The dread volcano ministers to good. Its smother'd flames might undermine the world. 490 Loud Etnas fulminate in love to man; Comets good omens are, when duly scann'd; 492 And, in their use, eclipses learn to shine. Man is responsible for ills received; Those we call wretched are a chosen band, Compell'd to refuge in the right, for peace. Amid my list of blessings infinite, Stands this the foremost, "That my heart has bled." 'Tis Heaven's last effort of good-will to man; When Pain can't bless, Heaven quits us in despair. 500 Who fails to grieve, when just occasion calls, Or grieves too much, deserves not to be blest; Inhuman, or effeminate, his heart; Reason absolves the grief, which reason ends. May Heaven ne'er trust my friend with happiness, Till it has taught him how to bear it well, By previous pain; and made it safe to smile! Such smiles are mine, and such may they remain; Nor hazard their extinction, from excess. My change of heart a change of style demands; 510 The Consolation cancels the Complaint, And makes a convert of my guilty song. As when o'er-labour'd, and inclined to breathe, A panting traveller, some rising ground, Some small ascent, has gain'd, he turns him round, And measures with his eye the various vales, The fields, woods, meads, and rivers, he has pass'd; And, satiate of his journey, thinks of home, Endear'd by distance, nor affects more toil; Thus I, though small, indeed, is that ascent 520 The Muse has gain'd, review the paths she trod; Various, extensive, beaten but by view; And, conscious of her prudence in repose, Pause; and with pleasure meditate an end, Though still remote; so fruitful is my theme. Through many a field of moral, and divine, 526 The Muse has stray'd; and much of sorrow seen In human ways; and much of false and vain; Which none, who travel this bad road, can miss. O'er friends deceased full heartily she wept; Of love divine the wonders she display'd; Proved man immortal; show'd the source of joy The grand tribunal raised; assign'd the bounds Of human grief: in few, to close the whole, The moral Muse has shadow'd out a sketch, Though not in form, nor with a Raphael-stroke, Of most our weakness needs believe, or do, In this our land of travel, and of hope, For peace on earth, or prospect of the skies. 539 What then remains? much! much! a mighty debt To be discharged: these thoughts, O Night! are thine; From thee they came, like lovers' secret sighs, While others slept. So, Cynthia (poets feign), In shadows veil'd, soft-sliding from her sphere, Her shepherd cheer'd; of her enamour'd less, Than I of thee.--And art thou still unsung, Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing? Immortal silence! where shall I begin?