1395

And crown her with your welfare, not your praise.
But praise she need not fear: I see my fate,
And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf.
Since many an ample volume, mighty tome,
Must die, and die unwept; O thou minute,
Devoted page! go forth among the foes;
Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth,
And die a double death: mankind, incens'd,
Denies thee long to live; nor shalt thou rest
When thou art dead, in Stygian shades arraign'd
By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne,

And bold blasphemer of his friend, ---the World;
The world, whose legions cost him slender pay,
And volunteers around his banner swarm,
Prudent as Prussia in her zeal for Gaul.

1401

1405

"Are all then fools ?" Lorenzo cries.---Yes, all But such as hold this doctrine, (new to thee) "The mother of true wisdom is the will," The noblest intellect a fool without it.

World-wisdom much has done, and more may do,
In arts and sciences, in wars and peace;

1411

But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee, And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.

This is the most indulgence can afford,--

Thy wisdom all can do but---make thee wise." Nor think this censure is severe on thee;

Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.

End of Night Lights.

1417

THE CONSOLATION.

NIGHT IX. AND LAST.

Containing, among other things,

1. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS. 11. A NIGHT ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

Humbly inscribed to

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE,

One of his Majesty's principal Secretaries of State.

Fatis contraria Fara rependens.

VIR

As when a traveller, a long day past

In painful search of what he cannot find,
At night's approach, content with the next cot,
There ruminates awhile his labour lost,

5

Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords,
And chants his sonnet to deceive the time,
Till the due season calls him to repose;
Thus I, long-travell'd in the ways of men,
And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze,
Where Disappointment smiles at Hope's career,
Warn'd by the languor of life's ev'ning ray,
At length have hous'd me in an humble shed,
Where, future wand'ring banish'd from my thought,
And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest,

Volume II.

K

10

is

I chase the moments with a serious song.
Song sooths our pains, and age has pains to sooth.
When age, care, crime, and friends, embrac'd at
heart,

Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade,
Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire,

Can'st thou, O Night! indulge one labour more? 20
One labour more indulge! then sleep, my strain !
Till, haply, wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre, [cease,
Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow
To bear a part in everlasting lays;

Tho' far, far higher set, in aim, I trust,
Symphonious to thi: humble prelude here.

Has not the muse asserted pleasures pure,

25

Like those above, exploding other joys?

Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh,

And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still?

30

I think thou wilt forbear a boast so bold:

But if, beneath the favour of mistake,

Thy smiles sincere, not more sincere can be

Lorenzo's smile, than my compassion for him.

The sick in body call for aid; the sick

35

In mind are covetous of more disease,

And when at worst they dream themselves quite well.
To know ourselves diseas'd is half our cure.
When Nature's blush by custom is wip'd off,
And conscience deaden'd by repeated strokes,
Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes,

40

The curse of curses is our curse to love,
To triumph in the blackness of our guilt,
(As Indian's glory in the deepest jet)
And throw aside our senses with our peace.

45

But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy;

Grant joy and glory quite unsully'd shone;
Yet still it ill deserves Lorenzo's heart.
No joy, no glory, glitters in thy sight,

But, through the thin partition of an hour;

50

I see its sables wove by Destiny,

And that in sorrow bury'd, this in shame;

While howling furies ring the doleful knell,

And Conscience, now so soft thou scarce can'st hear Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.

55

Where the prime actors of the last year's scene, Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume ? How many sleep, who kept the world awake With lustre, and with noise! Has Death proclaim'd A truce, and hung his sated lance on high? 'Tis brandish'd still, nor shall the present year Be more tenacious of her human leaf, Or spread, of feeble life, a thinner fall.

But needless monuments to wake the thought;

Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality,
Tho' in a style more florid, full as plain
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs.
What are our noblest ornaments, but Deaths
Turn'd flatterers of Life in paint or marble,

60

65

1

The well-stain'd canvass, or the featur'd stone?
Our father's grace, or rather haunt, the scene.
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.

"Profess'd diversions! cannot these escape?"
Far from it: these present us with a shroud;
And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave.
As some bold plunderers for bury'd wealth,
We ransack tombs for pastime; from the dust
Call up the sleeping hero; bid him tread
The scene for our amusement. How like gods
We sit, and wrapt in immortality,

Shed gen'rous tears on wretches born to die,
Their fate deploring, to forget our own!
What all the pomps and triumphs of our lives
But legacies in blossom? Our lean soil,
Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities,
From friends interr'd beneath a rich manure!

70

75

85

85

Like other worms we banquet on the dead;

Like other worms, shall we crawl on, nor know.
Our present frailties or approaching fate?
Lorenzo! such, the glories of the world!

What is the world itself? Thy world---a grave.
Where is the' dust that has not been alive?
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors.
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes,
And is the cieling of her sleeping sons.

O'er devastation we blind revels keep: