Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give
To social man true relish of himself.
Full on ourselves descending in a line,
Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight:
Delight intense is taken by rebound;
Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.
Celestial Happiness! whene'er she stoops To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, And one alone, to make her sweet amends For absent Heav'n-the bosom of a friend; Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, Each other's pillow to repose divine.
Beware the counterfeit; in passion's flame
Hearts melt, but melt like ice, soon harder froze
True love strikes root in reason, passion's foe:
Virtue alone intenders us for life:
I wrong her much-intenders us for ever.
Of friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fair
Is virtue kindling at a rival fire,
And emulously rapid in her race.
O the soft enmity! endearing strife!
This carries Friendship to her noon-tide point,
And gives the rivet of eternity.
From friendship, which outlives my forme
themes,
Glorious survivor of old Time and Death! From friendship, thus, that flow'r of heavenly seed The wise extract earth's most hyblean bliss, Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy.
But for whom blossoms this Elysian flower? Abroad they find who cherish it at home.
An honest love, and not afraid to frown.
Though choice of follies fasten on the great,
None clings more obstinate than fancy fond,
That sacred friendship is their easy prey,
Caught by the wafture of a golden lure,
Or fascination of a high-born smile.
Their smiles the great, and the coquet, throw out
For others' hearts, tenacious of their own;
And we no less of ours, when such the bait.
Ye Fortune's cofferers! ye powers of Wealth!
You do your rent-rolls most felonious wrong,
By taking our attachment to yourselves.
Can gold gain friendship? impudence of hope!
As well mere man an angel might beget.
Love, and love only, is the loan for love.
Lorenzo! pride repress, nor hope to find
A friend, but what has found a friend in thee.
All like the purchase, few the price will pay,
And this makes friends such miracles below.
What if (since daring on so nice a theme)
I show thee friendship delicate as dear,
Of tender violations apt to die?
Reserve will wound it, and distrust destroy.
Deliberate on all things with thy friend:
But since friends grow not thick on every bough,
Nor
every friend unrotten at the core,
First on thy friend deliberate with thyself;
Pause, ponder, sift; not eager in the choice,
Nor jealous of the chosen: fixing, fix;
Judge before friendship, then confide till death.
Well for thy friend, but nobler far for thee.
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
Poor is the friendless master of a world: A world in purchase for a friend is gain.' So sung he (angels hear that angel sing! Angels from friendship gather half their joy) So sung Philander, as his friend went round In the rich ichor, in the generous blood Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit, A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye. He drank long health and virtue to his friend, His friend! who warm'd him more, who more
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!
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 death-bed 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
And enter, aw'd, 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 privileg'd beyond the common walk
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 death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here tir'd 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 Heav'n,
If sound his virtue, as Philander's sound.
Heav'n waits not the last moment; owns her friends
On this side death, and points them out to men;
A lecture silent, but of sovereign pow'r!
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 giv'n! 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 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.
Through Nature's wreck, through vanquish'd
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