With damps, and darkness, drown the spacious vale;
Undamp’d by doubt, undarken’d by despair,
Philander, thus, augustly rears his head,
At that black hour, which general horror sheds
On the low level of th’ inglorious throng: 690
Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted soul;
Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable lustre, bright.