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But he, nor I, feel more: paft ills, Narciffa!
Are funk in thee, thou recent wound of heart!
Which bleeds with other cares, with other pangs;
Pangs num'rous, as the num'rous ills that fwarm'd
O'er thy diftinguifht fate, and, cluft'ring there
Thick as the locuft on the land of Nile,
Made death more deadly, and more dark the grave.
Reflect (if not forgot my touching tale)
How was each circumstance with aspics arm'd?
An afpic, each; and all, an hydra woe.
What ftrong Herculean virtue could fuffice?-
Or is it virtue to be conquer'd here ?
This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews;
And each tear mourns its own distinct distress;
And each distress, diftinctly mourn'd, demands
Of grief ftill more, as heighten'd by the whole.
A grief like this proprietors excludes:
Not friends alone fuch obfequies deplore;
They make mankind the mourner; carry fighs
Far as the fatal fame can wing her way;
And turn the gayeft thought of gayest age,
Down their right channel, thro' the vale of death.
The vale of death! that husht Cimmerian vale,
Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinisht fates,
With raven wing incumbent, waits the day
(Dread day!) that interdicts all future change!
That fubterranean world, that land of ruin!
Fit walk, Lorenzo, for proud human thought!
There let my thought expatiate; and explore
Balfamic truths, and healing sentiments,
Of all most wanted, and moft welcome, here.
For gay Lorenzo's fake, and for thy own,
My foul!" The fruits of dying friends survey ;
Expose the vain of life; weigh life and death:
"Give death his eulogy; thy fear fubdu'd;
"And labour that firft palm of noble minds,
"A manly fcorn of terror from the tomb."
This harvest reap from thy Narcifla's grave.
As poets feign'd, from Ajax' ftreaming blood
Arofe, with grief infcrib'd, a mournful flow'r ;
Let wisdom blossom from my mortal wound.
And firft, of dying friends; what fruit from these?
It brings us more than triple aid; an aid
To chase our thoughtleffness, fear, pride, and guilt.
Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud,
To damp our brainless ardors; and abate
That glare of life, which often blinds the wife.
Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars
Of terror, and abhorrence, nature throws
Cross our obstructed way; and, thus, to make
Welcome, as fafe, our port from ev'ry storm.
Each friend by fate fnatch'd from us, is a plume
Pluckt from the wing of human vanity,
Which makes us ftoop from our aëreal heights,
And, dampt with omen of our own decease,
On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd,
Juft fkim earth's furface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid pride to scratch a little dust,
And fave the world a nuisance. Smitten friends
Are angels fent on errands full of love;
For us they languish, and for us they die :
And shall they languish, shall 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 address;
Their pofthumous advice, and pious pray'r?
Senfelefs, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves.
Tread under-foot their agonies and groans;
Fruftrate their anguish, and deftroy their deaths?
HE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care ;
His presence fhall my wants fupply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the fultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wand'ring fteps he leads;
Where peaceful rivers, foft and flow,
Amid the verdant landskip flow.
Tho' in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful fhade.
Tho' in a bare and rugged way,
Thro' devious lonely wilds I ftray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile :
The barren wilderness fhall fmile,
With fudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams fhall murmur all around.
WHEN all thy mercies, O my God,
My rifing foul furveys;
Transported with the view, I'm loft
In wonder, love, and praise :
O how fhall words with equal warmth
The gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravish'd heart?
But thou canst read it there.
Thy Providence my life fuftain'd,
And all my wants redreft,
When in the filent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.
To all my weak complaints and cries,
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in pray'r.
Unnumber'd comforts to my foul
Thy tender care bestow'd,
Before my infant heart conceiv'd
From whom those comforts flow'd.