness?

Well, for thy friend ; but nobler far for thee; That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool ;

How gallant danger for Earth's highest prize! A melancholy fool, without her bells.

A friend is worth all hazards we can run. Friend ship, the means of wisdom, richly gives “ Poor is the friendless master of a world : The precious end, which makes our wisdom wise. A world in purchase for a friend is gain." Nature, in zeal for human amity,

So sung he, (angels hear that angels sing ! Denies, or damps, an undivided joy.

Angels from friendship gather half their joy,) Joy is an import; joy is an exchange;

So sung Philander, as his friend went round Joy flies monopolists: it calls for two ;

In the rich ichor, in the generous blood Rich fruit! Heaven-planted! never pluckt by one. Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit, Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give

A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye. To social man true relish of himself.

He drank long health, and virtue, to his friend ; Full on ourselves, descending in a line,

His friend, who warm'd him more, who more in Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight:

spir'd. Delight intense is taken by rebound ;

Friendship's the wine of life; but friendship new Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.

(Not such was his) is neither strong, nor pure. Celestial Happiness, whene'er she stoops 0! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth, To visit Earth, one shrine the goddess finds, And elevating spirit, of a friend, And one alone, to make her sweet amends For twenty summers ripening by my side, For absent Heaven—the bosom of a friend; All feculence of falsehood long thrown down; Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, All social virtues rising in his soul; Each other's pillow to repose divine.

As crystal clear; and smiling as they rise! Beware the counterfeit; in passion's flame Here nectar flows; it sparkles in our sight; Hearts melt, but melt like ice, soon harder froze. Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart: True love strikes root in reason ; passion's foe : High-flavor'd bliss for gods! on Earth how rare ! Virtue alone entenders us for life:

On Earth how lost!--Philander is no more. I wrong her much-entenders us for ever :

Think’st thou the theme intoxicates my song ? Of Friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fair Am I too warm ? Too warm I cannot be. Is virtue kindling at a rival fire,

I lov'd him much; but now I love him more. And, emulously, rapid in her race.

Like birds, whose beauties languish, half-conceald, the soft enmity! endearing strife!

Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes This carries friendship to her noontide point, Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold; And gives the rivet of eternity.

How blessings brighten as they take their flight' From Friendship, which outlives my former themes, His flight Philander took; his upward flight, Glorious survivor of old Time and Death ; If ever soul ascended. Had he dropt, From Friendship, thus, that flower of heavenly seed ;'(That eagle genius !) O had he let fall

One feather as he few: I, then, had wrote, With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields
What friends might flatter; prudent foes forbear; His soul sublime ; and closes with his fate.
Rivals scarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.

How our hearts burnt within us at the scene! Yet what I can, I must; it were profane

Whence this brave bound o'er limits fixt to man? To quench a glory lighted at the skies,

His God sustains him in his final hour! And cast in shadows his illustrious close.

His final hour brings glory to his God! Strange! the theme most affecting, most sublime, Man's glory Heaven vouchsafes to call her own Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung! We gaze, we weep; mixt tears of grief, of joy ! And yet it sleeps, by genius unawak'd,

Amazement strikes! devotion bursts to flame! Painim or Christian ; to the blush of wit. Christians adore! and Infidels believe ! Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall! As some tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow The death-bed of the just! is yet undrawn Detains the Sun, illustrious, from its height; By mortal hand! it merits a divine :

While rising vapors, and descending shades, Angels should paint it, angels ever there :

With damps and darkness, drown the spacious vale: There, on a post of honor, and of joy.

Undampt by doubt, undarken'd by despair, Dare I presume, then? but Philander bids ; Philander, thus, augustly rears his head, And glory tempts, and inclination calls

At that black hour, which general horror sheds Yet am I struck; as struck the soul, beneath On the low level of th' inglorious throng : Aërial groves' impenetrable gloom ;

Sweet Peace, and heavenly Hope, and humble Joy, Or, in some mighty ruin's solemn shade ;

Divinely beam on his exalted soul; Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust, Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings; With incommunicable lustre bright. Or, at the midnight altar's hallow'd Name. Is it religion to proceed? I pauseAnd enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme. Is it his death-bed ? No: it is his shrine :

Behold him, there, just rising 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,

Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes. Receive the blessing, and adore the chance,

Virg. That threw in this Bethesda your disease;

From dreams, where thought in fancy's maze runs If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure.

mad, For, here, resistless demonstration dwells; To reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man, A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

Once more I wake; and at the destin'd hour,
Here tir'd dissimulation drops her mask,

Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,
Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene! I keep my assignation with my woe.
Here real, and apparent, are the same.

0! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought,
You see the man ; you see his hold on Heaven, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul!
If sound his virtue; as Philander's sound.

Who think it solitude to be alone. Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends Communion sweet! communion large and high! On this side death, and points them out to men;

Our reason, guardian angel, and our God! A lecture, silent, but of sovereign power!

Then nearest these, when others most remote; To vice, confusion; and to virtue, peace.

And all, ere long, shall be remote, but these. Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,

How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone, Virtue alone has majesty in death!

A stranger! unacknowledg’d! unapprov'd!
And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy breast;
Philander! he severely frown'd on thee.

To win thy wish, creation has no more.
No warning given! Unceremonious Fate! Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend
A sudden rush from life's meridian joy!

But friends, how' mortal! dangerous the desire ! A wrench from all we love! from all we are ! Take Phæbus to yourselves, ye basking bards A restless bed of pain! a plunge opaque

Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain-head; Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread! And reeling through the wilderness of joy; Strong Reason's shudder at the dark unknown! Where Sense runs savage, broke from Reason's chain! A sun extinguisht! a just-opening grave!

And sings false peace, till smother'd by the pall. And oh! the last, last,—what? (can words express? My fortune is unlike; unlike my song; Thought reach it?) the last-silence of a friend !" Unlike the deity my song invokes. Where are those horrors, that amazement, where I to Day's soft-ey'd sister pay my court, "This hideous group of ills, which singly shock, (Endymion's rival !) and her aid implore ; Demand from man ?-I thought him man till now. Now first implor'd in succor to the Muse. Through Nature's wreck, through vanquisht Thou, who didst lately borrow Cynthia's form, * agonies,

[gloom,) And modestly forego thine own! O'thou, (Like the stars struggling through this midnight Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire ! What gleams of joy! what more than human peace! Say, why not Cynthia patroness of song? Where, the frail mortal ? the poor abject worm? As thou her crescent, she thy character No, not in death, the mortal to be found.

Assumes ; still more a goddess by the change. His conduct is a legacy for all;

Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute Richer than Mammon's for his single heir. His comforters he comforts; great in ruin,

* At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade.

This revolution in the world inspir'd?

And if in death still lovely, lovelier there, Ye train Pierian ! to the lunar sphere,

Far lovelier! pity swells the side of love. In silent hour, address your ardent call

And will not the severe excuse a sigh? For aid immortal ; less her brother's right. Scorn the proud man that is asham'd to weep; She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame. The mazy dance, and hears their maichless strain, Ye that e'er lost an angel! pity me. A strain for gods, denied to mortal ear.

Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye, Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of Heaven ! Dawning a dimmer day on human right; What title, or what name, endears the most! And on her cheek, the residence of Spring, Cynthia! Cyllené! Phæbe! or dost hear

Pale omen sat; and scatter'd fears around With higher gust, fair Portland of the skies? On all that saw, (and who would cease to gaze, Is that the soft enchantment calls thee down, That once had seen ?) with haste, parental haste, More powerful than of old Circean charm? I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid North, Come; but from heavenly banquets with thee bring Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew, The soul of song, and whisper in my ear

And bore her nearer to the Sun; the Sun The theft divine; or in propitious dreams

(As if the Sun could envy) check'd his beam, (For dreams are thine) transfuse it through the breast Denied his wonted succor; nor with more Of thy first votary.—But not thy last;

Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells If, like thy namesake, thou art ever kind.

Of lilies ; fairest lilies, not so fair! And kind thou wilt be; kind on such a theme; Queen lilies! and ye painted populace! A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme, Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives! Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair!

In morn and evening dew, your beauties bathe, A theme that rose all-pale, and told my

soul And drink the Sun; which gives your cheeks to "Twas night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;

A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp, And out-blush (mine excepted) every fair ;
Than that which smote me from Philander's tomb. You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand,
Narcissa follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.

Which ofien cropt your odors, incense meet
Woes cluster; rare are solilary woes;

To thought so pure! Ye lovely fugitives ! They love a train, they tread each other's heel; Coëval race with man! for man you smile! Her death invades his mournful right, and claims Why not smile at him too ? You share indeed The grief that started from my lids for him: His sudden pass; but not his constant pain. Seizes the faithless, alienated tear,

So man is made ; nought ministers delight, Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent death, But what his glowing passions can engage; Sorrow he more than causes, he confounds; And glowing passions, bent on aught below, For human sighs his rival strokes contend,

Must, soon or late, with anguish turn the scale ; And make distress, distraction. Oh Philander! And anguish, after rapture, how severe ! What was thy fate? A double fate to me; Rapture? Bold man! who tempo'st the wrath Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!

divine, Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace, By plucking fruit denied to mortal taste, Not less a bird of omen, than of prey.

While here, presuming on the rights of Heaven. It callid Narcissa long before her hour;

For transport dost thou call on every hour, It call'd her tender soul, by break of bliss, Lorenzo ? At thy friend's expense, be wise; From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ; Lean not on Earth ; 'twill pierce thee to the heart; Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves A broken reed, at best; but oft, a spear; In this inclement clime of human life.

On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires. Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!

Tur, hopeless thought! turn from her:- Thought And young as beautiful! and soft as young!

repellid And gay as soft! and innocent as gay!

Resenting rallies, and wakes every woe. And happy (if aught happy here) as good!

Snatch'd ere thy prime! and in thy bridal hour! For fortune fond had built her nest on high. And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smild! Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume, And when high-llavor'd thy fresh-opening joys! Transfixt by fale (who loves a lofty mark,) And when blind man pronounc'd thy bliss complete! How from the summit of the grove she fell, And on a foreign shore; where strangers wept! And left it unharmonious! all its charms

Strangers 10 thee; and more surprising still, Extinguisht in the wonders of her song!

Strangers to kindness, wept : their eyes let fall Her song still vibrates in my ravishd ear,

Inhuman tears! strange tears! that trickled down Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain From marble hearts ! obdurate tenderness! (O to forget her!) thrilling through my heart! A tenderness that called them more severe ;

Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy; this group in spite of Nature's soft persuasion, steeld! Of bright ideas, flowers of Paradise,

While Nature melted, Superstilion ravid; As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,

That mourn'd the dead; and this denied a grave. Kneel and present it to the skies; as all

Their sighs incens'd; sighs foreign to the will ! We guess of Heaven: and these were all her own, Their will the tiger suck’d, outrag'd the storm. And she was mine; and I was-was! -most For, oh! the curst ungodliness of zeal' blest

While sinful flesh relented, spirit nuret
Gay title of the deepest misery!

In blind Infallibility's embrace,
As bodies grow more ponderous, robb'd of life ; The sainted spirit petrified the breast
Good lost weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy, Denied the charity of dust, to spreal.
Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm, O'er dust! a charity their dogs enjoy.
Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;

What could I do? What succor? What resource ?

« ZurückWeiter »