NARCISSA.
43
Heav'n's Sov'reign saves all Beings but Himself,
That hideous Sight, a naked human Heart.
Fir'd is the Muse? And let the Muse be fir'd:
Who not inflam'd, when what He speaks, He feels,
And in the Nerve most tender, in his Friends?
Shame to Mankind! Philander had his Foes:
He felt the Truths I sing, and I in Him.
But He, nor I, feel more: Past Ills, Narcissa!
Are sunk in Thee, Thou recent Wound of Heart!
Which bleeds with other Cares, with other Pangs;
Pangs num'rous, as the num'rous Ills that swarm'd
O'er thy distinguisht Fate, and, clust'ring There
Thick as the Locust on the Land of Nile,
Made Death more deadly, and more dark the Grave.
Reflect (if not forgot my touching Tale)
How was each Circumstance with Aspics arm'd?
An Aspic, Each; and All, an Hydra-Woe.
What strong Herculean Virtue could suffice?———
Or is it Virtue to be conquer'd Here?
This hoary Cheek a Train of Tears bedews;
And each Tear mourns its own distinct Distress;
And each Distress, distinctly mourn'd, demands
Of Grief still more, as heighten'd by the Whole.
A Grief like this Proprietors excludes:
Not Friends alone such Obsequies deplore;
They make Mankind the Mourner; carry Sighs
Far as the fatal Fame can wing her Way;
And turn the gayest Thought of gayest Age,
Down their right Chanel, thro' the Vale of Death.
The Vale of Death! that husht Cimmerian Vale,
Where Darkness, brooding o'er unfinisht Fates,
With Raven Wing incumbent, waits the Day
(Dread Day!) that interdicts all future Change!
That Subterranean World, that Land of Ruin!
Fit Walk, Lorenzo, for proud human Thought!
That hideous Sight, a naked human Heart.
Fir'd is the Muse? And let the Muse be fir'd:
Who not inflam'd, when what He speaks, He feels,
And in the Nerve most tender, in his Friends?
Shame to Mankind! Philander had his Foes:
He felt the Truths I sing, and I in Him.
But He, nor I, feel more: Past Ills, Narcissa!
Are sunk in Thee, Thou recent Wound of Heart!
Which bleeds with other Cares, with other Pangs;
Pangs num'rous, as the num'rous Ills that swarm'd
O'er thy distinguisht Fate, and, clust'ring There
Thick as the Locust on the Land of Nile,
Made Death more deadly, and more dark the Grave.
Reflect (if not forgot my touching Tale)
How was each Circumstance with Aspics arm'd?
An Aspic, Each; and All, an Hydra-Woe.
What strong Herculean Virtue could suffice?———
Or is it Virtue to be conquer'd Here?
This hoary Cheek a Train of Tears bedews;
And each Tear mourns its own distinct Distress;
And each Distress, distinctly mourn'd, demands
Of Grief still more, as heighten'd by the Whole.
A Grief like this Proprietors excludes:
Not Friends alone such Obsequies deplore;
They make Mankind the Mourner; carry Sighs
Far as the fatal Fame can wing her Way;
And turn the gayest Thought of gayest Age,
Down their right Chanel, thro' the Vale of Death.
The Vale of Death! that husht Cimmerian Vale,
Where Darkness, brooding o'er unfinisht Fates,
With Raven Wing incumbent, waits the Day
(Dread Day!) that interdicts all future Change!
That Subterranean World, that Land of Ruin!
Fit Walk, Lorenzo, for proud human Thought!
Ther
