Young's Night Thoughts Part 5

Celestial happiness, whene'er she stoops To visit earth, one shrine the G.o.ddess finds, And one alone, to make her sweet amends For absent heaven--the bosom of a friend; Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, 520 Each other's pillow to repose divine.

Beware the counterfeit: in pa.s.sion's flame Hearts melt, but melt like ice, soon harder froze.

True love strikes root in reason; pa.s.sion'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. 529 O the soft enmity! endearing strife!

This carries friendship to her noontide point, And gives the rivet of eternity.

From friendship, which outlives my former themes, Glorious survivor of old time and death; From friendship, thus, that flower of heavenly seed, The wise extract earth's most Hyblean bliss, Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy.

But for whom blossoms this Elysian flower?

Abroad they find, who cherish it at home.

Lorenzo! pardon what my love extorts, 540 An honest love, and not afraid to frown.

Though choice of follies fasten on the great, None clings more obstinate, than fancy, fond That sacred friendship is their easy prey; Caught by the wafture of a golden lure, Or fascination of a high-born smile.

Their smiles, the great, and the coquette, throw out For others' hearts, tenacious of their own; And we no less of ours, when such the bait.

Ye fortune's cofferers! ye powers of wealth! 550 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 repress; nor hope to find A friend, but what has found a friend in thee.

All like the purchase; few the price will pay; And this makes friends such miracles below.

What if (since daring on so nice a theme) I show thee friendship delicate, as dear, Of tender violations apt to die? 560 Reserve will wound it; and distrust, destroy.

Deliberate on all things with thy friend.

But since friends grow not thick on every bough, 563 Nor every friend unrotten at the core; First, on thy friend, deliberate with thyself; Pause, ponder, sift; not eager in the choice, Nor jealous of the chosen; fixing, fix; Judge before friendship, then confide till death.

Well, for thy friend; but n.o.bler far for thee; How gallant danger for earth's highest prize! 570 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 sung he (angels hear that angel sing!

Angels from friendship gather half their joy), So sung Philander, as his friend went round In the rich ichor, in the generous blood Of Bacchus, purple G.o.d of joyous wit, A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye.

He drank long health, and virtue, to his friend; 580 His friend, who warm'd him more, who more inspired.

Friendship's the wine of life; but friendship new (Not such was his) is neither strong, nor pure.

O for the bright complexion, cordial warmth, And elevating spirit, of a friend, For twenty summers ripening by my side; All feculence of falsehood long thrown down; All social virtues rising in his soul; As crystal clear; and smiling, as they rise!

Here nectar flows; it sparkles in our sight; 590 Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart.

High-flavour'd bliss for G.o.ds! on earth how rare!

On earth how lost!--Philander is no more.

Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my song?

Am I too warm?--Too warm I cannot be.

I loved him much; but now I love him more.

Like birds, whose beauties languish, half-conceal'd, 597 Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold; How blessings brighten as they take their flight!

His flight Philander took; his upward flight, If ever soul ascended. Had he dropp'd (That eagle genius!), oh! had he let fall One feather as he flew; I, then, had wrote, 604 What friends might flatter; prudent foes forbear; Rivals scarce d.a.m.n; and Zoilus reprieve.

Yet what I can, I must: it were profane To quench a glory lighted at the skies, And cast in shadows his ill.u.s.trious close.

Strange! the theme most affecting, most sublime, 610 Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung!

And yet it sleeps, by genius unawaked, Paynim or Christian; to the blush of wit.

Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!

The death-bed of the just! is yet undrawn By mortal hand; it merits a divine: Angels should paint it, angels ever there; There, on a post of honour, and of joy.

Dare I presume, then? But Philander bids; And glory tempts, and inclination calls-- 620 Yet am I struck; as struck the soul, beneath Aerial groves' impenetrable gloom; Or, in some mighty ruin's solemn shade; 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.

Is it religion to proceed? I pause-- And enter, awed, the temple of my theme.

Is it his death-bed? No: it is his shrine: Behold him, there, just rising to a G.o.d. 630 The chamber where the good man meets his fate, 631 Is privileged beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe, Receive the blessing, and adore the chance, That threw in this Bethesda your disease; If unrestored by this, despair your cure.

For here, resistless demonstration dwells; A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

Here tired Dissimulation drops her mask, 640 Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene!

Here real and apparent are the same.

You see the man; you see his hold on heaven; If sound his virtue; as Philander's, sound.

Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends On this side death; and points them out to men, A lecture, silent, but of sovereign power!

To vice, confusion; and to virtue, peace.

Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, Virtue alone has majesty in death; 650 And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.

Philander! he severely frown'd on thee.

"No warning given! Unceremonious fate!

A sudden rush from life's meridian joy!

A wrench from all we love! from all we are!

A restless bed of pain! a plunge opaque Beyond conjecture! feeble Nature's dread!

Strong reason's shudder at the dark unknown!

A sun extinguish'd! a just opening grave!

And, oh! the last, last, what? (can words express? 660 Thought reach it?)--the last--silence of a friend!"

Where are those horrors, that amazement, where, This hideous group of ills, which singly shock, Demand from man?--I thought him man till now.

Through nature's wreck, through vanquish'd agonies (Like the stars struggling through 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; 670 Richer than Mammon's for his single heir.

His comforters he comforts; great in ruin, With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields, His soul sublime; and closes with his fate.

How our hearts burn'd within us at the scene!

Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man?

His G.o.d sustains him in his final hour!

His final hour brings glory to his G.o.d!

Man's glory Heaven vouchsafes to call her own.

We gaze, we weep; mix'd tears of grief and joy! 680 Amazement strikes! devotion bursts to flame!

Christians adore! and infidels believe!

As some tall tower,[9] or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the sun, ill.u.s.trious, from its height; While rising vapours, and descending shades, With damps, and darkness, drown the s.p.a.cious vale; Undamp'd by doubt, undarken'd by despair, Philander, thus, augustly rears his head, At that black hour, which general horror sheds On the low level of th' inglorious throng: 690 Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy, Divinely beam on his exalted soul; Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, With incommunicable l.u.s.tre, bright.

NARCISSA.

TO HER GRACE THE d.u.c.h.eSS OF P----.[10]

Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes.--Virg.

NIGHT THIRD.

NARCISSA.

From dreams, where thought in fancy's maze runs mad, To reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man, Once more I wake; and at the destined hour, Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn, I keep my a.s.signation with my woe.

Oh! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the n.o.ble sallies of the soul!

Who think it solitude to be alone.

Communion sweet! communion large and high!

Our reason, guardian angel, and our G.o.d! 10 Then nearest these, when others most remote; And all, ere long, shall be remote, but these.

How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone, A stranger! unacknowledged, unapproved!

Now woo them, wed them, bind them to thy breast; To win thy wish, creation has no more.

Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend-- But friends, how mortal! dangerous the desire.

Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking bards! 19 Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head; And reeling through the wilderness of joy; Where sense runs savage, broke from reason's chain, And sings false peace, till smother'd by the pall.

My fortune is unlike; unlike my song; Unlike the deity my song invokes.