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You see the man; you see his hold on heav'n,
If found his virtue; as Philander's found. [friends
Heav'n waits not the laft moment; owns her
On this fide 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 majesty in death;
And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.

$92. Love. YOUNG. LOVE calls for love. Not all the pride of beauty; Thofe eyes that tell us what the fun is made of; Thofe lips, whofe touch is to be bought with life! Thofe hills of driven fnow, which feen are felt: All thefe poffeft are nought, but as they are The proof, the fubftance of an inward paffion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

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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 woc.

O! loft to virtue, loft to manly thought,
Loft to the noble fallies of the foul!
Who think it folitude to be alone.
Communion fweet! communion large and high!
Our Reafon, Guardian Angel, and our God!
Then nearest thefe, when others most remote;
And all, ere long, fhall be remote but these,
How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone,
A ftranger! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd!
Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy
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.

$94. Beauty. YOUNG.

BEAUTY alone is but of little worth;

[breaft;

But when the foul and body of a piece, Both fhine alike; then they obtain a price, And are a fit reward for gallant actions.

$95. Paffions. YOUNG. WHEN Reafon, like the skilful charioteer, Can break the fiery pallions to the bit, And, fpite of their licentious fallies, keep The radiant track of glory; paffions, then, Are aids and ornaments. Triumphant Reafon, Firm in her feat and fwift in her career, Enjoys their violence; and, fmiling, thanks Their formidable flame for high renown.

1896. Picture of Narcissa, Defcription of her Fune-
ral, and a Reflection upon Man. YOUNG.
SWEET harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!
And young as beautiful! and soft as young!
And gay as foft! and innocent as gay!
And happy (if aught happy here) as good!
For fortune fond had built her neft on high.
Like birds quite exquifite of note and plume,
Transfixt by fare (who loves a lofty mark)
How from the fummit of the grove the fell,
And left it unharmonious! All its charms
Extinguifh'd in the wonders of her fong!
Her fong ftill vibrates in my ravish'd ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(Oto forget her!) thrilling thro' my heart!
Of bright ideas, flow'rs of paradife, [this group
Song, Beauty, Youth, Love, Virtute, Joy!
As yet unforfeit in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and prefent it to the skies; as all
We guefs of heav'n, and these were all her own,
And the was mine; and I was
Gay title of the deepest misery !
As bodies grow more pond'rous robb'd of life,
Good loft weighs more in grief than gain'd in joy.
Like bloffom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm,

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Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;
And if in death ftill lovely, lovelier there ;
Far lovelier pity fwells the tide of love.
And will not the fevere excufe a figh?
Scorn the proud man that is afham'd to weep;
Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e'er loft an angel! pity me.

Soon as the luftre languifht in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human fight;
And on her cheek, the refidence of spring,
Pale Omen fat, and scatter'd fears around
On all that faw (and who would ceafe to gaze
That once had feen?) With hafte, parental hafte,
I flew, I fnatch'd her from the rigid north,
Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the fun; the fun
(As if the fun could envy) checkt his beam,
Deny'd his wonted fuccour; nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping than the bells
Of lilies; faireft lilies not fo fair!

Queen lilies and ye painted populace ! Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives, In morn and ev'ning dew your beauties bathe," And drink the fun, which gives your cheeks to And out-blush (mine excepted) every fair; [glow, You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand, Which often cropt your odours, incenfe meet To thought fo pure! Ye lovely fugitives! Coeval race with man! for man you fimile; Why not finile at him too? You share indeed His fudden pafs, but not his conftant pain.

So man is made nought minifters delight But what his glowing paffions can engage; And glowing paffions bent on aught below, Muft, foon or late, with anguish turn the scale; And anguish, after rapture, how fevere! Rapture! bold man! whotempts the wrath divine, By plucking fruit deny'd to mortal taste, While here prefuming on the rights of Heav'n.

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For tranfport doft thou call on ev'ry hour,
Lorenzo? At thy friend's expence be wife;
Lean not on earth; 'twill pierce thee to the heart;
A broken reed at beft but, oft a spear:
On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires.
Turn, hopeless thoughts! turn from her:-
Thought repell'd,

Refenting rallies, and wakes ev'ry woe.
Snatch'd ere thy prime! and in thy bridal hour!
And when kind fortune, with thy lover, fimil'd!
And when high flavour'd thy freth op'ning joys!
And when blind man pronounc'd thy blifs com-
plete!

And on a foreign fhore, where ftrangers wept!
Strangers to thee; and more furprizing still,
Strangers to kindnefs wept: Their eyes let fall
Inhuman tears; strange tears! that trickled down
From marble hearts! obdurate tenderness!
A tenderness that call'd them more fevere;
In spite of nature's foft perfuafion, steel'd;
While nature melted, fuperftition rav'd !
That mourn'd the dead, and this deny'd a grave.
Their fighs incens'd; fighs foreign to the will!
Their will the tyger fuck'd, outrag'd the storm.
For oh! the curft ungodliness of zeal!
While finful flesh relented, fpirit nurft
In blind infallibility's embrace,
The fainted fpirit petrify'd the breast :
Deny'd the charity of duft to fpread
O'er duft! a charity their dogs enjoy.
What could I do? What fuccour? What refource?
With pious facrilege, a grave I stole;
With impious piety, that grave I wrong'd;
Short in my duty; coward in my grief!
More like her murderer, than friend, I crept,
With foft fufpended step, and muffled deep
In midnight darknefs, whisper'd my last figh.
I whisper'd what should echo thro' their realms;
Nor writ her name whofe tomb fhould pierce
the skies.

Prefumptuous fear! How durft I dread her foes,
While nature's loudeft dictates I obey'd?
Pardon neceffity, bleft fhade! Of grief
And indignation rival burfts I pour'd;
Half execration mingled with my pray'r;
Kindled at inan, while I his God ador'd;
Sore grudg'd the favage land her facred duft;
Stampt the curft foil; and with humanity
(Deny'd Narciffa) with'd them all a grave.
Glows my refentment into guilt? What guilt
Can equal violations of the dead?

The dead how facred! Sacred is the duft
Of this heav'n-labour'd form, erect, divine;
This heav'n-affum'd majeftic robe of earth
He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanfe
With azure bright, and cloath'd the fun in gold.
When ev'ry paffion fleeps that can offend;
When ftrikes us ev'ry motive that can melt;
When man can reak his rancour uncontroul'd,
That ftrongest curb on infult and ill-will;
Then, fpleen to duft? the duft of innocence;
An angel's duft - This Lucifer tranfcends;
When he contended for the patriarch's bones,
'Twas not the ftrife of malice, but of pride;
The frife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall.

Far less than this is fhocking in a race
Moft wretched, but from ftreams of mutual love;
And uncreated, but for love divine;
And, but for love divine, this moment, loft,
By fate reforb'd, and funk in endless night.
Man hard of heart to man! of horrid things
Moft horrid 'Mid ftupendous, highly strange!
Yet oft his courtefies are fimoother wrongs;
Pride brandishes the favours He confers,
And contumelious his humanity:
What then his vengeance? Hear it not, yeftars!
And thou pale moon! turn paler at the found;
Man is to man the foreft, fureft ill.

A previous blast foretels the rifing storm;
O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall;
Volcanos bellow ere they difembogue;
Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour;
And smoke betrays the wide-confuming fire
Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near,
And fends the dreadful tidings in the blow.
Is this the flight of fancy? Would it were!
Heav'n's Sovereign faves all beings, but himself,
That hideous fight, a naked human heart.

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$99. Dying Friends. YOUNG.

UR dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, To damp our brainlefs ardours, and abate That glare of life, which often blinds the wife. Our dying friends are pioneers, to fmooth Our rugged pafs to death; to break those bars Of terror and abhorrence nature throws Crofs our obftructed way; and, thus to make Welcome, as fafe, our port from ev'ry ftorm. Each friend by fate thatch'd from us, is a plume Pluckt from the wing of human vanity, Which makes us ftoop from our aërial heights, And, dampt with omen of our own disease, On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd, Juft fkim earth's furface, ere we break it up, O'er putrid earth to fcratch a little duft, And fave the world a nuifance. Smitten friends Are angels fent on errands full of love; For us they languish, and for us they die: And fhall they languish, fhall they die in vain? Ungrateful, fhall we grieve their hov'ring fhades, Which wait the revolution in our hearts? Shall we difdain their filent foft addrefs; Their pofthumous advice, and pious pray'r? Senfelefs as herds that graze the hallow'd graves,

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§100. Thanks to the Deity. YOUNG.

LEST be that hand divine, which gently laid My heart at reft, beneath this humble fhed. The world's a stately bark on dang❜rous feas, With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril; Here, on a fingle plank, thrown fafe afhore, I hear the tumult of the diftant throng, As that of feas remote, or dying ftorms, And meditate on scenes more filent still; Purfue my theme, and fight the Fear of Death. Here, like a fhepherd gazing from his hut, Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, Eager ambition's fiery chace Ï fee; I fee the circling hunt of noify men Burft law's inclofure, leap the mounds of right, Pursuing, and purfu'd, each other's prey; As wolves for rapine; as the fox for wiles; Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all.

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To none man seems ignoble but to man;
Angels that grandeur, men o'erlook, admire :
How long fhall human nature be their book,
Degen'rate mortal! and unread by thee?
The beam dim reafon fheds fhews wonders there;
What high contents! Illuftrious faculties !
But the grand comment, which difplays at full
Our human height, fcarce fever'd from divine,
By Heav'n compos'd, was publish'd on the crofs.
Who looks on that, and fees not in himself
An awful ftrange, a terrestrial god?
A glorious partner with the Deity
In that high attribute, immortal life?
If a God bleeds, he bleeds not for a worm;
I gaze, and, as I gaze, my mounting foul
Catches ftrange fire, Eternity! at Thee;
And drops the world-or rather, more enjoys:
How chang'd the face of nature! how improv'd!
What seem'd a chaos fhines a glorious world,
Or, what a world, an Eden; heighten'd all !

It is another scene! another felf!
And ftill another as time rolls along;
And that a felf far more illuftrious still.
Beyond long ages, yet roll'd up in fhades,
Unpierc'd by bold conjecture's keenest ray,
What evolutions of furprising fate!

How nature opens, and receives my foul [gods
In boundless walks of raptur'd thought! where
Encounter and embrace me! What new births
Of strange adventure, foreign to the fun,
Where what now charms, perhaps, whate'er
Old time, and fair creation, are forgot! [exifts,
Is this extravagant? Of man we form
Extravagant conception to be juft:
Conception unconfin'd wants wings to reach him!
Beyond its reach, the Godhead only more.
He, the great Father! kindled at one flame
The world of rationals; one fpirit pour'd
From fpirit's awful fountain; pour'd Hamfelf
Thro' all their fouls; but not in equal stream,
Profufe or frugal, of th'infpiring God,
As his wife plan demanded; and when paft
Their various trials, in their various fpheres,
If they continue rational as made,
Reforbs them all into himself again;

His throne their centre, and his fimile their crown.

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$104. Religion. YOUNG. RELIGION's all. Defcending from the skies

To wretched man, the goddefs in her left Holds out this world, and, in her right, the next; Religion the foul voucher man is man; Supporter fole of man above himself; Ev'n in this night of frailty, change, and death, She gives the foul a foul that acts a god. Religion! Providence! an after-state! Here is firm footing; here is folid rock ! This can fupport us; all is fea besides; Sinks under us; bestorms, and then devours. His hand the good man faftens on the fkies, And bids earth roll, nor feels her idle whirl.

As when a wretch, from thick, polluted air, Darknefs, and french, and fuffocating damps, And dungeon-horrors, by kind fate difcharg'd, Climbs fome fair eminence, where æther pure Surrounds him, and Elyfian profpects rife, His heart exults, his spirits cast their load ! As if new-born, he triumphs in the change; So joys the foul when, from inglorious aims And fordid fweets, from feculence and froth Of ties terrestrial, fet at large, the mounts

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To Reafon's region, her own element,
Breathes hopes immortal, and affects the fkies.
Religion! thou the foul of happiness;
And groaning Calvary, of thee! There fhine
The nobleft truths; there ftrongeft motives fting:
There facred violence affaults the foul;
There nothing but compulfion is forborn.
Can love allure us, or can terror awe›
He weeps the falling drop puts out the fun;
He fighs the figh earth's deep foundation
If in his love fo terrible, what when [fhakes.
His wrath inflam'd? his tenderness on fire?
Like foft, fmooth oil, outblazing other fires?
Can pray'r, can praife avert it?-Thou, my All!
My theme! my infpiration and my crown!
My ftrength in age! my rife in low eftate!
My foul's ambition! pleafure! wealth!-my

world!

My light in darknefs! and my life in death!
My boaft thro' time! blifs thro' eternity!
Eternity! too short to fpeak thy praise !
Or fathom thy profound of love to man;
To man of men the meanest, ev'n to me:
My facrifice! my God!—what things art thefe!

$105. Jealousy. YOUNG.

JEALOUSY, cach other paffion's calm
To thee, thou conflagration of the foul !
Thou king of torments! thou grand counter-
For all the tranfports beauty can infpire! [poife

106. Faith and Reafon. YOUNG.

FOND

as we are, and justly found, of faith,
Reaton, we grant, demands our firft regard,
The mother honour'd, as the daughter dear.
Reafon the root, fair faith is but the flower;
The fading flower thall die; but reafon lives
Immortal, as her Father in the fkies.
When faith is virtue, reafon makes it fo.

Wrong not the Chriftian; think not reafon

yours:

'Tis reafon our great Mafter holds fo dear;
'Tis reafon's injur'd rights His wrath refents;
'Tis reafon's voice obey'd his glories crown;
To give loft reafon life, He pour'd his own:
Believe, and fhew the reafon of a man;
Believe, and tafte the pleasure of a God;
Believe, and look with triumph on the tomb;
Thro' reafon's wounds alone thy faith can die;
Which dying, tenfold terror gives to death,
And dips in venom his twice-mortal fting.

$107. Misfortune. YOUNG. MISFORTUNE ftands with her bow ever bent

O'er the world; and he who wounds anoDirects the goddefs by that part he wounds, [ther, Where to ftrike deep her arrows in himself.

108. Vanity and Adulation. YOUNG. LORENZO! to recriminate is juft.

Fondness for fame is avarice of air.

I grant, the man is vain who writes for praife.

Praife no man e'er deferv'd who fought no more.

As juft thy fecond charge. I grant, the mufe
Has often blufht at her degen'rate fons,
Retain'd by fenfe to plead her filthy cause
To raife the low, to magnify the mean,
And fubtilize the grofs into refin'd:
As if to magic numbers powerful charm
'Twas given, to make a civet of their fong
Obfcene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our fwine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obfcure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride;
Thefe fhare the man; and these distract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in their com-
mands.

Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But pleafure, lark-like, nefts upon the ground.
Joys fhar'd by brute-creation, pride refents;
Pleasure embraces: Man would both enjoy,
And both at once: A point how hard to gain!
But what can't wit, when ftung by strong defire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise.
Since joys of fenfe can't rife to reafon's tafte;
In fubtle fophiftry's laborious forge,
Wit hammers out a reafon new, that stoops
To fordid scenes, and meets them with applause.
Wit calls the Graces the chafte zone to loofe;
Nor lefs than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thoufand phantoms, and a thousand spells,
A thoufand opiates fcatters, to delude,
To fafcinate, inebriate, lay afleep,
And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.
Thus, that which fhock'd the judgment shocks
no more;

That which gave gride offence, no more offends.
Pleafure and pride, by nature mortal foes,
At war eternal which in man shall reign,
By wit's addrefs, patch up a fatal peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, curfed art! wipes off th'indebted blush.
From nature's cheek, and bronzes ev'ry fhame.
Man fmiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,
And Infamy ftands candidate for praife..

All writ by man in favour of the foul,
Thefe fenfual ethics far, in bulk, transcend
The flow'rs of eloquence, profufely pour'd
O'er fpotted vice, fill half the letter'd world.
And confecrate enormities with fong?
Can powers of genius excrcife their page,

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To fettle on Herself our point fupreme!
There lies our theatre! there fits our judge.
Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull fcene;
'Tis the kind hand of Providence ftretcht out
'Twixt man and vanity; 'tis reason's reign,
And virtue's too; thefe tutelary fhades
Are man's afylum from the tainted throng.
Night is the good man's friend and guardian too;
It no lefs refcues virtue than infpires.

Virtue, for ever frail as fair, below,
Her tender nature fuffers in the crowd,
Nor touches on the world without a ftain:
The world's infectious; few bring back at eve,
Immaculate, the manners of the morn.
Something we thought, is blotted; we refolv'd,
Is fhaken; we renounc'd, returns again.
Each falutation may flide in a fin
Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.
Nor is it trange: Light, motion, concourfe, noife,
All, fcatter us abroad; thought outward bound,
Neglectful of our home affairs, flies off
In fuine and diffipation, quits her charge,
And leaves the breaft unguarded to the foe.
Prefent example gets within our guard,
And acts with double force; by few repell'd.
Ambition fires ambition; love of gain
Strikes like a peftilence, from breast to breast;
Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapours breathe;
And inhumanity is caught from man,
From fimiling man. A flight, a fingle glance,
And fhot at random, often has brought home
A fudden fever to the throbbing heart,
Of envy, rancour, or impure defire.
We fee, we hear, with peril; fafety dwells
Remote from multitude; the world's a school
Of wrong, and what proficients fwarm around!
We muft or imitate, or difapprove;
Muft lift as their accomplices, or foes;
That stains our innocence; this wounds our peace.
From nature's birth, hence wildom has been fmit
With fweet recefs, and languifht for the fhade.

This facred fhade, and folitude, what is it?
'Tis the felt prefence of the Deity.
Few are the faults we flatter when alone:
Vice finks in her allurements, is ungilt,
And looks, like other objects, black by night.
By night an Atheist half-believes a God,

Night is fair virtue's immemorial friend;
The confcious moon, thro' ev'ry diftant age,
Has held a lamp to wifdom, and let fall
On contemplation's eye her purging ray.
The fam'd Athenian, he who woo'd from heav'n
Philofophy the fair, to dwell with men,
And form their manners, not inflame their pride,
While o'er his head, as fearful to moleft
His lab'ring mind, the ftars in filence flide,
And feem all gazing on their future guest,
See him foliciting his ardent fuit

In private audience; all the live-long night,
Rigid in thought, and motionlefs, he ftands;
Nor quits his theme, or pofture, till the fun
(Rude drunkard, rifing rofy from the main ')
Difturbs his nobler intellectual beam,
And gives him to the tumult of the world.

Hail, precious moments! ftol'n from the black wafte

Of murder'd time! Aufpicious midnight, hail !
The world excluded, ev'ry paffion hufh'd,
And open'd a calm intercourfe with Heav'n,
Here the foul fits in council; ponders past,
Predeftines future action; fees, not feels,
Tumultuous life, and reafons with the ftorm;
All her lyes anfwers, and thinks down her charms.

§ 111. Ingratitude. YOUNG. HE that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pafs for virtues in him.

$112. Reflections in a Church-yard. YOUNG. THE HE man how bleft, who, fick of gaudy

fcenes, (Scenes apt to thrust between us and ourselves!) Is led by choice to take his fav'rite walk Beneath death's gloomy, filent, cyprefs fhades, 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 ftone (Narcilla was thy fav'rite); let us read Her moral ftone; few doctors preach fo well; Few orators fo tenderly can touch The feeling heart. What pathos in the date! Apt words can ftrike: and yet in them we fee Faint images of what we here enjoy. What caufe have we to build on length of life? Temptations feize when fear is laid fleep; And ill foreboded is our strongest guard.

See from her tomb, as from an humble fhrine, Truth, radiant goddefs fallies on my foul, And puts Delufion's dufky train to flight; Difpels the mifts our fultry paffions raife, From objects low, terreftrial, and obfcene, And fhews the real estimate of things; Which no man, unafflicted, ever faw; Pulls off the veil from virtue's rifing charms; Detects temptation in a thousand lyes. Truth bids me look on men as autumn leaves, And all they bleed for, as the fummer'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 prefent with futurities; think nought To man fo foreign as the joys poffeft; Nought fo much his as thofe beyond the grave.

No folly keeps its colour in her fight; Pale worldly wisdom lofes all her charms; In pompous promife, from her fchemes profound. If future fate fhe plans, 'tis all in leaves, Like Sibyl, unfubftantial, fleeting blifs! At the first blaft it vanishes in air.

[and yet

What grave prefcribes the best-A friend's: From a friend's grave how foon we difengage! Ev'n to the deareft, as his marble, cold.

Why are friends ravifht from us? 'Tis to bind, By foft affection's ties, on human hearts

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