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The sprightly lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn.
Grief's fharpeft thorn hard-preffing on my breaft,
I ftrive, with wakeful melody to chear
The fullen gloom, fweet Philomel! like thee,
And call the ftars to liften: ev'ry star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' diftant ages: wrapt in shade,
Pris'ner of darknefs! to the filent hours,
How often I repeat their rage divine,

To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe!
I roll their raptures, but not catch their flames.

THE THIRD NIGHT.

NARCISSA.

ROM dreams, where thought in fancy's maze

FR

runs mad,

To reafon, 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 woe.

O loft to virtue, loft to manly thought,
Loft to the noble fallies of the foul!
Who think it folitude, to be alone.

Communion sweet! communion large, and high!
Our reason, guardian angel, and our God!
Then nearest thefe, when others moft remote ;

And

And all, ere long, fhall be remote, but these,
How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone,

A stranger! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd!

Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy breast; To win thy wish, creation has no more.

Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend

But friends, how mortal! dang'rous the defire.
Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking bards!
Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain head;

And reeling thro' the wilderness of joy;

Where fenfe runs favage, broke from reason's chain,
And fings falfe peace, till fmother'd by the pall.
My fortune is unlike; unlike my fong;
Unlike the deity my fong invokes.
I to day's foft-ey'd fifter pay my court,
(Endymion's rival!) and her aid implore;
Now firft implor'd in fuccour to the mufe.

And kind thou wilt be; kind on fuch a theme;
A theme fo like thee, a quite lunar theme,
Soft, modeft, melancholy, female, fair!
A theme that rose all pale, and told my foul,
'Twas night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;
A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp,
Than that which fmote me from Philander's tomb.
Narciffa follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.

Woes cluster; rare are folitary woes ;

They love a train; they tread each other's heel;
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims

The

The grief that started from my lids for him:
Seizes the faithlefs, alienated tear,

Or fhares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow, he more than causes, he confounds;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make diftrefs, diftraction. O Philander!
What was thy fate? A double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not lefs a bird of omen, than of prey.
It call'd Narciffa long before her hour;
It call'd her tender foul, by break of bliss,
From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ;
Those few our noxious fate unblafted leaves,
In this inclement clime of human life.

And gay

Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as fweet!
And young as beautiful! and soft as young!
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 fate (who loves a lofty mark),
How from the fummit of the grove she fell,
And left it unharmonious! All its charm
Extinguisht in the wonders of her fong!
Her fong ftill vibrates in my ravisht ear,
Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain
(0 to forget her!) thrilling thro' my heart!

Song.

Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this group
Of bright ideas, flow'rs of paradife,

As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the skies; as all

We guess of heav'n: and these were all her own.
And he was mine; and I was-was most bleft
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 form,
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 excuse a figh?
Scorn the proud man that is asham'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 fcatter'd fears around
On all that faw (and who would cease 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

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The grief that started from my lids for him :
Seizes the faithless, alienated tear,

Or fhares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow, he more than causes, he confounds;
For human fighs his rival strokes contend,
And make diftrefs, diftraction. O Philander!
What was thy fate? A double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not lefs a bird of omen, than of prey.
It call'd Narciffa long before her hour;
It call'd her tender foul, by break of bliss,
From the first bloffom, from the buds of joy;
Those few our noxious fate unblafted leaves,
In this inclement clime of human life.

Sweet harmonift! and beautiful as sweet! And young as beautiful! and foft 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 fate (who loves a lofty mark), How from the summit of the gro...

And left it unharmonio

Extinguifht in the

Her fong ftill vir

Still me

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