And elevating spirit, of a friend,

For twenty fummers ripening by my fide;
All feculence of falfhood long thrown down;
All focial virtues rifing in his foul;

As crystal clear; and fmiling, as they rife!
Here nectar flows; it sparkles in our fight;
Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart.
High-flavour'd blifs for Gods! on earth how rare!
On earth how loft !---Philander is no more.

Think'ft thou the theme intoxicates my fong?
Am I too warm?---Too warm I cannot be.
I lov'd him much; but now I love him more.
Like birds, whose beauties languish, half-conceal'd,
Till, mounted on the wing, their gloffy plumes
Expanded, fhine with azure, green, and gold;
How bleffings brighten as they take their flight!
His flight Philander took, his upward flight,
If ever foul afcended. Had he dropt,
(That eagle genius!) O had he let fall
One feather as he flew, I, then, had wrote,

What friends might flatter; prudent foes forbear;
Rivals fcarce damn; and Zoilus reprieve.
Yet what I can, I muft: it were profane
To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
And caft in fhadows his illuftrious clofe.
Strange! the theme most affecting, moft fublime,
Momentous most to man, should fleep unfung!
And yet it fleeps, by genius unawak’'d,
Painim or Chriftian; to the blush of Wit.
Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!

The death-bed of the juft! Is yet undrawn
By mortal hand; it merits a divine :
Angels fhould paint it, angels ever there;
There, on a poft of honour, and of joy.

Dare I prefume, then? But Philander bids;
And Glory tempts, and Inclination calls-
Yet am I ftruck; as ftruck the foul, beneath
Aërial groves impenetrable gloom;

Or, in fome mighty ruin's folemn fhade;
Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust,
In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings;
Or, at the midnight altar's hallow'd flame.
It is religion to proceed: I pause

And 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 Heav'n.
Fly, ye profane! If not, draw near with awe,
Receive the bleffing, and adore the chance,
That threw in this Bethesda your disease ;
If unreftor'd by this, despair your cure.
For, here, refiftlefs Demonftration dwells;
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd Diffimulation drops her mafque,
Thro' Life's grimace, that miftrefs of the scene!
Here real, and apparent, are the fame.
You fee the man; you fee his hold on Heav'n ;
If found his virtue; as Philander's found,

Heav'n waits not the laft moment; owns her friends
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 boaftful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majesty in Death;

And greater ftill, the more the tyrant frowns.
Philander; he severely frown'd on thee.
"No warning giv'n! Unceremonious fate!
"A fudden rush from Life's meridian joys!
"A wrench from all we love! from all we are!
"A restless bed of Pain! a plunge opaque

66

Beyond conjecture! Feeble Nature's dread! "Strong Reason's fhudder at the dark unknown!! "A Sun extinguifht! A juft opening grave! "And Oh! the laft, laft; what? (can words exprefs? "Thought reach it?) the last---Silence of a Friend!" Where are thofe horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which fingly shock, Demand from man ?---I thought him man till now. Thro' Nature's wreck, thro' vanquisht agonies, (Like the stars ftruggling thro' this midnight gloom) What gleams of joy? what more than human peace ? Where, the frail mortal? the poor abject worm ? No, not in Death the mortal to be found.

His conduct is a legacy for all.
Richer than Mammon's for his fingle heir.
His comforters he comforts; great in ruin,
With unreluctant grandeur gives, not yields
His foul fublime; and clofes with his fate.

How

How our hearts burnt within us at the fcene! Whence this brave bound o'er limits fixt to man! His God fuftains him in his final hour!

His final hour brings glory to his God!

Man's glory Heav'n vouchsafes to call her own. We gaze; we weep; mixt tears of grief and joy! Amazement strikes! Devotion burfts to flame! Chriftians adore, and Infidels believe.

As fome tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow,
Detains the Sun, illuftrious from its height;
While rifing vapours, and defcending shades,
With damps and darkness drown the spacious vale;
Undampt by Doubt, undarken'd by Despair,
Philander, thus, auguftly rears his head,

At that black hour, which gen'ral horror fheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:

Sweet Peace, and heav'nly Hope, and humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul ;

Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable luftre bright.

SATIRE

SATIRE I.

Young's Satires were in higher reputation when published, than they ftand in at prefent. He seems fonder of dazzling than pleafing; of raifing our admiration for his wit, than our dislike of the follies he ridicules.

Y verfe is Satire; Dorfet, lend your ear,

Μ%

And patronize à muse you cannot fear;

To poets facred is a Dorfet's name,

Their wonted passport thro' the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays;
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,
And gives applaufe to B-e, or to me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue!
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.
Inftructive Satire, true to Virtue's cause!
Thou shining fupplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our filence and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the law fhews her teeth, but dares not bite,
And South-fea treasures are not brought to light;,
When Churchmen Scripture for the Claffics quit,
Polite apoftates from God's Grace to Wit;