To triumph over spleen's insidious power. O that, while glowing with celestial hope, Gently we haste down life's autumnal slope, Each well convinc'd, and with a mind serene, From long experience of our chequer'd scene, Convinc'd no blessings of this earth transcend The countless value of a Christian friend; O that just sympathy, and warm esteem, Kindling to vivid inspiration's beam. Would to my lyre, tho' in an aged hand, Supply, at gratitude's devout command, Praise, such as purest minds delight to hear, When truth and nature prove that praise sincere! But vain such wishes, for in virtue's cause Thou hast receiv'd angelical applause: No thirst for weaker praise that mind can feel, Which Porteus cheer'd with evangelic zeal: Porteus, complete in every graceful part! A bard in spirit! with a hermit's heart! In heaven's pure service never cold, or faint, Till new existence glorified the saint! How sweet with those, whom still on earth we prize, To bless a recent inmate of the skies! On buried friends to let fond memory dwell, And grateful truth their bright endowments tell! Careless, if envy, with a spleenful sneer, Reviles that eulogy she bates to bear, Saying with freedom's ill-assum'd pretence, 'Tis noxious flattery, o'erwhelming sense. Peace! scornful pride! nor with malignant aim Belie the voice of consecrated fame, Thy subtlest arts, the pious to debate. End, with strict justice, in thy own disgrace. How weak were friendship could she shake with dread Of thy detraction 'gainst her worthies dead! No! such detraction makes her zeal more just To every claim of their yet speaking dust. Save me, good heaven! and all whom I regard, (Or hasty muse, or irritable bard,) Save us, good heaven! in mild and temperate age, From wounded vanity's vindictive rage! To genuine friendship pure delight is given, Next to the favor of approving heaven; And that delight is most sublimely felt. When nature in vain tears, has ceased to melt: When sorrow, quell'd by purer love's controul, To sweet reflection yields the chasten'd soul, Contemplating, thro' clouds to sunshine turn'd, The sure beatitude of those--she mourn'd: This sunshine yet to us the heavens assign In Porteus, still thy friend! in Cowper, mine! When tender fancy, on affection's plume, Emerging from the shadows of the tomb Aspires to trace, in visionary flight, The just made perfect, thro' the realms of light! How glows the soul, with more than earthly joy, In fondly imaging their blest employ! How oft, dear Cowper! at the close of day, When contemplation sheds her mental ray, I seem, through optics of the mind to see Thy sainted spirit, from incumbrance free! Marking how quick, in various hearts, arise Those seeds of virtue, that thy verse supplies! What joy, not speakable by mortal tongue, What praises, to the harp of seraph sung, May glad thee, now repaid for all thy woes, While boundless vision to thy spirit shows How e'en thy earthly song, by heaven inspired.