44
The Complaint.
Night 3.
There let my Thought expatiate; and explore
Balsamic Truths, and healing Sentiments,
Of all most wanted, and most welcome, Here.
For gay Lorenzo's sake, and for thy own,
My Soul! "The Fruits of Dying Friends survey;
"Expose the Vain of Life; weigh Life and Death:
"Give Death his Eulogy; Thy Fear subdue;
"And labour that First Palm of noble Minds,
"A manly Scorn of Terror from the Tomb."
This Harvest reap from thy Narcissa's Grave.
As Poets feign'd from Ajax' streaming Blood
Arose, with Grief inscrib'd, a mournful Flow'r;
Let Wisdom blossom from my mortal Wound,
And first, of Dying Friends; what Fruit from These?
It brings us more than Triple Aid; an Aid
To chase our Thoughtlessness, Fear, Pride, and Guilt.
Our dying Friends come o'er us like a Cloud,
To damp our brainless Ardors; and abate
That Glare of Life, which often blinds the Wise.
Our dying Friends are Pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged Pass to Death; to break those Bars
Of Terror, and Abhorrence, Nature throws
Cross our obstructed Way; and, thus, to make
Welcome, as safe, our Port from ev'ry Storm.
Each Friend by Fate, snatch'd from us, is a Plume
Pluckt from the Wing of human Vanity,
Which makes us stoop from our aëreal Heights,
And, dampt with Omen of our own Decease,
On drooping Pinions of Ambition lower'd,
Just skim Earth's Surface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid Earth to scratch a little Dust,
And save the World a Nuisance. Smitten Friends
Are Angels sent on Errands full of Love;
For us they languish, and for us they die:
And shall they languish, shall they die, in vain:
Balsamic Truths, and healing Sentiments,
Of all most wanted, and most welcome, Here.
For gay Lorenzo's sake, and for thy own,
My Soul! "The Fruits of Dying Friends survey;
"Expose the Vain of Life; weigh Life and Death:
"Give Death his Eulogy; Thy Fear subdue;
"And labour that First Palm of noble Minds,
"A manly Scorn of Terror from the Tomb."
This Harvest reap from thy Narcissa's Grave.
As Poets feign'd from Ajax' streaming Blood
Arose, with Grief inscrib'd, a mournful Flow'r;
Let Wisdom blossom from my mortal Wound,
And first, of Dying Friends; what Fruit from These?
It brings us more than Triple Aid; an Aid
To chase our Thoughtlessness, Fear, Pride, and Guilt.
Our dying Friends come o'er us like a Cloud,
To damp our brainless Ardors; and abate
That Glare of Life, which often blinds the Wise.
Our dying Friends are Pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged Pass to Death; to break those Bars
Of Terror, and Abhorrence, Nature throws
Cross our obstructed Way; and, thus, to make
Welcome, as safe, our Port from ev'ry Storm.
Each Friend by Fate, snatch'd from us, is a Plume
Pluckt from the Wing of human Vanity,
Which makes us stoop from our aëreal Heights,
And, dampt with Omen of our own Decease,
On drooping Pinions of Ambition lower'd,
Just skim Earth's Surface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid Earth to scratch a little Dust,
And save the World a Nuisance. Smitten Friends
Are Angels sent on Errands full of Love;
For us they languish, and for us they die:
And shall they languish, shall they die, in vain:
Ungrateful,
