To Reason, that heav'n-lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake; and at the destin'd hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,
I keep my assignation with my woe.

O! Lost to virtue, lost to manly thought,
Lost to the noble sallies of the soul!
Who think it solitude, to be Alone.

Communion sweet! communion large and high!
Our Reason, Guardian Angel, and our God!
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! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd!
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! dang'rous the desire.

E

Take PHOEBUS to yourselves, ye basking bards! Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head;

And reeling thro' 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.
I to Day's soft-ey'd sister pay my court,
(ENDYMION's rival!) and her aid implore;
Now first implor'd in succour to the Muse.

*

Thou, who didst lately borrow CYNTHIA's form,

And modestly forego thine Own! O Thou,
Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire!
Say, why not CYNTHIA patroness of song?
As Thou her crescent, she thy character
Assumes; still more a goddess by the change.

Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute
This revolution in the world inspir'd?
Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar sphere,
In silent hour, address your ardent call
For aid immortal; less her brother's right.
She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads
The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain,
A strain for gods, deny'd to mortal ear.
Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of heav'n!
What title, or what name, endears thee most?
CYNTHIA! CYLLENE! PHOEBE !-or dost hear

* At the duke of NORFOLK's masquerade.

With higher gust, fair PD of the skies!
Is that the soft inchantment calls thee down,
More pow'rful than of old Circean charm?
Come; but from heav'nly banquets with thee bring
The soul of song, and whisper in my ear

The theft divine; or in propitious dreams

(For dreams are Thine) transfuse it thro' the breast Of thy first votary- -But not thy last;

If, like thy Namesake, thou art ever kind.

And kind thou wilt be; kind on such a theme;
A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme,
Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair!

A theme that rose all pale, and told my soul,
'Twas Night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;
A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp,
Than that which smote me from PHILANDER's tomb.
NARCISSA follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.

Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes;

They love a train, they tread each other's heel;
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims
The grief that started from my lids for Him:
Seizes the faithless, alienated tear,

Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent death,
Sorrow he more than causes, he confounds;
For human sighs his rival strokes contend,
And make distress, distraction. Oh PHILANDER!
What was thy fate? A double fate to me;
Portent, and pain! a menace, and a blow!
Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace,
Not less a bird of omen, than of prey.