True love ftrikes root in Reafon; Paffion's foe:
Virtue alone entenders us for life:

I wrong her much---entenders us for ever:
Of Friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fair
Is Virtue, kindling at a rival fire,

And emulously rapid in her race.

O the foft enmity! endearing ftrife!

This carries Friendship to her noon-tide point,
And gives the rivet of Eternity.

From Friendship, which outlives my former themes,
Glorious furvivor of old Time, and Death!
From Friendship, thus, that flow'r of heav'nly feed,
The wife extract Earth's most hyblean bliss,
Superior Wisdom, crown'd with smiling Joy.

But for whom blossoms this Elysian flow'r ?
Abroad they find, who cherish it at home.
Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts,
An honeft love, and not afraid to frown.
Tho' choice of follies fasten on the great,
None clings more obftinate, than Fancy fond
That facred Friendship is their easy prey;
Caught by the wafture of a golden lure,
Or fafcination of a high-born fmile.

Their fmiles, the great, and the coquet, throw out
For others hearts, tenacious of their own;

And we no lefs of ours, when fuch the bait.
Ye Fortune's cofferers! Ye pow'rs of Wealth!
Can gold gain Friendship? Impudence of Hope!
As well mere man an angel might beget.
Love, and Love only, is the loan for Love.

Lorenzo! Pride reprefs; nor hope to find

A Friend, but what has found a Friend in thee
All like the purchafe; few the price will pay :
And this makes Friends fuch miracles below.

What if (fince daring on fo nice a theme)
I fhew thee Friend hip delicate, as dear,
Of tender violations apt to die?

Referve will wound it; and Diftrust, destroy.
Deliberate on all things with thy Friend.

;

But, fince Friends grow not thick on ev'ry bough,
Nor ev'ry Friend unrotten at the core ;
First, on thy Friend delib'rate with thyself;
Paufe, ponder, fift; not eager in the choice,
Nor jealous of the chosen: fixing, fix;

Judge before Friendship; then confide till Death.
Well, for thy friend; but nobler far for thee;
How gallant danger for Earth's highest prize!
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
"Poor is the friendless master of a world:
"A world in purchase for a Friend is gain."
So fung he (angels hear that angel fing!
Angels from Friendship gather half their joy)
So fung Philander, as his Friend went round
In the rich Ichor, in the generous blood
Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous Wit,
A brow folute, and ever-laughing eye.
He drank long health, and virtue to his Friend,
His Friend, who warm'd him more, who more infpir'd.
Friendship's the wine of life; but Friendship new
(Not fuch was his) is neither strong nor pure.
O! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth,

And elevating fpirit, 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'st 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, whofe beauties languish, half-conceal'd,
Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes
Expanded, shine 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 close.
Strange the theme most affecting, moft fublime,
Momentous most to man, fhould fleep unfung!
And yet it fleeps, by genius unawak'd,
Painim or Christian; 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 soul, beneath
Aerial groves impenetrable gloom;

Or, in some mighty ruin's folemn fhade;
Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born duft,
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 fhrine:
Behold him, there, juft rifing 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 unreflor'd by this, defpair your cure.
For, here, refiflefs Demonftration dwells;
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd Diffimulation drops her mafque,
Thro' Life's grimace, that mistress of the fcene!
Here real, and apparent, are the fame.
You fee the man; you see his hold on Heav'n;
If found his virtue; as Philander's found,

Heav'n waits not the last 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 boastful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majesty in Death;

And greater ftill, the more the tyrant frowns.
Philander; he feverely 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 restlefs bed of Pain! a plunge opaque

"Beyond conjecture! Feeble Nature's dread!

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Strong Reason's fhudder at the dark unknown! } "A Sun extinguisht! A just opening grave!

"And Oh! the laft, laft; what? (can words express?

66

Thought reach it?) the laft---Silence of a Friend!" Where are those 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 ftars 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