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
Aerial 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. 4 Jan. 1927 by R.E.Hawkebrooke, 123 Nov. Bond Street.

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
Aērial 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, Pall Mall, E. 4, 1957 by R. Edwards, 121 New Bond Street.

(These charts are for monitor calibration only)

Yale Center for British Art, 2010