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;
Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart.
High flavour'd bliss for gods! 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 lov'd him much, but now I love him more.
Like birds, whose beauties languish, half-conceal'd,
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!) O had he let fall
One feather as he flew, I then had wrote
What friends might flatter, prudent foes forbear,
Rivals scarce damn, 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 illustrious close.
Strange! the theme most affecting, most sublime,
Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung!
And yet it sleeps, by genius unawak'd,
Painim or Christian; to the blush of wit
Man's highest triumph! man's profoundest fall!
The deathbed 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-
Yet am I struck, as struck the soul beneath
Aërial 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.
It is religion to proceed: I pause—
And enter, aw'd, the temple of my theme.
Is it his deathbed? No; it is his shrine;
Behold him there just rising to a god.
The chamber where the good man meets his fate
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk
Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n.
Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe,
Receive the blessing, and adore the chance
That threw in this Bethesda your disease:
If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure.
For here resistless Demonstration dwells;
A deathbed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd Dissimulation drops her mask
Thro' life's grimace that mistress of the scene!
Here real and apparant 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 sov'reign power!
To Vice confusion, and to Virtue peace.
Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majesty in death,
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?
CC 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.
Thro' Nature's wreck, thro' vanquish'd agonies,
(Like the stars struggling thro' 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;
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 burnt within us at the scene! Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man? His God sustains him in his final hour!
His final hour brings glory to his God!
Man's glory heav'n vouchsafes to call her own, We gaze, we weep; mix'd tears of grief and joy! Amazement strikes! devotion bursts to flame! Christians adore! and infidels believe.
As some tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the sun, illustrious, from its height, While rising vapours, and descending shades,
With damps and darkness drown the spacious vale,
Undampt by doubt, undarken'd by despair,
Philander thus augustly rears his head,
At that black hour, which gen'ral horror sheds
On the low level of th' inglorious throng :
Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted soul;
Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable lustre bright.
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