BODLE

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NIGHT THE NINTH AND LAST.

THE CONSOLATION.

CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,

I. A MORAL Survey of the NOCTURNAL Heavens. II. 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 fata rependens."

AS when a traveller, a long day palt

VIRG.

In painful fearch of what he cannot find,

At night's approach, content with the next cot,
Their ruminates, a while, his labour lost ;/

Then chears his heart with what his fate affords,
And chaunts his fonnet to deceive the time,
Till the due feafon calls him to repofe :
Thus I, long-travell'd in the ways of men,
And dancing, with the reft, the giddy maze,
Where disappointment fmiles at hope's career;
Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray,
At length have hous'd me in an humble shed;
Where, future wandering banish'd from my thought,
And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest,

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I chace

I chace the moments with a serious fong.

Song fooths our pains; and age has pains to footh.

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When age, care, crime, and friends embrac'd at heart, Torn from my bleeding breaft, and death's dark shade, Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire; Canft thou, O Night! indulge one labour more? One labour more indulge! then fleep, my strain ! Till, haply, wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre, Where night, death, age, care, crime, and forrow, cease; To bear a part in everlafting lays;

Though far, far higher fet, in aim, I trust,

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Symphonious to this humble prelude here.

Has not the Mufe afferted pleasures pure,

Like thofe above; exploding other joys?

Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh;
And tell me, haft thou cause to triumph ftill?

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I think, thou wilt forbear a boast fo bold.
But if, beneath the favour of mistake,

Thy finile's fincere; not more fincere can be
Lorenzo's fmile, than my compassion for him.
The fick in body call for aid; the fick

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In mind are covetous of more disease;

And when at worst, they dream themfelves quite well. To know ourselves difeas'd, is half our cure.

When nature's blush by cuftom is wip'd off,

And confcience, deaden'd by repeated ftrokes,

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Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes;

The curfe of curfes is, our curfe to love;

To triumph in the blackness of our guilt (As Indians glory in the deepeft jet),

And

And throw afide our fenfes with our peace.

But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy;
Grant joy and glory quite unfully'd shone;
Yet, ftill, it ill deferves Lorenzo's heart.
No joy, no glory, glitters in thy fight,
But, through the thin partition of an hour,
I see its fables wove by destiny;

And that in forrow bury'd; this, in fhame;
While howling furies ring the doleful knell ;
And confcience, now fo foft thou scarce canft hear
Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.

Where, the prime actors of the last year's fcene;
Their port fo proud, their buskin, and their plume?
How many fleep, who kept the world awake
With luftre, and with noife! has death proclaim'd
A truce, and hung his fated lance on high?
"Tis brandifh'd ftill; nor fhall 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 gayeft fcenes fpeak man's mortality;
Though in a ftyle more florid, full as plain,
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs
What are our nobleft ornaments, but deaths
Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint or marble,
The well-ftain'd canvas, or the featur'd ftone?
Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene.
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.

Profeft diverfions.!-cannot these escape ?"Far from it: these prefent us with a shroud;

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And

And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave.
As fome bold plunderers, for bury'd wealth,
We ranfack tombs for paftime; from the duft
Call up the fleeping hero; bid him tread
The scene for our amufement: how like gods
We fit; and, wrapt in immortality,
Shed generous 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 bloffom? Our lean foil,
Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities,
From friends interr'd beneath; a rich manure!
Like other worms, we banquet on the dead;
Like other worms, fhall we crawl on, nor know
Our prefent frailties, or approaching fate?

--

a grave.

Lorenzo! fuch the glories of the world!
What is the world itself? Thy world
Where is the duft that has not been alive?
The fpade, the plough, disturb our ancestors;
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
The globe around earth's hollow furface shakes,
And is the cieling of her fleeping fons.
O'er devastation we blind revels keep;
Whole bury'd towns fupport the dancer's heel.
The moist of human frame the fun exhales;
Winds fcatter through the mighty void the dry;
Earth repoffeffes part of what she gave,
And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire;
Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils;
As nature, wide, our ruins fpread: man's death

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Inhabits