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NIGHT THE NINTH AND LAST.

THE CONSOLATIO N.

CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,

I. A MORAL Survey of the NOCTURNAL Heavens. II. A NIGHT-ADDRESS to the DEITY.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY's PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE.

"Fatis contraria fata rependens."

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when a traveller, a long day paft

VIRG.

In painful fearch of what he cannot find,

At night's approach, content with the next cot,
There ruminates, a while, his labour loft;
Then chears his heart with what his fate affords,
And chaunts his fonnet to deceive the time,
Till the due feafon calls him to repose:
Thus I, long-travel'd in the ways of men,
And dancing, with the reft, the giddy maze,
Where disappointment smiles at hope's career;
Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray,
At length have hous'd me in an humble fhed;
Where, future wandering banish'd from my thought,
And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest,
B

VOL. III.

S

I chace

I chace the moments with a serious fong.

Song fooths our pains; and age has pains to footh.

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When age, care, crime, and friends embrac'd at heart,
Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade,
Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire;
Canft thou, O Night! indulge one labour more ? 20
One labour more indulge! then fleep, my strain!
Till, haply, wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre,
Where night, death, age, care, crime, and forrow, cease;
To bear a part in everlasting lays;
Though far, far higher fet, in aim, I trust,
Symphonious to this humble prelude here.

Has not the Mufe afferted pleasures pure,
Like thofe above; exploding other joys?
Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh;
And tell me, haft thou caufe to triumph still?

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I think, thou wilt forbear a boaft fo bold.
But if, beneath the favour of mistake,

Thy fmile 's fincere; not more fincere can be
Lorenzo's smile, than my compaffion for him.

The fick in body call for aid; the fick

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In mind are covetous of more disease ;

And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well.
To know ourselves difeas'd, is half our cure.
When nature's blush by cuftom is wip'd off,

And confcience, deaden'd by repeated strokes,

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Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes;

The curfe of curfes is, our curse to love;

To triumph in the blackness of our guilt

(As Indians glory in the deepest jet),

And

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