eir combination. And even in madness
itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a
distempered imagination, she revives past perceptions, and awakens
the train of thought which was formerly most familiar.

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passages of
life. Events, the most distressing in their immediate consequences,
are often cherished in remembrance with a degree of enthusiasm.

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the
passions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this
feeling. It is in a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory is
most perfect; and solitude is her best sphere of action. With this
sentiment is introduced a Tale, illustrative of her influence in
solitude, sickness, and, sorrow. And the subject having now been
considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the
Poem concludes with a conjecture, that superior beings are blest with
a nobler exercise of this faculty.

Sweet MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail,
To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours.
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.
Ages and climes remote to Thee impart
What charms in Genius, and refines in Art;
Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell,
The pensive portress of her holy cell;
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.
The friends of Reason, and the guides of Youth,
Whose language breath'd the eloquence of Truth;
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught
The great in conduct, and the pure in thought;
These still exist, by Thee to Fame consign'd, [x]
Still speak and act, the models of mankind.
From Thee sweet Hope her airy colouring draws;
And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws.
From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows,
Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows.
When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray,
And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play;
When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close,
Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows;
Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night
With the mild magic of reflected light.
The beauteous maid, that bids the world adieu,
Oft of that world will snatch a fond review;
Oft at the shrine neglect her beads,
to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face,
Forgot, when first a father's stern controul
Chas'd the gay visions of her opening soul:
And ere