40

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, awed, the temple of my theme :
Is it his death-bed ? no—it is his shrine :
Behold him, there, just rising to a god.

The chamber, where the good man meets his fate,
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,
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

London Pub. Jan. 4, 1787. by R. Edwards. 42 New Bond Street.

40

Aerial groves' impenetrable gloom ;

Or in some mighty ruin's solemn shade ;

In vaults ; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings !

Fly, ye profane ! if not, draw near with awe,

That threw in this Bethesda your disease ;

A death-bed's a detector of the heart ;

You see the man ; you see his hold on heaven ;

If sound his virtue, as PHILANDER's sound.

41

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 ;

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 joys !

* 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 ?

* Thought reach ? the last, 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,

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.

B1978.43.1359 ba-obj. 2282 -0001

Yale Center for British Art, 2010