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THE 
 
 COMPLAINT; 
 
 IIGHT-THOUGIITS 
 
 LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALI'IT. 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG, LL.D. 
 
 Sunt lacrymae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS 
 
 No. 530 BROADWAY. 
 
 1868. 
 

 THOMAS B. SMITH, 8TKRE0TYPKR, 
 216 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. 
 
MfitH 
 MEMOIR 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG, L1.D. 
 
 Edward Young was born at Upham, near Wincne&iei in 
 June, 1681. He was placed by his father, Dr. Edward 
 Young, dean of Sarum, upon the foundation at Winches- 
 ter College; and, in 1703, was entered an independent 
 member of New College. Afterward he removed to Corpus 
 Christi, where he entered himself a gentleman commoner. 
 In 1708 Archbishop Tenison nominated him to a law-fel- 
 lowship at All Souls. 
 
 On the 23d of April, 1714, Young took his degree of 
 bachelor of civil law, and his doctor's degree on the 10th 
 of June, 1719. 
 
 In 1721 he was ambitious of a seat in parliament, and 
 stood candidate for Cirencester, but failed ; — this curcum- 
 stance, it is said, he constantly regretted in after life. 
 
 When he was almost fifty. Young entered into orders ; 
 and was appointed chaplain to George 11. in 1728. 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 In 1730 he was presented by his college to the rectory 
 of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire; and in the following year 
 was married to Lady Ehzabeth Lee, daughter to the Earl 
 of Lichfield, and widow of Colonel Lee, who brought him 
 a son and heir. 
 
 Of his wife he was deprived in 1741 ; and to this event 
 the public are indebted for the composition of his ' Night 
 Thoughts ;' in which he frequently refers to this afflictive 
 dispensation. He had previously lost his daughter-in-law 
 and her husband, whom he so pathetically laments under 
 the names of Narcissa and Philander. It has generally been 
 supposed that Lorenzo, the man of the world, represents 
 his own son; but (if he had. any particular individual in 
 view,) with greater probability, Young intended to charac- 
 terize one of the companions of the Duke of Wharton, with 
 whom, in the earlier part of his life, he was very intimate. 
 
 This production appears to have been considered by his 
 author as incomparably his best work ; and certain it is, 
 that, whatever celebrity Young might derive from his other 
 writings, during his lifetime, to the ' Night Thoughts' alone 
 he will owe his fame with future generations. 
 
 Dr. Young was a favorite of the Prince of Wales, father 
 of George III, ; and, for some time, was a pretty constant 
 attendant at court ; but, upon the Prince's death, all his 
 
MEMOIR, 
 
 hopes of obtaining preferment were at an end ; and the very- 
 desire of it, as appears from a passage in the 'Night 
 Thoughts,' seemed to be laid aside; however in 1761 he 
 was made Clerk of the Closet to the Princess-dowager of 
 Wales, He died in the parsonage-house at Welwyn, April 
 12, 1765, in the eighty-fourth year of his age, and was buried 
 under the altar-piece of that church, by the side of his wife. 
 The turn of Dr. Young's mind was naturally solemn: 
 and he usually spent many hours in a day, when at home in 
 the country, walking among the tombs in his own church- 
 yard ; — yet he was fond of innocent sports and amusements. 
 His wit was ever poignant, and always levelled at those 
 who showed any contempt for decency and religion. He 
 was a popular preacher, and much followed for the grace 
 and animation of his delivery. His writings were numer- 
 ous, but their uniform tendency was the promotion of vir- 
 tue, and the discouragement of vice. 
 
THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 NIGHT I. 
 ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE ARTHUR ONSLOW, 
 
 SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
 Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; 
 Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 
 And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 
 
 From short (as usual) and disturbed repose 
 I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! " —^ 
 Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave/\^ 
 I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 
 Tumultuous ; where my wreck'd, desponding thought 
 From wave to wave of fancied miserv 
 
THE C OMP LAINT. 
 
 At random drove, her helm of reason lost : 
 
 Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, 
 
 (A bitter change !) severer for severe. 
 
 The day too short for my distress ; and night. 
 
 E'en in the zenith of her dark domain. 
 
 Is sunshine to the color of my fate. 
 
 Night, sable _godd^s ! from her ebon throne. 
 In rayles3 majesty, now stretches forth 
 H'?;r'ieHdeh Siieptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 
 Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound ! 
 Nor eye nor hst'ning ear an object finds ; 
 Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
 Of hfe stood still, and Nature made a pause ; 
 An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
 And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd : 
 Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 
 
 Silence and Darkness ! solemn sisters ! twins 
 From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought 
 To reason, and on reason build resolve, 
 (That column of true majesty in man,) 
 Assist me ; I will thank you in the ^rave ; 
 The grave your kingdom : there this frame shall fall 
 
NIGHT I 
 
 A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 
 But what are ye ? 
 
 Thou, who didst put to flight 
 Primeval Silence, when the morning stars. 
 Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball ; 
 Thou, whose word from solid darkness struck 
 That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul ; 
 My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure, 
 As misers to their gold, while others rest. 
 
 Through this opaque of nature and of soul. 
 This double night, transmit one pitying ray. 
 To lighten and to cheer. lead my mind, 
 (A mind that fain would wander from its woe,) 
 Lead it through various scenes of life and death, 
 And from- each scene the noblest truths inspire. 
 Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; 
 Teach my best reason, reason; my best will 
 Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve 
 Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear ; 
 Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd 
 On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain. 
 
 The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 
 
10 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 But from its loss : to give it then a tongue 
 
 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 
 
 I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 
 
 It is the knell of my departed hours. 
 
 Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood. 
 
 It is the signal that demands despatch : 
 
 How much is to be done ! My hopes and fears 
 
 Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge 
 
 Look down — on what ? A fathomless abyss ; 
 
 A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 
 
 And can eternity belong to me. 
 
 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? 
 
 How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
 How comphcate, how wonderful is man ! 
 How passing wonder He who made him such ! 
 WTio center'd in our make such strange extremes ! 
 From difF'rent natures, marvellously mix'd, 
 Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! 
 Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain ! 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
 A beam ethereal, sullied and absorb'd ! 
 Though sullied and dishonor'd, still divine ! 
 
NIGHT I. 11 
 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! ""^ 
 An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! -^ 
 Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! — " 
 
 A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself, 
 And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, 
 Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, 
 And wond'ring at her own. How reason reels ! 
 what a miracle to man is man, — 
 Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy ! what dread ! 
 Alternately transported and alarm'd ! ^~ - 
 What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? -'■*~" 
 An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave : 
 Legions of angels can't confine me there. 
 '^ 'Tis past conjecture ; all things rise in proof : 
 While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spreads. 
 What though my soul fantastic measures trod 
 O'er fairy fields, or mourn'd along the gloom 
 Of pathless woods, or, down the craggy steep 
 Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool. 
 Or scaled the cliff, or danced on hollow winds 
 With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain ? 
 Her ceaseless flight, tho' devious, speaks her nature 
 
12 THE C OMPLAINT. 
 
 Of subtler essence than the trodden clod, 
 
 Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, 
 
 Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. 
 
 E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal : 
 
 E'en silent night proclaims eternal day. 
 
 For human weal Heav'n husbands all ev.ents : 
 
 Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. 
 
 Why then their loss deplore that are not lost ? 
 Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around 
 In infidel distress ? Are angels there ? 
 Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ? 
 
 They live ! they greatly live a life on earth 
 Unkindled, unconceived ; and from an eye 
 Of tenderness let heav'nly pity fall 
 On me, more justly number'd with the dead. 
 This is the desert, this the solitude : 
 How populous, how vital is the grave ! 
 This is creation's melancholy vault, 
 The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom, 
 The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 
 All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond 
 
NIG HT I. 13 
 
 Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed : 
 How solid all, where change shall be no more ! 
 
 This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, 
 The twilight of our day, the vestibule, / 
 Life's theatre as yet is shut, and Death, 
 Strong Death, alone can heave the massy bar, 
 This gross impediment of clay remove, 
 And make us embryos of existence free. 
 From real life, but little more remote 
 Is he, not yet a candidate for light. 
 The future embryo, slumb'ring in his sire. 
 Embryos^we mu^t^be till we burst the shell, l-— 
 Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life, '^-- — 
 The life of gods (0 transport !) and of man. 
 
 Yet man, fool man, here buries all his thoughts ; 
 Inters celestial hopes without one sigh : 
 Pris'ner of earth, and pent beneath the moon. 
 Here pinions all his wishes ; wing'd by Heav'n 
 To fly at infinite, and reach it there. 
 Where seraphs gather immortality, 
 On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 
 What golden joys ambrosial clust'ring glow 
 
14 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 In his full beam, and ripen for the just, 
 
 Where momentaiy ages are no more ! 
 
 Wliere Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death expire ! 
 
 And is it in the flight of threescore years 
 
 To push eternity from human thought. 
 
 And smother souls immortal in the dust ? 
 
 A soul immortal, spending all her fires. 
 
 Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness. 
 
 Thrown into tumult, raptur'd or alarm'd 
 
 At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
 
 Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, J"' 
 
 To waft a feather or to drown a fly. 
 
 Where falls this censure ? It o'erwhelms myse.f. 
 How was my heart incrusted by the world ! 
 how self-fetter'd was my grov'ling soul ! 
 How like a worm was I wrapt round and round 
 In silken thought, which reptile Fancy spun, 
 Till darken'd Reason lay quite clouded o'er 
 With soft conceit of endless comfort here, 
 Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the skies ! 
 
 Night visions may befriend (as sung above) : 
 Our waking dreams are fatal. How I dreamt 
 
NIGHT I. 15 
 
 Of things impossible ! (could sleep do more ?) 
 Of joys perpetual in perpetual change ! 
 Of stable pleasures on the tossing wave ! 
 Eternal sunshine in the storms of life ! 
 How richly were my noontide trances hung 
 With gorgeous tapestries of pictured joys ! 
 Joy behind joy, in endless perspective ! 
 Till at Death's toll, whose restless iron tongue 
 Calls daily for his millions at a meal. 
 Starting I woke, and found myself undone. 
 Where now my frenzy's pompous furniture ? 
 The cobwebb'd cottage, with its ragged wall 
 
 "/¥^.- 
 
 Of mould'ring mud, is royalty to me ! 
 The spider's most attenuated thread 
 Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie 
 On earthly bliss ; it breaks at every breeze. 
 ye blest scenes of permanent delight ! 
 Full above measure ! lasting beyond bound ! 
 A perpetuity of bliss is bliss. 
 Could you, so rich in rapture, fear an end, 
 That ghastly thought would drink up all your joy. 
 And quite unparadise the realms of light. 
 
16 THECOMPLAINT. 
 
 Safe are you lodged above these rolling spheres ; 
 
 The baleful influence of whose giddy dance 
 
 Sheds sad vicissitude on all beneath. 
 
 Here teem the revolutions every hour, 
 
 And rarely for the better ; or the best, 
 
 More mortal than the common births of Fate. 
 
 Each Moment has its sickle, emulous 
 
 Of Time's enormous scythe, whose arnple sweep 
 
 Strikes empires from the root j^ each Moment plays 
 
 His little weapon in the narrower sphere 
 
 Of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down 
 
 The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss. '"'" 
 
 Bliss ! sublunary bliss ! — proud words and vain ! 
 Implicit treason to divine decree ! 
 A bold invasion of the rights of Heav'n ! 
 I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air. 
 had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace ! 
 What darts of agony had miss'd my heart ! 
 Death ! great proprietor of all ! 'tis thine 
 To tread out empire, and to quench the stars. 
 The sun himself by thy permission shines, 
 And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere. 
 
1 
 
 NIGHT I. 17 
 
 Amidst such mighty plunder, why exhaust 
 
 Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean ? 
 
 Why thy pecuhar rancor wreak'd on me ? 
 
 Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
 
 Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain ; 
 
 And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn. 
 
 Cynthia ! why so pale ? dost thou lament 
 
 Thy wretched neighbor ? grieve to see thy wheel 
 
 Of ceaseless change outwhirl'd in human life .? 
 
 How wanes my borrow'd bliss ! from Fortune's smile, 
 
 Precarious courtesy ! not Virtue's sure, 
 
 Self-given, solar ray of sound deUght. 
 
 In ev'ry varied posture, place, and hour. 
 How widow'd ev'ry thought of ev'ry joy ! 
 Thought, busy thought ! too busy for my peace ! 
 Through the dark postern of time long elapsed, 
 Led softly, by the stillness of the night. 
 Led, like a murderer (and such it proves !) 
 Strays (wretched rover !) o'er the pleasing past ; 
 In quest of wretchedness perversely strays ; 
 And finds all desert now ; and meets the ghosts 
 Of my departed joys, a num'rous train ! 
 
18 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 I rue the riches of my former fate ; 
 Sweet Comfort's blasted clusters I lament ; 
 I tremble at the blessings once so dear. 
 And ev'ry pleasure pains me to the heart. 
 
 Yet why complain ? or why complain for one ? 
 Hangs out the sun his lustre but for me, 
 The single man ? are angels all beside ? 
 I mourn for millions : 'tis the common lot ; \ 
 In this shape, or in that, has Fate entail'd 
 The mother's throes on all of woman born, 
 Not more the children than sure heirs of pain. 
 
 War, famine, pest, volcano, storm, and fire. 
 Intestine broils, Oppression, with her heart 
 Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind. 
 God's image, disinherited of day. 
 Here, plunged in mines, forgets a sun was made ; 
 There, beings, deathless as their haughty lord, 
 Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life ; 
 And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair. 
 Some for hard masters, broken under arms, 
 In battle lopp'd away, with half their limbs. 
 Beg bitter bread through realms their valor saved. 
 
NIGHT I. 19 
 
 If SO the tyrant or his minion doom. 
 
 Want, and incurable disease, (fell pair !) 
 
 On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize 
 
 At once, and make a refuge of the grave. 
 
 How groaning hospitals eject their dead ! 
 
 What numbers groan for sad admission there ! 
 
 What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high fed, 
 
 Solicit the cold hand of charity ! 
 
 To shock us more, solicit it in vain ! 
 
 Ye silken sons of Pleasure ! since in pains 
 
 You rue more modish -vdsits, visit here. 
 
 And breathe from your debauch ; give, and reduce 
 
 Surfeit's dominion o'er you : but so great 
 
 Your impudence, you blush at what is right. 
 
 Happy ! did sorrow seize on such alone : 
 Not prudence can defend, or virtue save ; 
 Disease invades the chastest temperance. 
 And punishment the guiltless ; and alarm. 
 Through thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace. 
 Man's caution often into danger turns, 
 And, his guard falling, crushes him to death. 
 Not Happiness herself makes good her name : 
 
20 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Our very wishes give us not our wish. 
 How distant oft the thing we dote on most 
 From that for which we dote, fehcity ! 
 The smoothest course of Nature has its pains ; 
 And truest friends, through error, wound our rest. 
 Without misfortune, what calamities ! 
 And what hostihties, without a foe ! 
 Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth. 
 But endless is the list of human ills, 
 And sighs might sooner fail than cause to sigh. 
 I A part how small of the terraqueous globe 
 Is tenanted by man ! the rest a waste. 
 Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands : 
 Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death. 
 Such is earth's melancholy map ! but, far 
 More sad ! this earth is a true map of man : 
 So bounded are its haughty lord's delights 
 To woe's wide empire, where deep troubles toss. 
 Loud sorrows howl, envenom'd passions bite, 
 Rav'nous calamities our vitals seize. 
 And threat'ning Fate wide opens to devour. \ 
 What then am I, who sorrow for myself ? 
 
NI GHT I. 21 
 
 In age, in infancy, from others' aid 
 
 Is all our hope ; to teach us to be kind. 
 
 That, Nature's first, last lesson to mankind ; 
 
 The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels. 
 
 More gen'rous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts ; 
 
 And conscious virtue mitigates the pang. 
 
 Nor virtue more than prudence bids me give 
 
 Swoll'n thought a second channel ; who divide. 
 
 They weaken, too, the torrent of their grief. 
 
 Take, then, world ! thy much-indebted tear ; 
 
 How sad a sight is human happiness 
 
 To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour ! 
 
 thou ! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults ! 
 Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate ? 
 
 1 know thou wouldst ; thy pride demands it from me. 
 Let thy pride pardon, what thy natui'e needs. 
 
 The salutary censure of a friend. 
 Thou happy wretch ! by blindness art thou blest ; 
 By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles ! 
 Know, smiler ! at thy peril art thou pleased ; 
 Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain. 
 Misfortune, like a creditor severe. 
 
22 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 But rises in demand for her delay ; 
 She makes a scourge of past prosperity, 
 To sting thee more, and double thy distress. 
 Lorenzo, Fortune makes her court to thee : 
 Thy fond heart dances while the siren sings. 
 Dear is thy welfare ; think me not unkind ; 
 I would not damp, but to secure, thy joys. 
 Think not that fear is sacred to the storm ; 
 Stand on thy guard against the smiles of Fate. 
 Is heav'n tremendous in its frowns ? most sure ! 
 And in its favors formidable too : 
 Its favors here are trials, not rewards ; 
 A call to duty, not discharge from care ; 
 And should alarm us full as much as woes ; 
 Awake us to their cause and consequence, 
 And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert 
 Awe nature's tumult, and chastise her joys, 
 Lest while we clasp, we kill them ; nay, invert 
 To worse than simple misery their charms. 
 Revolted joys, like foes in civil war, 
 Like bosom friendships to resentment sour'd, 
 With rage envenom 'd rise against our peace. 
 
NIGHT I. 23 
 
 Beware what eartli calls happiness ; beware 
 All joys but joys that never can expire. 
 Who builds on less than an immortal base, 
 Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death. 
 
 Mine died with thee, Philander! thy last sigh 
 Dissolved the charm : the disenchanted earth 
 Lost all her lustre. Where her glitt'ring towers ? 
 Her golden mountains where ? all darkened down 
 To naked waste ; a dreary vale of tears : 
 The great magician 's dead ! Thou poor, pale piece 
 Of outcast earth, in darkness ! whatji_^change 
 From yesterday ! Thy darling hope so near, ' "" 
 
 (Long labor'd prize !) how ambition flushed 
 Thy glowing cheek ! ambition, truly great, 
 Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within, 
 (Sly, treach'rous miner !) working in the dark. 
 Smiled at thy well-concerted scheme, and beckon'd 
 The worm to„ riot, on that rose so red, jV^ cuy^-^M j^K.f--^ 
 
 Unfaded ere it fell ; one moment's prey ! 
 
 Man's foresight is conditionally wise ; 
 Lorenzo ! wisdom into folly turns 
 Oft the first instant : its idea fair 
 
24 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 To laboring thought is born. How dim our eye ! 
 
 The present moment terminates our sight ; 
 
 Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the next ; 
 
 We penetrate, we prophesy in vain. 
 
 Time is dealt out by particles, and each, 
 
 Ere mingled with the streaming sands of life, 
 
 By Fate's inviolable oath is sworn 
 
 Deep silence, " Where eternity begins." 
 
 By Nature's law, what may be, may be now ; 
 There's no prerogative in human hours. 
 In human hearts what bolder thought can rise 
 Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn ? 
 Where is to-morrow ? In another world, 
 For numbers this is certain : the reverse 
 Is sure to none ; and yet on this Perhaps, 
 This Peradventure, infamous for lies, 
 As on a rock of adamant, we build 
 Our mountain hopes, spin our eternal schemes. 
 As we the Fatal Sisters could outspin. 
 And, big with hfe's futurities, expire. 
 Not e'en Philander had bespoke his shroud, 
 Nor had he cause, a warning was denied : 
 
N IGHT I. 25 
 
 How many fall as sudden, not as safe ; 
 
 As sudden, though for years admonish'd home ! 
 
 Of human ills the last extreme beware ; 
 
 Beware, Lorenzo ! a slow-sudden death. 
 
 How dreadful that deliberate surprise ! 
 
 Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer : 
 
 Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
 
 Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. 
 
 Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled. 
 
 And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
 
 The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
 
 If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? 
 
 That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. 
 
 Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
 The palm, " That all men are about to live," 
 Forever on the brink of being born. 
 All pay themselves the compliment to think 
 They, one day, shall not diivel ; and their pride 
 On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
 At least their own ; their future selves applauds : 
 How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! 
 
26 THE C OMPLAINT 
 
 Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails ; 
 
 That lodged in Fate's, to wisdom they consign ; 
 
 The thing they can't but purpose they postpone : 
 
 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool ; 
 
 And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
 
 All promise is poor dilatory man, 
 
 And that through ev'ry stage : when young, indeed, 
 
 In full content we sometimes nobly re§t, 
 
 Unanxieus for ourselves, and only wish, 
 
 As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
 
 At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
 
 At fifty, chides his infamous delay. 
 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
 
 In all the magnanimity of thought 
 
 Resolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same. 
 
 And why ? because he thinks himself immortal. 
 All men think all men mortal but themselves ; 
 Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
 Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread ; 
 But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air. 
 Soon close ; where pass'd the shaft no trace is found. 
 
NIGHT I . 27 
 
 As from the wing no scar the sky retains, 
 The parted wave no furrow from the keel, 
 So dies in human hearts the thought of death. 
 E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds 
 O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 
 Can I forget Philander ? that were strange ! 
 
 my full heart ! — But should I give it vent. 
 The longest night, though longer far, would fail. 
 And the lark listen to my midnight song. 
 
 The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn ; 
 Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast, 
 
 1 strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer 
 
 The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel ! like thee. 
 
 And call the stars to listen : ev'ry star 
 
 Is deaf to mine, enamor'd of thy lay. 
 
 Yet be not vain ; there are who thine excel, 
 
 And charm through distant ages. Wrapt in shade, 
 
 Pris'ner of darkness ! to the silent hours 
 
 How often I repeat their rage divine. 
 
 To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe ! 
 
 I roll their raptures, but not catch their flames. 
 
 Dark, though not blind, like thee, Maeonides ! 
 
28 THE C MPL AINT. 
 
 Or, Milton, thee ! ah, could I reach your strain ! 
 
 Or his who made Mseonides our own. 
 
 Man, too, he sung ; immortal man I sing. 
 
 Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life ; 
 
 What now but immortality can please ? 
 
 had he pressed his theme, pursued the track 
 
 Which opens out of darkness into day ! 
 
 had he, mounted on his wing of fire, 
 
 Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man. 
 
 How had it blest mankind, and rescued me ! 
 
NIGHT II. 
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF WILMINGTON. 
 
 When the cock crew, he wept, — smote by that Eye 
 Which looks on me, on all ; that Pow'r who bids 
 This midnight sentinel, with clarion shrill 
 (Emblem of that which shall awake the dead), 
 Rouse souls from slumber into thoughts of heav'n. 
 Shall I too weep ? where then is fortitude ? 
 And, fortitude abandon'd, where is man ? 
 I know the terms on which he sees the light ; 
 He that is bom is listed : life is war ; 
 Eternal war with woe : who bears it best 
 
 Deserves it least. On other themes I'll dwell. 
 
 Lorenzo ! let me turn my thoughts on thee : 
 And thine on themes may profit ; profit there 
 
 J/, 
 
 '^< 
 
30 THECOMPLAINT. 
 
 Where most thy need : themes, too, the genuine growtli 
 Of dear Philander's dust. He thus, though dead, 
 May still befriend. — What themes ? Time's wondrous 
 
 price, 
 Death, friendship, and Philander's final scene ! 
 
 So could I touch these themes as might obtain 
 Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengaged. 
 The good deed would delight me ; half impress 
 On my dark cloud an Iris, and from grief 
 Call glory. — Dost thou mourn Philander's fate ? 
 I know thou say'st it ; says thy life the same ? 
 He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire. 
 Where is that thrift, that avarice of time, 
 (O glorious avarice !) thought of death inspires. 
 As rumor'd robberies endear our gold ? * 
 
 Time ! than gold more sacred ; more a load 
 Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise. 
 What moment granted man without account ? 
 What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid ! 
 Our wealth in days all due to that discharge. 
 Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door. 
 Insidious death ! should his strong hand arrest. 
 
 i 
 
NIGHT II. 31 
 
 No composition sets the pris'ner free. 
 Eternity's inexorable chain 
 
 Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear. 
 How late I shudder'd on the brink ! how late 
 Life call'd for her last refuge in despair ! 
 That time is mine, Mead ! to thee I owe ; 
 Fain would I pay thee with eternity ; 
 But ill my genius answers my desire : 
 My sickly song is mortal, past thy cure : 
 Accept the will ; — it dies not with my strain. 
 For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo ? Not 
 For Esculapian, but for moral aid. • 
 
 Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon. 
 ( Youth is not rich in time ; it may be poor ; 
 Part with it as wltli money, sparing : pay 
 No moment, but in purchase of its worth ; 
 And what its worth, ask death-beds ; they can tell. 
 Part with it as with life, reluctant ; big 
 With holy l^op'e of nobler time to come : 
 Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark 
 Of men and angels ; virtue more divine. 
 Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain ? 
 
32 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 (These Heav'n benign in vital union binds) 
 And sport we like the natives of the bough, 
 When vernal suns inspire ? Amusement reigns 
 Man's great demand : to trifle is to live : 
 And is it then a trifle, too, to die ? 
 
 Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo ! 'Tis confest : 
 What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake ? 
 Who wants amusement in the flame of battle ? 
 Is it not treason to the soul immortal, 
 Her foes in arms, eternity the prize ? 
 Will toys amuse when med'cines cannot cure ? 
 When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes 
 Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight, 
 (As lands, and cities with their glitt'ring spires. 
 To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm 
 Thrown off" to sea, and soon to perish there,) 
 Will toys amuse ? No ; thrones will then be toys, 
 And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. 
 
 Redeem we time ? — Its loss we dearly buy. 
 What pleads Lorenzo for his high-prized sports ? 
 He pleads time's num'rous blanks ; he loudly pleads 
 The straw-like trifles on life's common stream. 
 
NIQHT II. 33 
 
 From whom these blanks and trifles, but from thee ? 
 No blank, no trifle, Nature made, or meant. 
 Virtue, or purposed virtue, still be thine ; 
 This cancels thy complaint at once ; this leaves 
 In act no trifle, and no blank in time. 
 This greatens, fills, immortalizes all ; 
 This the blest art of turning all to gold : 
 This the good heart's prerogative to raise 
 A royal tribute from the poorest hours ; 
 Immense revenue ! ev'ry moment pays. 
 If nothing more than purpose in thy pow'r, 
 Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed^ 
 Who does the best his circumstance allows. 
 Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more. 
 Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint : 
 'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer ; 
 Guard well thy thought : our thoughts are heard in 
 Heav'n. 
 On all-important time, through every age, 
 Tho' much, and warm, the wise have urg'd, the man 
 Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. 
 " I've lost a day" — the prince who nobly cried, 
 
 2* 
 
34 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Had been an emperor without his cro\m ; 
 Of Rome ? say rather lord of human race ! 
 He spoke as if deputed by mankind. 
 So should all speak ; so reason speaks in all : 
 From the soft whispers of that God in man, 
 Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly 
 For rescue from the blessings we possess ? 
 Time, the supreme ! — Time is eternity : 
 Pregnant with all eternity can give : 
 Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. 
 Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth 
 A pow'r etherea>, only not adored. 
 
 Ah ! how unjust to Nature and himself 
 Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man ! 
 Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, 
 We censure Nature for a span too short ; 
 That span too short we tax as tedious too ; 
 Torture invention, all expedients tire. 
 To lash the lingering moments into speed. 
 And whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves. 
 Art, brainless Art ! our furious charioteer 
 (For Nature's voice unstifled would recall,) 
 
N I G H T 1 1 . 35 
 
 Drives headlong towards the precipice of death, 
 Death most our dread; death thus more dreadful 
 
 made ; 
 what a riddle of absurdity ! 
 Leisure is pain ; takes off our chariot -wheels. 
 How heavily we drag the load of life ! 
 Blest leisure is our curee ; like that of Cain, 
 It makes us wander, wander earth around, 
 To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd 
 The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. 
 We cry for mercy to the next amusement ; 
 The next amusement mortages our fields ; 
 Slight inconvenience ! prisons hardly frown, 
 From hateful time if prisons set us free. 
 Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief, 
 We call him cruel ; years to moments shrink, 
 Ages to years. The telescope is tuin'd. 
 To man's false optics (from his folly false) 
 Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, 
 And seems to creep, decrepit with his age : 
 Behold him when past by ; what then is seen 
 But his broad pinions swifter than the winds ? 
 
36 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And all mankind, in contradiction strong. 
 Rueful, aghast ! cry out on his career. 
 
 Leave to thy foes these errors, and these ills ; 
 To !N'ature just, their cause and cure explore. 
 Not short Heav'n's bounty ; boundless our expense ; 
 No niggard, Nature ; meii are prodigals. 
 We waste, not use, our time : we breathe, not live. 
 Time wasted is existence, used is life. 
 And bare existence, man, to live ordain'd. 
 Wrings, and oppresses with enormous weight. 
 And why ? since time was given for use, not waste^ 
 Enjoin'd to fly ; with tempest, tide, and stars. 
 To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man ; 
 Time's use was doom'd a pleasure, waste a pain ; 
 That man might feel his error, if unseen, 
 And, feehng, fly to labor for his cure ; 
 Not, blund'ring, spht on idleness for ease. 
 Life's cares are comforts ; such by Heav'n design'd ; 
 He that has none must make them, or be wretched. 
 Cares are employments ; and without employ 
 The soul is on a rack ; the rack of rest. 
 To souls most adverse ; action all their joy. 
 
IGHT II. 37 
 
 Here then the riddle mark'd above unfolds ; 
 Then time turns torment, when man turns a fool. 
 We rave, we wrestle with great Nature's plan ; 
 We thwart the Deity, and 'tis decreed 
 Who thwart his will shall contradict their own. 
 Hence our unnatural quarrel with ourselves ; 
 Our thoughts at enmity ; our bosom-broil ; 
 We push Time from us, and we wish him back , 
 Lavish of lustrums, and yet fond of life ; 
 Life we think long and short ; death seek and shun ; 
 Body and- soul, like peevish man and wife. 
 United jar, and yet are loth to part. 
 
 the dark days of vanity ! while here 
 How tasteless, and how terrible when gone ! 
 Gone ! they ne'er go ; when past, they haunt us still ; 
 The spirit walks of ev'ry day deceas'd. 
 And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns. 
 Nor death nor life delight us. If time past 
 And time possest doth pain us, what can please ? 
 That which the Deity to please ordain'd. 
 Time used. The man who consecrates his hours 
 By vig'rous effort and an honest aim. 
 
38 THECOMl'LAINT. 
 
 At once he draws the sting of life and death ; 
 He walks with Nature, and her paths are peace. 
 Our error's cause and cure are seen : see next 
 Time's nature, origin, importance, speed ; 
 And thy great gain from urging his career. — 
 All-sensual man, because untouch'd, unseen, 
 He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing else 
 Is truly man's : 'tis Fortune's. — Time 's a god. 
 Thou hast ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence? 
 For, or against, what wonders can he do ! 
 And will : to stand blank neuter he disdains. 
 Not on those terms was Time (Heav'n's stranger !) sent 
 On his important embassy to man. 
 Lorenzo ! no : on the long-destined hour, 
 From everlasting ages growing ripe. 
 That memorable hour of wondrous birth, 
 When the dread Sire, on emanation bent. 
 And big with Nature, rising in his might, 
 Call'd forth Creation (for then Time was born) 
 By Godhead streaming through a thousand worlds ; 
 Not on those terms, from the great days of heav'n. 
 From old Eternity's mysterious orb, 
 
N I G H T I 1 . 39 
 
 Was Time cut oflf, and cast beneath the skies ; 
 
 The skies, which watch him in his new abode, 
 
 Measuring his motions by revolving spheres ; 
 
 That horologe machinery divine: 
 
 Hours, days, and months, and years, his children, play, 
 
 Like num'rous wings, around him, as he flies : 
 
 Or rather, as imequal plimaes, they shape 
 
 His ample pinions, swift as darted flame. 
 
 To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest, 
 
 And join anew Eternity his sire ; 
 
 In his immutability to nest. 
 
 When worlds, that count his circles now, unhinged, 
 
 (Fate the loud signal souriding,) headlong rush 
 
 To timeless night, and chaos, whence they rose. 
 
 Why spur the speedy ? why with levities 
 New- wing thy short, short day's too rapid flight ? 
 Know'st thou, or what thou dost, or what is done ? 
 Man flies from time, and time from man ; too soon 
 In sad divorce this double flight must end ; 
 And then where are we ? where, Lorenzo, then 
 Thy sports, thy pomps ? I grant thee, in a state 
 Not unambitious ; in the ruffled shroud. 
 
! 
 
 40 THE CO xM PLAINT. 
 
 Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath. 
 Has Death his fopperies ? Then well may Life 
 Put on her plume, and iti her rainbow shine. 
 
 Ye well array'd ! ye lilies of our land ! 
 Ye lilies male ! who neither toil nor spin 
 (As sister lilies might), if not so wise 
 As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight ! 
 Ye delicate ! who nothing can support, 
 Yourselves most insupportable ! for whom 
 The winter rose must blow, the sun put on 
 A brighter beam in Leo ; silky-soft 
 Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid ; 
 And other worlds send odors, sauce, and song, 
 And robes, and notions, framed in foreign looms 
 ye Lorenzos of our age ! who deem 
 One moment unamused a misery 
 Not made for feeble man ; who call aloud 
 For ev'ry bauble drivell'd o'er by sense. 
 For rattles and conceits of every cast ; 
 For change of follies, and relays of joy, 
 To drag you patient through the tedious length 
 Of a short winter's day — say, sages, say ! 
 
NIGHT II. 41 
 
 Wit's oracles ; say, dreamers of gay dreams ; 
 How will you weather an eternal night, 
 Where such expedients fail ? 
 
 treach'rous Conscience ! while she seems to sleep 
 On rose and myrtle, luU'd with siren song ; 
 While she seems nodding o'er her charge, to drop 
 On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein, 
 And give us up to license, unrecall'd, 
 Unmark'd ; — see, from behind her secret stand. 
 The sly informer minutes ev'ry fault. 
 And her dread diary with horror fills. 
 Not the gross act alone employs her pen : 
 She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band, 
 A watchful foe ! the formidable spy, 
 List'ning, o'erhears the whispers of our camp. 
 Our dawning purposes of heart explores, 
 And steals our embryos of iniquity. 
 As all-rapacious usurers conceal 
 Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs ; 
 Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats 
 Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; 
 Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied ; 
 
12 THECOMPLAINT. 
 
 In leaves more durable than leaves of brass 
 
 Writes our whole history, which Death shall read 
 
 In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear ; 
 
 And Judgment publish ; pubHsh to more worlds 
 
 Than this ; and endless Age in groans resound. 
 
 Lorenzo, such that sleeper in thy breast ! 
 
 Such is her slumber, and her vengeance such 
 
 For slighted counsel : such thy future peace ! 
 
 And think'st thou still thou canst be wise too soon ? 
 
 But why on time so lavish is my song ? 
 On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school, 
 To teach her sons herself. - Each niglit we die ; 
 Each morn are born anew ; each day a life ! 
 And shall we kill each day ? If trifling kills, 
 Sure vice must butcher. what heaps of slain 
 Cry out for vengeance on us ! Time destroy'd 
 Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt. 
 TTirne flie^ death urges, knells call, heav'n invites, 
 Helt threatens ; all exerts ; in effort all ; 
 More than creation labors ! — labors more ! 
 And is there in creation, what, amidst 
 This tumuli universal, wing'd despatch, 
 
NIGHT II. 4 3 
 
 And ardent energy, supine y yawns ? — 
 
 Man sleeps, and man alone ^ and man, whose fate, 
 
 Fate irreversible, entire, extreme, 
 
 Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulf 
 
 A moment trembles ; drops ! and man, for whom 
 
 All else is in alarm ; man, the sole cause 
 
 Of this surrounding storm ! and yet he sleeps. 
 
 As the storm rock'd to rest. — Throw years away ? 
 
 Throw empires, and be blameless. Moments seize, 
 
 Heav'n 's on their wing ; a moment we may wish. 
 
 When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day stand sti J, 
 
 Bid him drive back his car, recall, retake 
 
 Fate's hasty prey : implore him reimpart 
 
 The period past, regive the given hour. 
 
 Lorenzo, more than miracles we want ; 
 
 Lorenzo — for yesterdays to come ! 
 
 ! Such is the language of the man awake ; 
 
 j His ardor such for what oppresses thee. 
 
 i 
 
 I And is his ardor vain, Lorenzo ? No ; 
 
 j That more than miracle the gods indulge : 
 
 To-day is yesterday return'd ; return'd, 
 
 I Fua pow'r'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn. 
 
44 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And reinstate us on the rock of peace. 
 Let it not share its predecessor's fate, 
 Nor hke its elder sisters, die a fool. 
 Shall it evaporate in fume, fly off 
 Fuliginous, and stain us deeper still? 
 Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd ? 
 More wretched for the clemencies of Heav'n ? 
 
 Where shall I find him ? angels, tell me where : 
 You know him ; he is near you ; point him out. 
 Shall I see glories beaming from his brow. 
 Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers ? 
 Your golden wings, now hovering o'er him, shed 
 Protection ; now are waving in applause 
 To that blest son of foresight — lord of fate ! 
 That awful independent on to-morrow ! 
 Whose work is done ; who triumphs in the past ; 
 Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile ; 
 Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly : 
 That common but opprobrious lot ! Past hours. 
 If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, 
 If folly bounds our prospect by the grave. 
 All feeling of futurity benumb'd ; 
 
NIGHTII. 45 
 
 All god-like passion for eternals quencli'd ; 
 
 All relish of realities expired ; 
 
 Renounced all correspondence with the skies ; 
 
 Our freedom chain'd ; quite wingless our desire ; 
 
 In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar ! 
 
 Prone to the centre ; crawling in the dust : 
 
 Dismounted ev'ry great and glorious aim ; 
 
 Embruted ev'ry faculty divine ; 
 
 Heart -buried in the rubbish of the world. 
 
 The world, that gulf of souls, immortal souls. 
 
 Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire 
 
 To reach the distant skies, and triumph there 
 
 On thrones which shall not mourn their masters changed ; 
 
 Though we from earth ; ethereal, they that fell. 
 
 Such veneration due, man, to man. 
 
 Who venerate themselves, the world despise. 
 For what, gay friend, is this escutcheon'd world. 
 Which hangs out death in one eternal night ? 
 A night that glooms us in the noon-tide ray, 
 And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud. 
 Life's little staore is a small eminence, 3 " 
 
 ____^~S! __'^ 
 
 Inch-high the grave above ; that home of man. 
 
46 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Where dwells the multitude : we gaze around ; 
 We read their monuments ; we sigh ; and while 
 We sigh, we sink ; and are what we deplored : 
 Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot ! 
 
 Is Death at distance ? No : he has been on thee ; 
 And giv'n sure earnest of his final blow. 
 Those hours which lately smiled, where are they now ? 
 Pallid to thought, and ghastly ! drown'd, all drown'd. 
 In tliat great deep, which nothing disembogues ! 
 And dying, they bequeathed thee small renown. 
 The rest are on the wing : how fleet their flight ! 
 Already has the fatal train took fire ; 
 A moment, and the world's blown up to thee ; 
 The sun is darkness, and the stars are dust. 
 
 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours ; 
 And ask them what report they bore to heav'n ; 
 And how they might have borne more welcome news. 
 Their answers form what men experience call ; 
 If Wisdom's friend, her best ; if not, worst foe. 
 O reconcile them ! kind Experience cries, 
 " There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs : 
 The more our joy, the more we know it vain ; 
 
 1 
 
NIGHT II. 47 
 
 And by success are tutor'd to despair." 
 IN'or is it only thus, but must be so. 
 Who knows not this, though gray, is still a child. 
 Loose then from earth the grasp of fond desire. 
 Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore. 
 Art thou so moor'd thou canst not disengage, 
 Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes ? 
 Since by life's passing breath, blown up from earth, 
 Light as the summer's dust, we take in air 
 A moment's giddy flight, and fall again ; 
 Join the dull mass, increase the trodden soil. 
 And sleep, till earth herself shall be no more ; 
 Since then (as emmets, their small world o'erthrown) 
 We, sore amaz'd, from out earth's ruins crawl. 
 And rise to fate extreme of foul or fair. 
 As man's own choice (controller of the skies,) 
 As man's despotic will, perhaps one hour, 
 (0 how omnipotent is time !) decrees ; 
 Should not each warning give a strong alarm ? 
 Warning, far less than that of bosom torn 
 From bosom, bleeding o'er the sacred dead ; 
 Should not each dial strike us as we pass, 
 
48 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Portentous, as the written wall which struck, 
 O'er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian pale, 
 Erewhile high flush'd with insolence and wine 1 
 Like that the dial speaks, and points to thee, 
 Lorenzo ! loth to break the banquet up. 
 " man ! thy kingdom is departing from thee ; 
 And, while it lasts, is emptier than my shade." 
 Its silent language such ; nor need'st thou call 
 Thy magi to decipher what it means. 
 Know, like the Median, Fate is in thy walls ; 
 Dost ask how ? whence ? Belshazzar-like amazed. 
 Man's make encloses the sure seeds of death ; 
 Life feeds the murderer ; ingrate ! he thrives 
 On her own meal, and then his nurse devours. 
 
 But here, Lorenzo, the delusion hes ; 
 That solar shadow, as it measures life, 
 It life resembles too : life speeds away 
 From point to point, though seeming to stand still. 
 The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth ; 
 Too subtle is the movement to be seen ; 
 Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone. 
 Warnings point out our danger ; gnomons, time ; 
 
NIGHTII. 49 
 
 As these are useless when the sun is set, 
 So those, but when more glorious reason s.hines. 
 Reason should judge in all ; in reason's eye, 
 That sedentary shadow travels hard : 
 But such our gravitation to the wrong. 
 So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish, 
 'Tis later with the wise than he 's aware : 
 A Wilmington goes slower than the sun ; 
 And all mankind mistake their time of day ; 
 Ev'n age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown 
 In furrow'd brows. So gentle life's descent, 
 We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain. 
 We take fair days in winter for the spring. 
 And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft 
 Man must compute that age he cannot feel. 
 He scarce believes he 's older for his years : 
 Thus at life's latest eve, we keep in store 
 One disappointment sure, to crown the rest — 
 The disappointment of a promised hour. 
 
 On this or similar. Philander, thou, 
 AVhose mind was moral as the preacher's tongue 
 And stronsf to wield all science worth the name ; 
 
60 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 How often we talk'd down the summer's sun, 
 And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream ! 
 How often thaw'd and shorten'd winter's eve, 
 By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth. 
 Best found so sought ; to the recluse more coy ! 
 Thoughts disentangle, passing o'er the lip ; 
 Clean runs the thread ; if not, 'tis thrown away, 
 Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song ; 
 Song, fashionably fruitless ; such as strains 
 The fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires, 
 Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane. 
 
 Know'st thou, Lorenzo, what a friend contains ? 
 As bees mix'd nectar draw from fragrant flow'rs, 
 So men fiom friendship, wisdom and delight ; 
 Twins tied by nature ; if they part, they die. 
 Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach ? 
 Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up, want aii; 
 And spoil, like bales unopened to the sun. 
 Had thought been all, sweet speech had been denied ; 
 Speech, thought's canal, speech, thought's criterion 
 
 too! 
 Thought in the mine may come forth gold or dross ; 
 
NIGHT II. 5J 
 
 When coin'd in words, we know its real wortii : 
 If sterling, store it for thy future use ; 
 Twill buy thee benefit, perhaps renown. 
 Thought, too, deliver'd, is the more possess'd ; 
 'Teaching we learn, and giving we retain 
 The births of intellect; when dumb, forgot. 
 Speech ventilates our intellectual fire ; 
 Speech burnishes our mental magazine ; 
 Brightens for ornament, and whets for use. 
 What numbers, sheath'd in erudition, lie 
 Plunged to the hilts in venerable tomes, 
 And rusted in ; who might have borne an edge, 
 And play'd a sprightly beam, if born to speech ! 
 If born blest heirs of half their mother's tongue ! 
 'Tis thought's exchange, which, like th' alternate push 
 Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned scum. 
 And defecates the student's standing pool. 
 In contemplation is his proud resource ? 
 'Tis poor as proud, by converse unsustain'd : 
 Rude thought runs wild in contemplation's field ; 
 Converse, the menage, breaks it to the bit 
 Of due restraint, and emulation's spur 
 
62 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Gives graceful energy, by rivals awed. 
 
 'Tis converse qualifies for solitude. 
 
 As exercise for salutary rest ; 
 
 By that untutor'd, contemplation raves, 
 
 A lunar prince, or famisli'd beggar dies ; 
 
 And nature's fool by wisdom's is outdone. 
 
 Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, 
 And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive. 
 What is she but the means of happiness ? 
 That, unobtain'd, than folly more a fool; 
 A melancholy fool, without her bells. 
 Friendship the means, and friendship richly gives 
 The precious end which makes our wisdom wise. 
 Nature, in zeal for human amity. 
 Denies or damps an undivided joy. 
 Joy is an import ; joy is an exchange ; 
 Joy flies monopolists ; it calls for two : 
 Rich fruit ! heav'n-planted ! never pluck'd by one. 
 Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give 
 To social man true relish of himself. 
 Full on ourselves descending in a line, 
 Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight : 
 
NIGHT II. 
 
 Delight intense is taken by rebound ; 
 
 Reverberated pleasures fire tlie breast. 
 Celestial happiness ! whene'er she stoops 
 
 To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, 
 
 And one alone, to make her sweet amends 
 
 For absent heav'n — the bosom of a friend ; 
 
 Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft. 
 
 Each other's pillow to repose divine. 
 
 Beware the counterfeit ; in passion's flame 
 
 Hearts melt, but melt like ice, soon harder frcss. 
 
 True love strikes root in reason, passion's foe ; 
 I Virtue alone entenders us for life ; 
 ! I wrono- her much — entenders us forever. 
 I Of friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fa:r 
 ; Is virtue kindling at a rival fire. 
 
 And eraulously rapid in her race. 
 
 the soft enmity ! endearing strife ! 
 
 This carries friendship to her noon-tide point 
 
 And gives the rivet of eternity. 
 
 From Friendship, which outlives my forrc( j hciii«js, i 
 
 Glorious survivor of old Time and Death ! 
 
 From friendship thus, that flower of heav'nly ^ee-d. 
 
54 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The wise extract earth's most Hyblean bliss, 
 Superior wisdom, crown'd with smihng joy. 
 For joy, from friendship born, abounds in smiles. 
 O store it in the soul's most golden cell ! 
 
 But for whom blossoms this Elysian flower ? 
 Abroad they find, who cherish it at home. 
 Lorenzo, pardon what my love extorts. 
 An honest love, and not afraid to frown, 
 Though choice of folHes fasten on the great, 
 None clings more obstinate than fancy fond. 
 That sacred friendship is their easy prey. 
 Caught by the wafture of a golden lure. 
 Or fascination of a high-born smile. 
 Their smiles, the great and the coquet throw out 
 For others' hearts, tenacious of their own ; 
 And we no less of ours, when such the bait. 
 Ye fortune's cofferers ! ye powers of wealth ! 
 You do your rent-rolls most felonious wrong. 
 By taking our attachment to yourselves. 
 Can gold gain friendship ? Impudence of hope ! 
 As well mere man an angel might beget. ^ 
 Love, and love only, is the loan for love. 
 
N I G H T 1 1 . 6b 
 
 Lorenzo, pride repress, nor hope to find 
 A friend, but what has found a friend in thee. 
 All like the purchase, few the price will pay : 
 And this makes friends such miracles below. 
 
 What if (since daring on so nice a theme) 
 I show thee friendship delicate as dear. 
 Of tender violations apt to die ? 
 Reserve will wound it, and distrust destroy. 
 Deliberate on all things with thy friend : 
 But since friends grow not thick on every bough, 
 Nor ev'ry friend unrotten at the core ; 
 First on thy friend delib'rate with thyself; 
 Pause, ponder, sift ; not eager in the choice. 
 Nor jealous of the chosen : fixing, fix : 
 Judge before friendship, then confide till death. 
 Well for thy friend, but nobler far for thee : 
 How gallant danger for earth's highest prize ! 
 A friend is worth all hazards we can run. 
 " Poor is the friendless master of a world : 
 A world in purchase for a friend is gain." 
 
 So sung he, (angels hear that angel sing! 
 Angels from friendship gather half their joy !) 
 
60 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 So sung Philander, as his friend went round 
 In the rich ichor, in the gen'rous blood 
 Of Bacchus, purple god of joyous wit, 
 A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye. 
 He drank long health and virtue to his friend ; 
 His friend ! who warm'd him more, who more in- 
 spired. 
 Friendship 's the wine of life ; but friendship new 
 (Not such was his) is neither strong nor pure. 
 
 ! for the bright complexion, cordial warmth, 
 And elevating spirit of a friend. 
 
 For twenty summers ripening by my side ; 
 All feculence of falsehood long thrown down ; 
 All social virtues rising in his soul ; 
 As crystal clear, and smiling as they rise ! 
 Here nectar flows ! it sparkles in our sight ; 
 Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart. 
 High flavor'd bliss for gods ! on earth how rare ! 
 On earth how lost ! — Philander is no more. 
 
 Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my song ? 
 Am I too warm? Too warm I cannot be. 
 
 1 loved him much, but now I love him more. 
 
NIGHT II. 5V 
 
 Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceal'd, 
 Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes 
 Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold ; 
 How blessings brighten as they take their flight ! 
 His flight Philander took : his upward flight ! 
 If ever soul ascended. Had he dropt, 
 (That eagle genius !) O had he let fall 
 One feather as he flew, I then had wrote 
 What friends might flatter, prudent foes forbear. 
 Rivals scarce damn, and Zoilus reprieve. 
 Yet what I can I must : it were profane 
 To quench a glory lighted at the skies, 
 And cast in shadows his illustrious close. 
 Strange ! the theme most afiecting, most sublime, 
 Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung ! 
 And yet it sleeps, by genius unawaked, 
 Paynim or Christian ; to the blush of wit. 
 Man's highest triumph, man's profoundest fall. 
 The death-bed of the just ! is yet undrawn 
 By mortal hand ; it merits a divine : 
 Angels should paint it, angels ever there ; 
 There, on a post of honor and of joy. 
 
 8* 
 
58 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Dare I presume, then ? but Philander bids, 
 And glory tempts, and indination calls. 
 Yet am I struck, as struck the soul beneath 
 Aerial groves' impenetrable gloom. 
 Or in some mighty ruin's solemn shade. 
 Or gazing, by pale lamps, on high-born dust 
 In vaults, thin courts of poor unflattered kings, 
 Or at the midnight altar's hallow'd flame. 
 It is religion to proceed : I pause — 
 And enter, awed, the temple of my theme. 
 Is it his death-bed ? No ; it is his shrine 
 Behold him, there, just rising to a god. 
 
 The chamber where the good man meets his fate 
 Is privileged beyond the common walk 
 Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of Heav'n. 
 Fly, ye profane ! if not, draw near with awe ; 
 Receive the blessing, and adore the chance 
 That threw in this Bethesda your disease : 
 If unrestored by this, despair your cure : 
 For here resistless demonstration dwells : 
 A death-bed 's a detector of the heart. 
 Here tired Dissimulation drops her mask. 
 
NIGHT II. 59 
 
 Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene ! 
 
 Here real and apparent are the same. 
 
 You see the man, you see his hold on Heav'n ; 
 
 If sound his virtue ; as Philander's, sound. 
 
 Heav'n waits not the last moment ; owns her friends 
 
 On this side death, and points them out to men ; 
 
 A lecture silent, but of sov'reign pow'r ! 
 
 To vice confusion, and to virtue peace. 
 
 Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, 
 Virtue alone has majesty in death, 
 And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. 
 Philander ! he severely frown'd on thee ; 
 " !No warning giv'n: unceremonious fate ! 
 A sudden rush from life's meridian joys ! 
 A wrench from all we love ! from all we are ! 
 A restless bed of pain ! a plunge opaque 
 Beyond conjecture ! feeble Nature's dread ! 
 Strong Reason's shudder at the dark unknown ! 
 A sun extinguish'd ! a just opening grave ! 
 And, oh ! the last, last — what ? (can words express ; 
 Thought reach ?) the last, last — silence of a friend !" 
 Where are those horrors, that amazement where. 
 
60 THE COMPLAIN 1. 
 
 This hideous group of ills (which singly shock) 
 Demands from man ? — I thought him man till now. 
 
 Thro' nature's wreck, thro' vanquish'd agonies, 
 (Like the stars struggling thro' this midnight gloom) 
 "What gleams of joy ! what more than human peace ! 
 Where the frail mortal? the poor abject wonn ? 
 No, not in death the mortal to be found. 
 His conduct is a legacy for all. 
 Richer than Mammon's for his single heir. 
 His comforters he comforts ; great in ruin. 
 With unreluctant grandeur gives, not yields. 
 His soul subhme, and closes with his fate. 
 
 How our hearts burnt within us at the scene ! 
 Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man ? 
 His God sustains him in his final hour ! 
 His final hour brings glory to his God ! 
 Man's glory Heav'n vouchsafes to call her own. 
 We gaze, we weep ! mix'd tears of grief and joy ! 
 Amazement strikes ! devotion bursts to flame ! 
 Christians adore ! and infidels believe. 
 
 As some tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow. 
 Detains the sun, illustrious from its height, 
 
NIGHT II. 61 
 
 While rising vapors, and descending shades. 
 
 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 gen'ral horror sheds 
 
 On the low level of th' inglorious throng : 
 
 Sweet peace, and heav'nly hope, and humble joy, 
 
 Divinely beam on his exalted soul ; 
 
 Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, 
 
 With incommunicable lustre bright. 
 
NIGHT III. 
 
 NARCISSA. 
 
 Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes. — Virg. 
 
 TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF P- 
 
 From dreams, where thought m fancy's maze runs mad, 
 To reason, that heav'n-hghted lamp in man, 
 Once more I wake, and at the destined hour. 
 Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn, 
 I keep my assignation with my woe. 
 
 ! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought. 
 Lost to the noble sallies of the soul ! 
 Who think it sohtude to be alone. 
 Communion sweet ! communion large and high ! 
 Our reason, guardian angel, and our God ! 
 Then nearest these, when others most remote. 
 And all, ere long, shall be remote but these. 
 How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone. 
 
NIGHT III. 63 
 
 A stranger ! unacknowledged ! unapproved ! 
 
 Now woo them, wed them, bind them to thy breast ; 
 
 To win thy wish, creation has no more. 
 
 Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend 
 
 But friends, how mortal ! dangerous the desire. 
 
 Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking bards ! 
 Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain-head ; 
 And reeling through the wilderness of joy. 
 Where sense runs savage, broke from reason's chain, 
 And sings false peace, till smother'd by the pall. 
 My fortune is unlike ; unlike my song ; 
 Unlike the Deity my song invokes. 
 I to Day's soft-eyed sister pay my court, 
 (Endymion's rival) and her aid implore ; 
 Now first implored in succor to the muse. 
 Thou, who didst lately borrow* Cynthia's form. 
 And modestly forego thine own ! thou, 
 Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire ! 
 Say, why not Cynthia patroness of song ? 
 As thou her crescent, she thy character 
 Assumes, still more a goddess by the change. 
 
 * At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade. 
 
64 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute 
 This revohition in the world inspired ? 
 Ye train Pierian ! to the lunar sphere, 
 In silent hour, address your ardent call 
 For aid immortal, less her brother's right. 
 She with the spheres harmonious nightly leads 
 The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain ; 
 A strain for gods, denied to mortal ear. 
 Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of heav'n ! 
 What title or what name endears thee most ? 
 Cynthia ! Cyllene ! Phoebe ! — or dost hear 
 
 With higher gust, fair P d of the skies ? 
 
 Is that the soft enchantment calls thee down. 
 
 More pow'rful than of old Circean charm ? 
 
 Come, but from heav'nly banquets with thee bring 
 
 The soul of song, and whisper in mine ear 
 
 The theft divine ; or in propitious dreams 
 
 (For dreams are thine) transfuse it thro' the breast 
 
 Of thy first votary but not thy last. 
 
 If, like thy namesake, thou art ever kind. 
 
 And kind thou wilt be, kind on such a theme : 
 A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme, 
 
NIGHT III. 05 
 
 Soft, modest, melancholy-, female, fair ! 
 
 A theme that rose all pale, and told my soui 
 
 'Twas night : on her fond hopes perpetual night ,: 
 
 A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp 
 
 Than that which smote me from Philander's tomb. 
 
 Narcissa follows ere his tomb is closed. 
 
 Woes cluster ; rare are solitary woes ; 
 
 They love a train ; they tread each other's heel ; 
 
 Her death invades his mournful right, and claims 
 
 The grief that started from my lids for him ; 
 
 Seizes the faithless alienated tear. 
 
 Or share it ere it falls. So frequent deatn. 
 
 Sorrow he more than causes ; he confounds ; 
 
 For human sights his rival strokes contend, 
 
 And make distress distraction. Philander ! 
 
 What was thy fate ? a double fate to me : 
 
 Portent and pain ! a menace and a blow ! 
 
 Like the bJack raven hov'ring o'er my peace, 
 
 Not less a bird of omen than of prey. 
 
 It call'd Narcissa long before her hour : 
 
 It call'd her tender soul, by break of bliss, 
 
 From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ; 
 
66 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves 
 In this inclement clime of human hfe. 
 
 Sweet harmonist ! and beautiful as sweet ! 
 And young as beautiful ! and soft as young ! 
 And gay as soft ! and innocent as gay ! 
 And happy (if ought happy here) as good ! 
 For fortune fond, had built her nest on high. 
 Like birds, quite exquisite of note and plume, 
 Transfix'd by Fate (who loves a lofty mark,) 
 How from the summit of the grove she fell, 
 And left it unharmonious ! all its charm 
 Extinguish'd in the wonders of her song ! 
 Her song still vibrates in my ravish 'd ear, 
 Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain 
 (0 to forget her !) thrilling through my heart ! 
 
 Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy ! this group 
 Of bright ideas, flow'rs of Paradise, 
 As yet unforfoit ! in one blaze we bind. 
 Kneel, and present it to the skies, as all 
 We guess of Heav'n ; and these were all her own ; 
 And she was mine ; and I was- —was ! — most blest — 
 Gay title of the deepest misery ! 
 
N I G H T 1 1 1 . 67 
 
 As bodies grow more pond'rous, robb'd of life. 
 Good lost weighs more in grief than gain'd in joy. 
 Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm. 
 Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay ; 
 And if in death still lovely, lovelier there. 
 Far lovelier ! Pity swells the tide of love. 
 And will not the severe excuse a sigh ? 
 Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep ; 
 Our tears indulged, indeed deserve our shame. 
 Ye that e'er lost an angel, pity me ! 
 
 Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye. 
 Dawning a dimmer day on human sight ; 
 And on her cheek, the residence of spring, 
 Pale Omen sat ; and scatter'd fears around 
 On all that saw (and who would cease to gaze 
 That once had seen ?) with haste, parental haste, 
 I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid north. 
 Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew. 
 And bore her nearer to the sun : the sun 
 (As if the sun could envy) check'd his beam. 
 Denied his wonted succor ; nor with more 
 
68 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Regret beheld her drooping than the bells 
 Of lilies ; fairest lilies not so fair ! 
 
 Queen lilies ! and ye painted populace ! 
 Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives ! 
 In morn and evening dew your beauties bathe. 
 And drink the sun which gives your cheeks to glow, 
 And out-blush (mine excepted) ev'ry fair ; 
 You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand. 
 Which often cropt your odors, incense meet 
 To thought so pure ; her flow'ry state of mind 
 In joy unfall'n. Ye lovely fugitives ! 
 Coeval race with man ! for man you smile ; 
 Why not smile at him to ? You share, indeed. 
 His sudden pass, but not his constant pain. 
 So man is made, nought ministers delight. 
 But what his glowing passions can engage ; 
 And glowing passions bent on aught below. 
 Must, soon or late, with anguish turn the scale ; 
 And anguish after rapture, how severe ! 
 Rapture ! bold man ! who tempts the wrath divine. 
 By plucking fruit denied to mortal taste. 
 While here, presuming on the rights of Heav'n. 
 
NIGHT III, 69 
 
 For transport dost thou call on ev'ry hour, 
 Lorenzo ? At thy friend's expense be wise : 
 Lean not on earth : 'twill pierce thee to the heart ; 
 A broken reed at best ; but oft a spear : 
 On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires. 
 
 Turn, hopeless thought ! turn from her : — thought 
 repell'd, 
 Resenting rallies, and wakes ev'ry woe. 
 Snatch'd ere thy prime ! and in thy bridal hour ! 
 And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smil'd ! 
 And when high-flavor'd thy fresh op'ning joys ! 
 And when blind man pronounc'd thy bliss complete ! 
 And on a foreign shore where strangers wept ! 
 Strangers to thee, and, more surprising still, 
 Strangers to kindness, wept. Their eyes let fall 
 Inhuman tears ! strange tears ! that trickled down 
 From marble hearts ! obdurate tenderness ! 
 A tenderness that call'd them more severe. 
 In spite of nature's soft persuasion steel'd ; 
 While nature melted, superstition rav'd ! 
 That mourn'd the dead, and this denied a grave. 
 
 Their sighs incensed ; sighs foreign to the will ! 
 
vo 
 
 THE C OMPL AINT, 
 
 Their will the tiger suck'd, outrag'd the storm : 
 
 For, oh ! the curs'd ungodliness of zeal ! 
 
 While sinful flesh relented, spirit nursed 
 
 In blind infallibility's embrace, 
 
 The sainted spu-it petrified the breast ; 
 
 Denied the charity of dust to spread 
 
 O'er dust ! a charity their dogs enjoy. 
 
 What could I do ? what succor ? what resource ? 
 
 With pious sacrilege a grave I stole ; 
 
 With impious piety that grave I wrong'd : 
 
 Short in my duty, coward in my grief ! 
 
 More like her murderer than friend, I crept 
 
 With soft suspended step, and, muffled deep 
 
 In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last sigh. 
 
 I whisper'd what should echo through their realms : 
 
 Nor writ her name, whose tomb should pierce the skies. 
 
 Presumptuous fear ! how durst I dread her foes. 
 
 While nature's loudest dictates I obey'd ? 
 
 Pardon necessity, blest shade ! of grief 
 
 And indignation rival bursts I pour'd ; 
 
 Half execration mingled with my prayer ; 
 
 Kindled at man, Avhile I his God adored : 
 
NIGHT III. 71 
 
 Sore grudged the savage land her sacred dust ; 
 Stamp'd the cursed soil ; and with humanity 
 (Denied Narcissa) wish'd them all a grave. 
 
 Glows my resentment into guilt ? What guilt 
 Can equal violations of the dead ? 
 The dead how sacred ? Sacred is the dust 
 Of this heav'n-labor'd form, erect, divine ! 
 This heav'n-assumed majestic robe of earth 
 He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse 
 With azure bright, and clothed the sun in gold. 
 When ev'ry passion sleeps that can offend ; 
 When strikes us ev'ry motive that can melt ; 
 When man can wreak his rancor uncontroll'd. 
 That strongest curb on insult and ill-will ; 
 Then, spleen to dust ? the dust of innocence ? 
 An angel's dust ! This Lucifer transcends ; 
 When he contended for the patriarch's bones. 
 'Twas not the strife of mahce, but of pride ; 
 The strife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall. 
 
 Far less than this is shocking in a race 
 Most wretched, but from streams of mutual love ; 
 And uncreated, but for love divine ; 
 
'72 THE C OMPLAIN T. 
 
 And but for love divine, this moment lost, 
 By fate resorb'd, and sunk in endless night. 
 Man hard of heart to man ! of horrid things 
 Most horrid ! 'mid stupendous, highly strange ! 
 Yet oft his courtesies are smoother wrongs ; 
 Pride brandishes the favors he confers. 
 And contumelious his humanity : 
 What then his vengeance ? Hear it not, ye stars ! 
 And thou, pale moon ! turn paler at the sound ; 
 Man is to man the sorest, surest ill. 
 A previous blast foretells the rising storm ; 
 O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall ; 
 Volcanoes bellow ere they disembogue ; 
 Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour; 
 And smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire : 
 Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near. 
 And sends the dreadful tidings in the blov/. 
 Is this the flight of fancy ? Would it were ! 
 Heav'n's Sovereio^n saves all being-s, but himself. 
 That hideous sight, a naked human heart. 
 
 Fir'd is the muse ? And let the muse be fir'd • 
 Who not inflam'd, when what he speaks he feels, 
 
NIGHT III. Is 
 
 And in the nerve most tender, in his friends ? 
 
 Shame to mankind ! Philander had his foes ; 
 
 He felt the truths I sing, and I in him : 
 
 But he nor I feel more. Past ills, Narcissa ! 
 
 Are sunk in thee, thou recent wound of heart ! 
 
 Which bleeds Avith other cares, with other pangs ; 
 
 Pangs num'rous as the num'rous ills that swarm'd 
 
 O'er thy distinguish'd fate, and, clust'ring there. 
 
 Thick as the locust on the land of Nile, 
 
 Made death more deadly, and more dark the grave. 
 
 Reflect (if not forgot my touching tale) 
 
 How was each circumstance with aspics arni'd ? 
 
 An aspic, each ; and all, an hydra-woe. 
 
 What strong Herculean virtue could suffice ? — 
 
 Or is it virtue to be conquer'd here ? 
 
 This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews ; 
 
 And each tear mourns its own distinct distress ; 
 
 And each distress, distinctly mourn'd, demands 
 
 Of grief still more, as heightened by the whole, 
 
 A grief like this proprietors excludes : 
 
 Not friends alone such obsequies deplore ; 
 
 They make mankind the mourner ; carry sighs 
 
^4 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way. 
 
 And turn the gayest thought of gayest age, 
 
 Down their right channel, through the vale of death. 
 
 The vale of death ! that hush'd Cimmerian vale. 
 Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd fates. 
 With raven wing incumbent, waits the day 
 (Dread day !) that interdicts all future change. 
 That subterranean world, that land of ruin ! 
 Fit walk, Lorenzo, for proud human thought ! 
 There let my thought expatiate ; and explore 
 Balsamic truths, and healing sentiments, 
 Of all most wanted, and most welcome here. 
 For gay Lorenzo's sake, and for thy own. 
 My soul ! "the fruits of dying friends survey ; 
 Expose the vain of life ; weigh life and death : 
 Give death his eulogy ; thy fear subdued ; 
 And labor that first palm of noble minds, 
 A manly scorn of terror from the tomb." 
 
 This harvest reap from thy Narcissa's grave, 
 As poets feign 'd from Ajax' streaming blood 
 Arose, with grief inscrib'd, a mournful flow'r; 
 Let wisdom blossom from my mortal wound. 
 
N I G H T 1 1 I . 75 
 
 And first, of dying friends ; what fruit from these ? 
 
 It brings us more than triple aid ; an aid 
 
 To chase our thoughtlessness, fear, pride, and guilt. 
 
 Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, 
 To damp our brainless ardors ; and abate 
 That glare of life, which often blinds the wise. 
 Our dying friends are pioneers, to smoothe 
 Our rugged pass to death ; to break those bars 
 Of terror, and abhorrence, nature throws 
 Cross our obstructed way ; and, thus, to make 
 Welcome, as safe, our port from ev'ry storm. 
 Each friend by fate snatch'd from us, is a plume 
 Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity. 
 Which makes us stoop from our aereal heights. 
 And, damp'd with omen of our own decease. 
 On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd. 
 Just skim earth's surface, ere we break it up. 
 O'er putrid pride to scratch a little dust. 
 And save the world a nuisance. Smitten friends 
 Are angels sent on errands full of love ; 
 For us they languish, and for us they die : 
 And shall they languish, shall they die in vain ? 
 
V6 THE C OMPLAINT. 
 
 Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hov'ring shades, 
 Which wait the revolution in our hearts ? 
 Shall we disdain their silent, soft address ; 
 Their posthumous advice, and pious prayer ? 
 Senseless, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves. 
 Tread under foot their agonies and groans ; 
 Frustrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths ? 
 
 Lorenzo ! no ; the thought of death indulge ; 
 Give it its wholesome empire ; let it reign, 
 That kind chastiser of the soul to joy ! 
 Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far. 
 And still the tumults of thy ruffled breast : 
 Auspicious era ! golden days, begin ! 
 The thought of death, shall, hke a god, inspire. 
 And why not think of death ? Is life the theme 
 Of ev'ry thought ? and wish of ev'ry hour ? 
 And song of ev'ry joy ? Surprising truth ! 
 The beaten spaniel's fondness not so strange. 
 To wave the numerous ills that seize on life 
 As their own property, their lawful prey ; 
 Ere man has moasur'd half his weary stage, 
 His luxuries have left him no reserve. 
 
NIGHT III. 77 
 
 No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights ; 
 On cold-served repetitions he subsists, 
 And in the tasteless present chews the past ; 
 Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down. 
 Like lavish ancestors, his earher years 
 Have disinherited his future hours, 
 Which starve on orts, and glean their former field. 
 Live ever here, Lorenzo ? — shocking thought 1 ■ 
 So shocking, they who wish, disown it too ; 
 Disown from shame, what they from folly crave. 
 Live ever in the womb, nor see the light ? 
 For what live ever here ? — with laboring step 
 To tread our former footsteps ? pace the round 
 Eternal ? to climb daily life's worn wheel, 
 Which draws up nothing new ? to beat and beat, 
 The beaten track ? to bid each wretched day 
 The former mock ? to surfeit on the same. 
 And yawn our joys ? or thank a misery 
 For change, though sad ? to see what we have seen ? 
 Hear, till unheard, the same old slabber'd tale ? 
 To taste the tasted, and at each return 
 Less tasteful ? o'er our palates to decani, 
 
18 
 
 THE C OMP LAINT. 
 
 Another vintage ? strain a flatter year. 
 Through loaded vessels, and a laxer tone ? 
 Crazy machines to grind earth's wasted fruits ! 
 Ill-ground, and worse concocted ! load, not life ! 
 The rational foul kennels of excess ! 
 Still-streaming thoroughfares of dull debauch 
 Trembling each gulp, lest death should snatch the 
 bowl. 
 Such of our fine ones is the wish refin'd ! 
 So would they have it : elegant desire ! 
 Why not invite the bellowing stalls, and wilds ? 
 But such examples might their riot awe. 
 Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought, 
 (Though on bright tliought they father all their flights) 
 To what are they reduced ? To love, and hate, 
 The same vain world ; to censure, and espouse. 
 This painted shrew of life, who calls them fool 
 Each moment of each day ; to flatter bad 
 Through dread of worse ; to cling to this rude rock, 
 Barren, to them, of good, and sharp with ills. 
 And hourly blacken'd with impending storms, 
 And infamous for wrecks of human hope- 
 
NIGHT III. 79 
 
 Scar'd at the gloomy gulf, that yawns beneath. 
 Such are their triumphs ! such their pangs of joy ! 
 
 'Tis time, high time to shift this dismal scene. 
 This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure ? 
 One only ; but that one, what all may reach ; 
 Virtue — she, wonder-working goddess ! charms 
 That rock to bloom ; and tames the painted shrew ; 
 And what will more surprise, Lorenzo ! gives 
 To life's sick, nauseous iteration, change ; 
 And straitens nature's circle to a line. 
 Believ'st thou this, Lorenzo ? lend an ear, 
 A patient ear, thou 'It blush to disbelieve. 
 
 A languid, leaden iteration reigns. 
 And ever must, o'er those, whose joys are joys 
 Of sight, smell, taste ; the cuckoo-seasons sing 
 The same dull note to such as nothing prize, 
 But what those seasons, from the teeming earth, 
 To doatinir sense induVe. But nobler minds. 
 Which relish fruits unripen'd by the sun. 
 Make their days various ; various as the dyes 
 On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays. 
 On minds of dove-like innocence possess'd, 
 
80 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 On light'ned minds, that bask in virtue's beams, 
 Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves 
 In that, for which they long ; for which they live. 
 Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heav'nly hope. 
 Each rising morning sees still higher rise ; 
 Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents 
 To worth maturing, new strength, lustre, fame ; 
 While nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel 
 Rolling beneath their elevated aims. 
 Makes their fair prospect fairer ev'ry hour ; 
 Advancing virtue in a line to bliss ; 
 Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire ! 
 And bliss, which Christian schemes alone ensure ! 
 And shall we then, for virtue's sake, commence 
 Apostates ? and turn infidels for joy ? 
 A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer trust, 
 " He sins against this life, who slights the next." 
 What is this life ? how few their fav'rite know ? 
 Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace. 
 By passionately loving life we make 
 Lov'd life unlovely ; hugging her to death. 
 I We give to time eternity's regard ; 
 
NIGHT III. 81 
 
 And dreaming, take our passage for our port. 
 Life has no value as an end, but means ; 
 An end deplorable ! a means divine ! 
 When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing ; worse than nought ; 
 A nest of pains ; when held as nothing, much ; 
 Like some fair hum'rists, life is most enjoy'd, 
 When courted least ; most worth, when disesteem'd ; 
 Then 'tis the seat of comfort, rich in peace ; 
 In prospect, richer far ; important ! awful ! 
 Not to be mention'd but with shouts of praise ! 
 ITot to be thought on, but with tides of joy! 
 The mighty basis of eternal bliss ! 
 
 Where now the barren rock ? the painted shrew ? 
 Where now, Lorenzo ! life's eternal round ? 
 Have I not made my triple promise good ? 
 Tain is the world ; but only to the vain. 
 To what compare we then this varying scene. 
 Whose worth ambiguous rises, and declines ? 
 Waxes, and wanes ? (in all propitious. Night, 
 Assist me here) compare it to the moon ; 
 Dark in herself, and indigent ; but rich 
 In borrow'd lustre from a higher sphere : 
 
82 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 When gross guilt interposes, laboring earth, 
 O'ershadow'd, mourns a deep eclipse of joy ; 
 Her joys, at brightest, pallid, to that font 
 Of full effulgent glory, whence they flow. 
 
 Nor is that glory distant : oh Lorenzo ! 
 A good man, and an angel ! These between 
 How thin the barrier ? what divides their fate ? 
 Perhaps a moment ; or perhaps a year ; 
 Or, if an age, it is a moment still ; 
 A moment, or eternity 's forgot. 
 Then be, what once they were, who now are gods : 
 Be what Philander was, and claim the skies. 
 Starts timid Nature at the gloomy pass ? 
 The soft transition call it ; and be cheer'd : 
 Such it is often, and why not to thee ? 
 To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise ; 
 And may itself procure, what it presumes. 
 Life is much flatter'd. Death is much traduc'd ; 
 Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown. 
 " Strange competition !" — True, Lorenzo ! strange ! 
 So little life can cast into the scale. 
 
 Life makes the soul dependent on the dust ; 
 
N I G H T 1 1 I . 83 
 
 Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. 
 Through chinks, styl'd organs, dim life peeps at hglu 
 Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day ; 
 All eye, all ear, the disembodied power. 
 Death has feign'd evils, Nature shall not feel ; 
 Life, ills substantial, wisdom cannot shun. 
 Is not the mighty mind, that son of Heaven ! 
 By tyrant life dethron'd, imprison'd, pain'd ? 
 By death enlarg'd, ennobled, deified ? 
 Death but intombs the body ; life the soul. 
 
 " Is death then guiltless ? How he marks his way 
 With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine ! 
 Art, genius, fortune, elevated power ! 
 With various lustres these light up the world, 
 Which death puts out, and darkens human race." 
 I grant, Lorenzo ! this indictment just : 
 The sage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror ! 
 Death humbles these ; more barb'rous life, the man. 
 Life is the triumph of our mould'ring clay ; 
 Death of the spirit infinite ! divine ! 
 Death has no dread, but what frail life imparts ; 
 Nor life true joy, but what kind death improves. 
 
84 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 No bliss has life to boast, till death can give 
 Far greater ; life 's a debtor to the grave, 
 Dark lattice ! letting in eternal day. 
 
 Lorenzo ! blush at fondness for a life 
 Which sends celestial souls on errands vile, 
 To cater for the sense ; and serve at boards. 
 Where ev'ry ranger of the wilds, perhaps 
 Each reptile, justly claims our upper hand. 
 Luxurious feast ! a soul, a soul immortal. 
 In all the dainties of a brute bemir'd ! 
 Lorenzo ! blush at terror for a death. 
 Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers. 
 Where nectars sparkle, angels minister. 
 And more than angels share, and raise, and crown, 
 And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss. 
 What need I more ? death, the palm is thine. 
 
 Then welcome, death ! thy dreaded harbingers. 
 Age, and disease ; disease, though long my guest ; 
 That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life ; 
 Which, pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell. 
 That calls my few friends to my funeral ; 
 Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear, 
 
NIGHTIII. 85 
 
 While reason and religion, better taught, 
 Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb 
 With wreath triumphant. Death is victory ; 
 It binds in chains the rao^inor ills of life : 
 Lust and ambition, wrath and avarice, 
 Dragg'd at his chariot -wheel, applaud his powers. 
 That ills corrosive, cares importunate, 
 Are not immortal too, O death! is thine. 
 Our day of dissolution ! — name it right ; 
 'Tis our great pay-day ; 'tis our harvest, rich 
 And ripe : what tho' the sickle, sometimes keen, 
 Just scars us, as we reap the golden grain ? 
 More than thy balm, Gilead ! heals the wound. 
 Birth's feeble cry, and death's deep dismal groan, 
 Are slender tributes low-tax'd Nature pays 
 For mighty gain : the gain of each, a life ! 
 But ! the last the former so transcends. 
 Life dies, compar'd ; life lives beyond the grave. 
 And feel I, Death ! no joy from thought of thee ? 
 Death, the great counsellor, who man inspires 
 With ev'ry nobler thought, and fairer deed ! 
 Death, the deliverer, who rescues man ! 
 
86 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Death, the rewarder, who the rescu'd crowns ! 
 
 Death, that absolves my birth ; a curse without it ! 
 
 Rich death, that realizes all my cares. 
 
 Toils, virtues, hopes ! without it, a chimera ! 
 
 Death, of all pain the period, not of joy : 
 
 Joy's source, and subject, still subsist unhurt ; 
 
 One, in my soul ; and one, in her great sire ; 
 
 Tho' the four winds were warring for my dust. 
 
 Yes, and from winds, and waves, and central night, 
 
 Tho' prison'd there, my dust too I reclaim, 
 
 (To dust when drop proud Nature's proudest spheres) 
 
 And live entire. Death is the crown of h fe : 
 
 Was death denied, poor man would hve in vain ; 
 
 Was death deny'd, to live would not be life ; 
 
 Was death denied, ev'n fools would wish to die. 
 
 Death wounds to cure : we fall ; we rise ; we reign ! 
 
 Spring from our fetters ; fasten in the skies ; 
 
 Where blooming Eden withers in our sight : 
 
 Death gives us more than was in Eden lost. 
 
 This king of terrors is the prince of peace. 
 
 When shall I die to vanity, pain, death ? 
 
 When shall I die, — when shall I hve forever ? 
 
NIGHT IV. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH : 
 
 CONTAINING OUR ONLY CURE FOR THE FEAR OF DEATH J 
 
 AND PROPER SENTIMENTS OF HEART ON THAT 
 
 INESTIMABLE OCCASION. 
 
 TO THE HONORABLE MR. TORKE. 
 
 A MUCH-INDEBTED musc, Yorke ! intrudes. 
 Amid the smiles of fortune, and of youth, 
 Thine ear is patient of a serious song. 
 How deep implanted in the breast of man 
 The dread of Death ? I sing its sov'reign cure. 
 
 Why start at Death ? Where is he ? Death arriv'dj 
 Is past ; not come, or gone, he 's never here, 
 Ere hope, sensation fails ; black-boding man 
 Receives, not suffers death's tremendous blow. 
 The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave ; 
 
88 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 ^V'T The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm 
 These are the bugbears of a winter's eve, 
 The terrors of the living, not the dead. 
 Imagination's fool, and error's wretch, 
 Man makes a death, which Nature never made ; 
 Then on the point of his own fancy falls ; 
 And feels a thousand deaths, in fearing one. 
 
 But was Death frightful, what has Age to fear ? 
 If prudent. Age should meet the friendly foe, 
 And shelter in his hospitable gloom. 
 I scarce can meet a monument, but holds 
 My younger ; every date cries — " Come away." 
 And what recalls me ? look the world around, 
 And tell me what ? The Avisest cannot tell. 
 Shoidd any born of woman give his thought 
 Full range, on just dislike's unbounded field ; 
 Of things, the vanity ; of men, the flaws ; 
 Flaws in the best ; the many, flaw all o'er, 
 As leopards spotted, or, as Ethiops, dark ; 
 Vivacious ill ; good dying immature ; 
 (How immature, Narcissa's marble tells) 
 And at its death bequeathing endless pain ; 
 
N I G H T I V . 89 
 
 His heart, tho' bold, would sicken at the sight, 
 And spend itself in sighs for future scenes. 
 
 But grant to life (and just it is to grant 
 To lucky life) some perquisites of joy ; 
 A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale. 
 And that of no great moment, or delight, 
 Long-rifled, life of sweet can yield no more, 
 But from our comment on the comedy. 
 Pleasing reflections on parts well sustain'd, 
 Or purpos'd emendations where we fail'd. 
 Or hopes of plaudits from our candid judge. 
 When, on their exit, souls are bid unrobe, 
 Toss fortune back her tinsel, and her plume. 
 And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene. 
 
 With me that time is come ; my world is dead ; 
 A new world rises, and new manners reign : 
 Foreign comedians, a spruce band ! arrive, 
 To push me from the scene, or hiss me there. 
 What a pert race starts up ! the strangers gaze, 
 And I at them ; my neighbor is unknown ; 
 Kor that the worst : ah me ! the dire eff"ect 
 Of loit'ring here, of death defrauded long ; 
 
90 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Of old SO gracious (and let that suffice), 
 My very master knows me not. 
 
 Shall I dare say, peculiar is the fate ? 
 I've been so long reraember'd, I'm forgot. 
 An object ever pressing dims the sight. 
 And hides behind its ardor to be seen. 
 When in his courtiers' ears I pour my plaint, 
 They drink it as the nectar of the great ; 
 And squeze my hand, and beg me come to-morrow ! 
 Refusal ! canst thou wear a smoother form ? 
 
 Indulge me, nor conceive I drop my theme : 
 Who cheapens life, abates the fear of death : 
 Twice-told the period spent on stubborn Troy, 
 Court-favor, yet untaken, I besiege ; 
 Ambition's ill-judg'd effort to be rich. 
 Alas ! ambition makes my little, less ; 
 Embitt'ring the possess'd. Why wish for more ? 
 Wisliing, of all employments, is the worst ; 
 Philosophy's reverse ! and health's decay ! 
 Was I as plump, as stall'd theology. 
 Wishing would waste me to this shade again. 
 Was I as wealthy as a South-Sea dream. 
 
NIGHT IV. 91 
 
 Wishing is an expedient to be poor. 
 Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool ; 
 Caught at a coui't ; purg'd off by purer air, 
 And simpler diet ; gifts of rural life ! 
 
 Blest be that Hand divine, which gently laid 
 My heart at rest, beneath this humble shed. 
 The world 's a stately bark, on dang'rous seas, 
 With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril : 
 Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, 
 I hear the tumult of the distant throng. 
 As that of seas remote, or dying storms ; 
 And meditate on scenes more silent still ; 
 Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death. 
 Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut. 
 Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff. 
 Eager ambition's fiery chase I see ; 
 I see the circling hunt, of noisy men, 
 Burst law's inclosure, leap the mounds of right, 
 Pursuing, and pursued, each other's prey ; 
 As wolves, for rapine ; as the fox, for wiles ; 
 Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all. 
 
 Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour ? 
 
92 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 What, tho' we wade in wealth, or soar in fame ? 
 Earth's highest station ends in, " Here he lies ;" 
 And " Dust to dust" concludes her noblest song. 
 If this song lives, posterity shall know 
 One, tho' in Britain born, with courtiers bred. 
 Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late ; 
 Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme 
 For future vacancies in church or state ; 
 
 Some avocation deeming it to die ; 
 
 Unbit by rage canine of dying rich ; 
 
 Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of Hell. 
 
 my coevals ! remnants of yourselves ! 
 Poor human ruins, tott'ring o'er the grave ! 
 Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees. 
 Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling. 
 Still more enamor'd of this wretched soil ? 
 Shall our pale, wither'd hands be still stretch'd out, 
 Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age ? 
 With av'rice, and convulsions grasping hard ? 
 Grasping at air ! for what has earth beside ? 
 Man wants but little ; nor that little, long ; 
 How soon must he resign his very dust ; 
 
NIGHTIV. 93 
 
 Which frugal Nature lent him for an hour ! 
 Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous ills ; 
 And soon as man, expert from time, has found 
 The key of life, it opes the gates of death. 
 
 When in this vale of years I backward look. 
 And miss such numbers, numbers too of such, 
 Firmer in health, and greener in their age, 
 And stricter on their guard, and fitter far 
 To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe 
 I still survive. And am I fond of life. 
 Who scarce can think it possible, I live ? 
 Alive by miracle ! or, what is next. 
 Alive by Mead ! if I am still aUve, 
 Who long have buried what gives life to Uve, 
 Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought. 
 Life's lee is not more shallow, than impure. 
 And vapid ; sense and reason show the door, 
 Call for my bier, and point me to the dust. 
 
 thou great Arbiter of life and death ! 
 Nature's immortal, immaterial sun ! 
 Whose all-prohfic beam late call'd me forth 
 From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay 
 
I 
 
 94 THECOMPLAINT 
 
 The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath 
 The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, 
 To diink the spirit of the golden day. 
 And triumph in existence ; and couldst know 
 No motive, but my bhss ; and hast ordain'd 
 A rise in blessing ! with the patriarch's joy, 
 Thy call I follow to the land unknown ; 
 I trust in thee, and know in whom I trust ; 
 Or life, or death, is equal ; neither weighs ; 
 All weight in this — let me live to Thee ! 
 
 Though nature's terrors thus may be represt. 
 Still frowns grim Death ; Guilt points the tyrant's 
 
 spear . 
 And whence all human guilt ? from Death forgot. 
 Ah me ! too long I set at nought the swarm 
 Of friendly warnings, which around me flew ; 
 And smil'd, unsmitten : small my cause to smile ! 
 Death's admonitons, like shafts upwards shot. 
 More dreadful by delay, the longer ere 
 They strike our hearts, the deeper is their wound. 
 think how deep, Lorenzo ! here it stings : 
 Who can appease its anguish ? how it burns ! 
 
NIGHT IV. 95 
 
 What hand the barb'd, envenom'd thought can draw ? 
 What healing hand can pour the balm of peace ? 
 And turn my sight undaunted on the tomb ? 
 
 With joy, — with grief, that healing hand I see ; 
 Ah ! too conspicuous ! it is fix'd on high. 
 On high ? — What means my phrensy ? I blaspheme ; 
 Alas ! how low ! how far beneath the skies ? 
 The skies it form'd ; and now it bleeds for me — 
 But bleeds the balm I want — yet still it bleeds ; 
 Draw the dire steel — Ah no ! — the dreadful blessing 
 What heart or can sustain, or dares forego ? 
 There hangs all human hope : that nail supports 
 Our falling universe : That gone, we drop ; 
 Horror receives us, and the dismal wish 
 Creation had been smother' d in her birth — 
 Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust ; 
 When stars and sun are dust beneath his throne ! 
 in heav'n itself can such indulgence dwell ? 
 what a groan was there ? a groan not his. 
 He seiz'd our dreadful right ; the load sustain'd ; 
 And heav'd the mountain from a guilty world. 
 A thousand worlds, so bought, were bought too dear. 
 
96 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Sensations new in angels' bosoms rise : 
 Suspend their song ; and make a pause in bliss. 
 
 for their song to reach my lofty theme ! 
 Inspire me, Night ! with all thy tuneful spheres inspire 
 Whilst I with seraphs, share seraphic themes. 
 And show to men, the dignity of man ; 
 Lest I blaspheme my subject with my song. 
 Shall pagan pages glow celestial flame, 
 And Christian languish ? on our hearts, not heads. 
 Falls the foul infamy : my heart ! awake. 
 What can awake thee, unawak'd by this, 
 "Expended Deity on human weal ?" 
 Feel the great truths, which burst the tenfold night 
 Of heathen error, with a golden flood 
 Of endless day : to feel, is to be fir'd ; 
 And to believe, Lorenzo ! is to feel. 
 
 Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Power ! 
 Still more tremendous, for thy wond'rous love ! 
 That arms, with awe more awful, thy commands ; 
 And foul ti-ansgression dips in sevenfold night ; 
 How our hearts tremble at thy love immense ! 
 In love immense, inviolably just ! 
 
NIGHT IV. 97 
 
 Thou, rather than thy justice should be stain'd 
 Didst stain the cross ; and, work of wonders, far 
 The greatest, that thy dearest far might bleed. 
 
 Bold thought ! shall I dare speak it ? or repress ? 
 Should man more execrate, or boast, the guilt 
 Which rous'd such vengeance? which such love in- 
 
 flam'd? 
 O'er guilt (how mountainous !) with outstretch'd arms. 
 Stern justice, and soft-smiling love, embrace. 
 Supporting, in full majesty, thy throne. 
 When seem'd its majesty to need support. 
 Or that, or man, inevitably lost. 
 What, but the fathomless of thought divine. 
 Could labor such expedient from despair. 
 And rescue both ? both rescue ! both exalt ! 
 how are both exalted by the deed ! 
 The wond'rous deed ! or shall I call it more ? 
 A wonder in omnipotence itself! 
 A mystery, no less to gods than men ! 
 
 Not, thus, our infidels th' Eternal draw, 
 A God all o'er, consummate, absolute, 
 Full-orb'd, in his whole round of rays complete ; 
 
98 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 They set at odds Heav'n's jarring attributes ; 
 And, with one excellence, another wound ; 
 Maim Heav'n's perfection, break its equal beams, 
 Bid Mercy triumph over — God himself, 
 Undeified by their opprobrious praise : 
 A God all mercy, is a God unjust. 
 
 Ye brainless wits ! ye baptiz'd infidels ! 
 Ye worse for mending ! wash'd to fouler stains ! 
 The ransom was paid down ; the fund of Heaven, 
 Heav'n's inexhaustible, exhausted fund. 
 Amazing, and amaz'd, pour'd forth the price, 
 All price beyond : though curious to compute, 
 Archangels fail'd to cast the mighty sum : 
 Its value vast, ungrasp'd by minds create, 
 Forever hides, and glows in, the Supreme. 
 
 And was the ransom paid ? It was : and paid 
 (What can exalt the bounty more ?) for you. 
 The sun beheld it — no, the shocking scene 
 Drove back his chariot : midnight veil'd his face ; 
 Not such as this ; not such as Nature makes ; 
 A midnight Nature shudder'd to behold ; 
 A midnight new ! a dread eclipse (without 
 
N I G H T I V , 99 
 
 Opposing spheres) from her Creator's frown ! 
 Sun ! didst thou fly thy Maker's pain ? or start 
 At that enormous load of human guilt, 
 Which bow'd his blessed head ; o'erwhelm'd his cross ; 
 Made groan the centre ; burst earth's marble womb, 
 With pangs, strange pangs ! deliver'd of her dead ? 
 Hell howl'd ; and Heav'n that hour let fall a tear; 
 Heav'n wept, that men might smile ! Heav'n bled, that 
 man 
 
 Might never die ! 
 
 And is devotion virtue ? 'Tis compell'd : 
 What heart of stone, but glows at thoughts like these ? 
 Such contemplations mount us ; and should mount 
 The mind still higher ; nor ever glance on man, 
 Unraptur'd, uninflam'd. — Where roll my thoughts 
 To rest from wonders ? other wonders rise ; 
 And strike where'er they roll : my soul is caught : 
 Heav'n's sov'reign blessings, clust'ring from the cross, 
 Rush on her in a throng, and close her round. 
 The pris'ner of amaze ! — In His blest life, 
 I see the path, and in His death the price. 
 And in His great ascent, the proof supreme 
 
100 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Of immortality. — And did He rise ? 
 Hear, O ye nations ! hear it, ye dead ! 
 He rose ! He rose ! He burst the bars of death. 
 Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates ! 
 And give the King of Glory to come in ! 
 Who is the King of Glory ? He who left 
 His Throne of Glory, for the pang of death : 
 Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates ! 
 And give the King of Glory to come in. 
 Who is the King of Glory ? He who slew 
 The rav'nous foe, that gorg'd all human race ! 
 The King of Glory, He, whose glory till'd 
 Heav'n with amazement at his love to man ; 
 And with divine complacency beheld 
 Pow'rs most illumin'd, wilder'd in the theme. 
 
 The theme, the joy, how then shall man sustain ? 
 Oh the burst gates ! crush'd sting ! demolish'd throne ! 
 Last gasp ! of vanquish'd Death. Shout earth and 
 
 heaven ! 
 This sum of good to man : whose nature, then, 
 Took wing, and mounted with him from the tomb ! 
 Then, then, I rose; then first humanity 
 
NIGHT I^'. rot 
 
 Triumphant pass'd the ciystal ports of light, 
 (Stupendous guest !) and seiz'd eternal youth, 
 Seiz'd in our name. E'er since 'tis blasphemous 
 To call man mortal. Man's mortality 
 Was, then, transferr'd to death ; and heav'n's duration 
 "[Inalienably seal'd to this frail frame. 
 This child of dust. — Man, all immortal, hail ! 
 Hail, Heav'n ! all-lavish of strange gifts to man ! 
 Thine all the glory ; man's the boundless bliss. 
 Where am I rapt by this triumphant theme, 
 On Chiistian joy's^exulting wing, above 
 Th' Aonian mount ? — Alas, small cause for joy ! 
 What if to pain, immortal ? If extent 
 Of being, to preclude a close of woe ? 
 Where, then, my boast of immortality ? ^ 
 
 I boast it still, though cover'd o'er with guilt : 
 For guilt, not innocence. His life He pour'd ; 
 'T is guilt alone can justify His death ; 
 Nor that, unless His death can justify 
 Relenting guilt in Heaven's indulgent sight. 
 If, sick of folly, I relent ; He writes 
 My name in Heav'n, with that inverted spear 
 
1^2 TKEdOMPLAINT. 
 
 (A spear deep dipt in blood !) which pierc'd His side. 
 And open'd there a font for all mankind 
 Who strive, who combat crimes, to drink, and live: 
 This, only this, subdues the fear of death. 
 
 And what is this ? — Survey the wond'rous cure ; 
 And at each step, let higher wonder rise ! 
 ** Pardon for infinite offence ! and pardon 
 Through means that speak its value infinite ! 
 A pardon bought with blood ! with blood divine ! 
 With blood divine of Him I made my foe ! 
 Persisted to provoke ! though woo'd, and aw'd. 
 Blest, and chastis'd, a flagrant rebel still ! 
 A rebel 'midst the thunders of his throne ! 
 Nor I alone ! a rebel universe ! 
 My species up in arms ! not one exempt ! 
 Yet for the foulest of the foul. He dies. 
 Most joy'd for the redeem'd from deepest guilt ! 
 As if our race was held of highest rank ; 
 And Godhead dearer, as more kind to man !" 
 
 Bound, ev'ry heart ! and, ev'ry bosom, burn ! 
 Oh what a scale of miracles is here ! 
 Its lowest round, high-planted on the skies ; 
 
NIGHT IV. lOJ 
 
 Its tow'ring summit lost beyond the thought 
 Of man or angel ! Oh that I could climb 
 The wonderful ascent, with equal praise ! 
 Praise ! flow forever, (if astonishment 
 Will give thee leave) my praise ! forever flow ; 
 Praise ardent, cordial, constant, to high heav'n 
 More fragrant than Arabia sacrific'd. 
 And all her spicy mountains in a flame. 
 
 So dear, so due to heav'n, shall praise descend 
 With her soft plume, (from plausive angel's wing 
 Fii'st pluck'd by man) to tickle mortal ears. 
 Thus diving in the pockets of the great ? 
 Is praise the perquisite of ev'ry paw. 
 Though black as Hell, that grapples well for gold ? 
 Oh love of gold ! thou meanest of amours ! 
 Shall praise her odors waste on Virtue's dead. 
 Embalm the base, perfume the stench of guilt. 
 Earn dirty bread by washmg Ethiops fair, 
 Removing filth, or sinking it from sight, 
 A scavenger in scenes where vacant posts, 
 Like gibbets yet untenanted, expect 
 Their future ornaments ? from courts and thrones, 
 
104 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Return, apostate praise ! Thou vagabond ! 
 Thou prostitute ! to thy first Love return, 
 Thy first, thy greatest, once unrivall'd theme. 
 
 There How redundant ; hke Meander flow, 
 Back to thy fountain ; to that Parent Power, 
 Who gives the tongue to sound, the thought to soar, 
 The soul to be. Men homage pay to men. 
 Thoughtless beneath whose dreadful eye they bow 
 In mutual awe profound, of clay to clay, 
 Of guilt to guilt, and turn their backs on thee, 
 Great Sire ! whom thrones celestial ceaseless sing ; 
 To prostrate angels, an amazing scene ! 
 O the presumption of man's awe for man ! 
 Man's Author ! End ! Restorer ! Law ! and Judge ! 
 Thine, all ; day thine, and thine this gloom of night, 
 With all her wealth, with all her radiant worlds : 
 What, night eternal, but a frown from thee ? 
 What, Heav'n's meridian glory, but thy smile ? 
 And shall not praise be thine ? not human praise ? 
 While Heav'n's high host on hallelujahs live ? 
 
 may I breathe no longer, than I breathe 
 My soul in praise to him who gave my soul, 
 
NIGHT IV. 105 
 
 And all her infinite of prospect fah% 
 
 Cut thro' the shades of hell, great Love ! by thee ! 
 
 Oh most adorable ! most imador'd ! 
 
 Where shall that praise begin, which ne'er should end ? 
 
 Where'er I turn, what claim on all applause ! 
 
 How is night's sable mantle labor'd o'er. 
 
 How richly wrought, with attributes divine ! 
 
 What wisdom shines ! what love ! this midnight pomp, 
 
 This gorgeous arch, with golden worlds inlay 'd ! 
 
 Built with divine ambition ! nought to thee ; 
 
 For others this profusion : thou, apart. 
 
 Above, beyond ! Oh tell me, mighty mind ! 
 
 Where art thou ? shall I dive into the deep ? 
 
 Call to the sun, or ask the roaring winds. 
 
 For their Creator ? shall I question loud 
 
 The thunder, if in that th' Almighty dwells ? 
 
 Or holds He furious storms in sti-aighten'd reins. 
 
 And bids fierce whirlwinds wheel his rapid car ? 
 
 What mean these questions ? — Trembling I retract : 
 My prostrate soul adores the present God : 
 Praise I a distant Deity ? he tunes 
 My voice (if tun'd) ; the nerve that writes sustains : 
 
106 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Wrapp'd in his being, I resound his praise : 
 But tho' past all diffus'd, without a shore, 
 His essence, local is his throne (as meet,) 
 To gather the dispers'd (as standards call 
 The listed from afar) ; to fix a point, 
 A central point, collective of his sons, 
 Since finite ev'ry nature but his own. 
 
 The nameless He, whose nod is nature's birth ; 
 And nature's shield, the shadow of his hand ; 
 Her dissolution, his suspended smile ! 
 The great First-last ! pavilion'd high he sits 
 In darkness, from excessive splendor, borne. 
 By gods unseen, unless through lustre lost. 
 His glory, to created glory, bright, 
 As that to central horrors ; he looks down 
 On all that soars ; and spans immensity. 
 
 Though night unnumber'd worlds unfolds to view, 
 Boundless creation ! what art thou ? a beam, 
 A mere effluvium of his Majesty : 
 And shall an atom of this atom-world 
 Mutter, in dust and sin, the theme of Pleaven ? 
 Down to the centre should I send my thought 
 
NIGHT IV. 107 
 
 Through beds of glitt'ring ore, and glowing gems, 
 Their beggar'd blaze wants lustre for my lay ; 
 Goes out in darkness. If, on tow'ring wing, 
 I send it throusch the boundless vault of stars ; 
 (The stars, tho' rich, what dross their gold to thee. 
 Great ! good ! wise ! wonderful ! eternal King !) 
 If to those conscious stars thy throne around. 
 Praise ever-pouring, and imbibing bhss ; 
 And ask their strain ; they want it, more they want. 
 Poor their abundance, humble their sublime, 
 Languid their energy, their ardor cold. 
 Indebted still, their highest rapture burns 
 Short of its mark, defective, tho' divine. 
 
 Still more — this theme is man's, and man's alone ; 
 Their vast appointments reach it not : they see 
 On earth a bounty not indulg'd on high ; 
 And downward look for heav'n's superior praise ! 
 First-born of ether ! high in fields of light ! 
 View man, to see the glory of your God ! 
 Could angels envy, they had envy'd here ; 
 And some did envy ; and the rest, tho' gods. 
 Yet still gods unredeemed (there triumphs man. 
 
i08 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 Tempted to weigh the dust against the skies) 
 They less would feel, tho' more adorn, my theme. 
 They sung creation (for in that they shar'd) 
 How rose in melody, the child of love : 
 Creation's great superior, man ! is thine ; 
 Thine is redemption ; they just gave the key : 
 'Tis thine to raise, and eternize, the song ; 
 Tho' human, yet divine ; for should not this 
 Raise man o'er man, and kindle seraphs here ? 
 Redemption ! 'twas creation more sublime ; 
 Redemption ! 'twas the labor of the skies ; 
 Far more than labor — it was death in Heaven. 
 A truth so strange ! 'twere bold to think it true ; 
 If not far bolder still, to disbelieve. 
 
 Here pause, and ponder : was there death in Heav'n ? 
 What then on earth ? on earth, which struck the blow ? 
 Who struck it ? who ! — is man enlarg'd, 
 Seen thro' this medium ? how the pigmy tow'rs ! 
 How counterpois'd his origin from dust ! 
 How counterpois'd, to dust his sad return ! 
 How voided his vast distance from the skies ! 
 How near he presses on the seraph's wing ! 
 
NIGHT IV. 109 
 
 Which is the seraph ? which the born of clay ? 
 How this demonstrates, thro' the thickest cloud 
 Of guilt, and clay condens'd, the son of Heaven ! 
 The double son ; the made, and the re-made ! 
 And shall Heav'n's double property be lost ? 
 Man's double madness only can destroy. 
 To man the bleeding cross has promis'd all ; 
 The bleeding cross has sworn eternal grace ; 
 Who gave his life, what grace shall he deny ? 
 ye ! who, from this rock of ages, leap. 
 Disdainful, plunging headlong in the deep ! 
 What cordial joy, what consolation strong, 
 Whatever winds arise, or billows roll, 
 Our interest in the master of the storm ! 
 Cling there, and in wreck'd nature's ruins smile ; 
 While vile apostates tremble in a calm. 
 
 Man ! know thyself. All wisdom centres there ; 
 To none man seems ignoble, but to man ; 
 Angels that grandeur, men o'erlook, admire : 
 How long shall human nature be their book, 
 Degen'rate mortal ! and unread by thee ? 
 The beam dim reason sheds shows wonders there ; 
 
110 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 What high contents ! illustrious faculties ! 
 But the grand comment, which displays at full 
 Our human height, scarce sever'd from divine. 
 By Heav'n composed, was publish'd on the cross. 
 
 Who looks on that, and sees not in himself 
 An awful stranger, a terrestrial God ? 
 A glorious partner with the deity 
 In that high attribute, immortal life ? 
 If a God bleeds, he bleeds not for a worm : 
 I gaze, and as I gaze, my mounting soul 
 Catches strange fire, eternity ! at thee ; 
 And drops the world — or rather, more enjoys : 
 How chang'd the face of nature ! how improved ! 
 What seem'd a chaos, shines a glorious world. 
 Or, what a world, an Eden ; heigh ten'd all ! 
 It is another scene ! another self ! 
 And still another, as time rolls along ; 
 And that a self far more illustrious still. 
 Beyond long ages, yet roll'd up in shades 
 Unpierc'd by bold conjecture's keenest ray, 
 What evolutions of surprising fate ! 
 How nature opens, and receives my soul 
 
NIGHT IV. Ill 
 
 In boundless walks of raptur'd thought ! where gods 
 Encounter, and embrace me ! What new births 
 Of strange adventure, foreign to the sun. 
 Where what now charms, perhaps, whatever exists, 
 Old time, and fair creation, are forgot ! 
 
 Is this extravagant ? Of man we form 
 Extravagant conception, to be just : 
 Conception unconfin'd wants wing to reach him : 
 Beyond its reach, the godhead only, more. 
 He, the great Father ! kindled at one flame 
 The world of rationals ; one spirit pour'd 
 From Spirit's awful fountain ; pour'd Himself 
 Through all their souls ; but not in equal stream. 
 Profuse, or frugal, of th' inspiring God, 
 As his wise plan demanded ; and when past 
 Their various trials, in their various spheres, 
 If they continue rational, as made, 
 Resorbs them all into Himself again ; 
 His throne their centre, and His smile their crown. 
 
 Why doubt we, then, the glorious truth to sing, 
 Though yet unsung, as deem'd perhaps too bold ? 
 Angels are men of a superior kind ; 
 
112 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Angels are men in lighter habit clad, 
 High o'er celestial mountains wing'd in flight ; 
 And men are angels, loaded for an hour, 
 Who wade this miry vale, and climb with pain, 
 And slipp'ry step, the bottom of the steep. 
 Angels their failings, mortals have their praise ; 
 While here, of corps ethereal, such enroll'd. 
 And summon'd to the glorious standard soon 
 Which flames eternal crimson through the skies. 
 Nor are our brothers thoughtless of their kin, 
 Yet absent ; but not absent from their love. 
 Michael has fought our battles ; Raphael sung 
 Our triumphs ; Gabriel on our errands flown, 
 Sent by the Sov'reign : and are these, man ! 
 Thy friends, thy warm allies ? and thou (shame burn 
 The cheek to cinder !) rival to the brute ? 
 
 Religion 's all. Descending from the skies 
 To wretched man, the goddess in her left 
 Holds out this world, and, in her right, the next ; 
 Religion ! the sole voucher man is man ; 
 Supporter sole of man above himself ; 
 Ev'n in this night of frailty, change, and death, 
 
NIGHT IV. 113 
 
 She gives the soul a soul that acts a god. 
 Religion ! Providence ! an after-state ! 
 Here is firm footing ; here is solid rock ; 
 This can support us ; all is sea besides ; 
 Sinks under us ; bestorms, and then devours. 
 His hand the good man fastens on the skies, 
 And bids earth roll, nor feels her idle whirl. 
 
 As when a wretch, from thick, polluted air. 
 Darkness, and stench, and suffocating damps, 
 And dungeon horrors, by kind fate discharg'd. 
 Climbs some fair eminence, where ether pure 
 Surrounds him, and Elysian prospects rise, 
 His heai't exults, his spirits cast their load ; 
 As if new born, he triumphs in the change ; 
 So joys the soul, when from inglorious aims. 
 And sordid sweets, from feculence and froth 
 Of ties terrestrial, set at large she mounts 
 To reason's region, her own element. 
 Breathes hopes immortal, and affects the skies. 
 
 Religion ! thou the soul of happiness ; 
 And groaning Calvary, of thee ! there shine 
 The noblest truths ; there strongest motives sting 
 
114 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 There, sacred violence assaults the soul ; 
 There, nothing but compassion is forborne. 
 Can love allure us ? or can terror awe ? 
 He weeps ! — the falUng drop puts out the sun : 
 He sighs ! — the sigh earth's deep foundation shakes. 
 If, in his love, so terrible, what then 
 His wrath inflam'd ? his tenderness on fire ? 
 Like soft, smooth oil, outblazing other fires ? 
 Can pray'r, can praise avert it ? — Thou, my all ! 
 My theme ! my inspiration ! and my crown ! 
 My strength in age ! my rise in low estate ! 
 My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth ! — my world ! 
 My light in darkness ! and my life in death ! 
 My boast through time ! bliss through eternity ! 
 Eternity, too short to speak thy praise ! 
 Or fathom thy profound of love to man ! 
 To man of men the meanest, ev'n to me ; 
 My Sacrifice ! my God ! — what things are these ! 
 What then art Thou ? by what name shall I call 
 Thee ? 
 Knew I the Name devout archangels use. 
 Devout archangels should the name enjoy 
 
IGHT IV. 115 
 
 By me unrival'd ; thousands more sublime, 
 None half so dear, as that, which though unspoke, 
 Still glows at heart : how omnipotence 
 Is lost in love ! Thou great philanthropist ! 
 Father of angels ! but the friend of man ! 
 
 I Like Jacob, fondest of the younger born ! 
 
 I Thou, who didst save him, snatch the smoking brand 
 From out the flames, and quench it in Thy blood ! 
 How art thou pleas'd, by bounty to distress ! 
 To make us groan beneath our gratitude. 
 Too big for birth ! to favor, and confound ; 
 To challenge, and to distance, all return ! 
 Of lavish love stupendous heights to soar. 
 And leave praise panting in the distant vale ! 
 Thy right too great defrauds Thee of Thy due ; 
 And sacrileofious our sublimest sonof. 
 But since the naked will obtains thy smile, 
 Beneath this monument of praise unpaid. 
 And future life symphonious to my strain, 
 (That noblest hymn to heaven !) for ever lie 
 Intomb'd by fear of death ! and ev'ry fear, 
 The dread of ev'ry evil, but thy frown. 
 
116 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Whom see I yonder, so demurely smile ? 
 Laughter a labor, and might break their rest. 
 Ye quietists, in homage to the skies ! 
 Serene ! of soft address ! who mildly make 
 An unobtrusive tender of your hearts, 
 Abhorring violence ! who halt indeed ; 
 But, for the blessing, wrestle not with heaven ! 
 Think you my song too turbulent ? too warm ? 
 Are passions, then, the pagans of the soul ? 
 Reason alone baptiz'd ? alone ordain'd 
 To touch things sacred ? oh for warmer still ! 
 Guilt chills my zeal, and age benumbs my powers ; 
 Oh for an humbler heart, and prouder song ! 
 Thou, my much injur'd theme ! with that soft eye, 
 Which melted o'er doom'd Salem, deign to look 
 Compassion to the coldness of my breast ; 
 And pardon to the winter in my strain. 
 
 Oh ye cold-hearted, frozen, formalists ! 
 On such a theme 'tis impious to be calm ; 
 Passion is reason, transport temper, here. 
 Shall Heav'n, which gave us ardor, and has shown 
 Her own for man so strongly, not disdain 
 
NIGHT IV. 117 
 
 What smooth emollients in theology 
 Recumbent virtue's downy doctors preach, 
 That prose of piety, a lukewarm praise ? 
 Rise odors sweet from incense uninflam'd ? 
 Devotion, when lukewarm, is undevout ; 
 But when it glow?, its heat is struck to heaven ; 
 To human hearts her golden harps are strung ; 
 High heav'n's orchestra chaunts amen to man. 
 Hear I, or dream I hear, their distant strain. 
 Sweet to the soul, and tasting strong of heaven, 
 Soft wafted on celestial pity's plume. 
 Through the vast spaces of the universe, 
 To cheer me in this melancholy gloom ? 
 Oh when will death (now stingless,) like a friend. 
 Admit me of their choir ? oh when will death. 
 This mould'ring, old, partition wall throw down ? 
 Give beings, one in nature, one abode ? 
 Oh death divine ! that giv'st us to the skies ! 
 Great future ! glorious patron of the past. 
 And present ! when shall I thy shrine adore ? 
 From nature's continent, immensely wide, 
 Immensely blest, this little isle of life. 
 
118 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 This dark, incarcerating colony, 
 
 Divides us. Happy day ! that breaks our chain ; 
 
 That manumits ; that calls from exile home ; 
 
 That leads to nature's great metropolis, 
 
 And re-admits us, through the guardian hand 
 
 Of elder brothers, to our father's throne ; 
 
 Who hears our advocate, and, through his wounds 
 
 Beholding man, allows that tender name. 
 
 *Tis this makes Christian triumph a command : 
 
 *Tis this makes joy a duty to the wise ; 
 
 'Tis impious, in a good man, to be sad, 
 
 Seest thou, Lorenzo ! where hangs all our hope ? 
 Touch'd by the cross, we live ; or, more than die ; 
 That touch which touch'd not angels ; more divine 
 Than that which touch'd confusion into form. 
 And darkness into glory ; partial touch ! 
 InefFabl}^ pre-eminent regard ! 
 Sacred to man, and sov'reign through the whole 
 Lonof golden chain of miracles, which hangs 
 From heav'n through all duration, and supports. 
 In one illustrious, and amazing plan, 
 Thy welfare, nature ! and thy God's renown ; 
 
NIGHT IV. 119 
 
 That touch, with charm celestial, heals the soul 
 Diseas'd, drives pain from guilt, hghts life in death, 
 Turns earth to heav'n, to heav'nly thrones transforms 
 The ghastly ruins of the mould'ring tomb. 
 
 Dost ask me when ? when he who died returns ? 
 Returns, how chang'd ! where then the man of woe ? 
 In glory's terrors all the Godhead burns ; 
 And all his courts, exhausted by the tide 
 Of Deities triumphant in his train. 
 Leave a stupendous solitude in Heaven ; 
 Replenish'd soon ; replenish'd with increase 
 Of pomp, and multitude ; a radiant band 
 Of angels new ; of angels from the tomb. 
 
 Is this by fancy thrown remote ? and rise 
 Dark doubts between the promise and event ? 
 I send thee not to volumes for thy cure ; 
 Read nature ; nature is a friend to truth ; 
 Nature is Christian ; preaches to mankind ; 
 And bids dead matter aid us in our creed. 
 Hast thou ne'er seen the comet's flaming flight ? 
 Th' illustrious stranger passing, terror sheds 
 On gazing nations, from his fiery train 
 
120 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Of length enormous ; takes his ample round 
 Through depths of ether; coasts unnumber'd worlds. 
 Of more than solar glory ; doubles wide 
 Heav'n's mighty cape ; and then revisits earth, 
 From the long travel of a thousand years. 
 Thus, at the destin'd period, shall return 
 He, once on earth, who bids the comet blaze : 
 And with Him all our triumph o'er the tomb. 
 
 Nature is dumb on this important point ; 
 Or hope precarious in low whisper breathes ; 
 Faith speakes aloud, distinct ; ev'n adders hear. 
 But turn, and dart into the dark again. 
 Faith builds a bridge across the gulph of death, 
 To break the shock blind nature cannot shun, 
 And lands thought smoothly on the farther shore. 
 Death's terror is the mountain faith removes ; 
 That mountain barrier between man and peace. 
 'Tis faith disarms destruction ; and absolves 
 From every clamorous charge, the guiltless tomb. 
 
 Why disbelieve? Lorenzo ! — "Reason bids. 
 All-sacred reason." — Hold her sacred still ; 
 Nor shalt thou want a rival in thy flame : 
 
NIGHT IV. 121 
 
 All-sacred reason ! source, and soul, of all 
 Demanding praise, on earth, or earth above ! 
 My heart is thine : deep in its inmost folds, 
 Live thou with life ; hve dearer of the two. 
 Wear I the blessed cross, by fortune stamp'd 
 On passive nature, before thought was born ? 
 My birth's blind bigot ! fired with local zeal ! 
 No ; reason rebaptiz'd me when adult ? 
 Weigh'd true and false in her impartial scale ; 
 My heart became the convert of my head ; 
 And made that choice, which once was but my fate. 
 " On argument alone my faith is built ;" 
 Reason pursu'd is faith ; and, unpursu'd 
 Where proof invites ; 'tis reason, then, no more : 
 And such our proof, that, or our faith is right. 
 Or reason lies, and Heav'n design'd it wrong : 
 Absolve we this ? What, then, is blasphemy ? 
 
 Fond as we are, and justly fond of faith. 
 Reason, we grant, demands our first regard ; 
 The mother honor 'd, as the daughter dear ; 
 i Reason the root, fair faith is but the flower ; 
 The fading flow'r shall die ; but reason lives 
 
122 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Immortal, as her Father in the skies. 
 When faith is virtue, reason makes it so. 
 Wrong not the Christian ; think not reason yours ; 
 'Tis reason our great Master holds so dear ; 
 'Tis reason's injur'd rights His wrath resents ; 
 'Tis reason's voice obey'd His glories crown ; 
 To give lost reason life, He pour'd His own : 
 Believe, and show the reason of a man ; 
 Believe, and taste the pleasure of a God , 
 Believe, and look with triumph on the tomb : 
 Thro' reason's wounds alone, thy faith can die ; 
 Which dying, tenfold terror gives to death, 
 And dips in venom his twice-mortal sting. 
 
 Learn hence what honors, what loud Paeans due 
 To those, who push our antidote aside ; 
 Those boasted friends to reason, and to man. 
 Whose fatal love stabs ev'ry joy, and leaves 
 Death's terror heighten'd gnawing on his heart. 
 These pompous sons of reason idoliz'd, 
 And vilified at once ; of reason dead, 
 Then deified, as monarchs were of old. 
 What conduct plants proud laurels on their brow ? 
 
NIGHT IV. 123 
 
 While love of Truth thro' all then* camp resounds. 
 They draw pride's curtain o'er the noon-tide ray ; 
 Spike up their inch of reason, on the point 
 Of philosophic wit, called argument ; 
 And then, exulting in their taper, cry, 
 " Behold the sun :" and Indian-like adore. 
 
 Talk they of morals ? thou bleeding love ! 
 Thou maker of new morals to mankind ! 
 The grand morality is love of thee. 
 As wise as Socrates, if such they were, 
 (Nor will they bate of that sublime renown) 
 As wise as Socrates, might justly stand 
 The definition of a modern fool. 
 
 Christian is the highest style of man 
 And is there, who the blessed cross wipes off, 
 As a foul blot, from his dishonor'd brow ? 
 If angels tremble, 'tis at such a sight : 
 The wretch they quit, desponding of their charge, 
 More struck with grief or wonder, who can tell ? 
 
 Ye sold to sense ! ye citizens of earth ! 
 (For such alone the Chris lian banner fly) 
 Know ye how wise your choice, haw great your gain? 
 
124 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Behold the picture of earth's happiest man : 
 " He calls his wish, it comes ; he sends it back. 
 And says he call'd another ; that arrives. 
 Meets the same welcome ; yet he still calls on ; 
 Till One calls him, who varies not his call, 
 But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound, 
 Till nature dies, and judgment sets him free ; 
 A freedom far less welcome than his chain." 
 
 But grant man happy ; grant him happy long ; 
 Add to hfe's highest prize her latest hour ; 
 That hour so late, is nimble in approach, 
 That, hke a post, comes on in full career ; 
 How swift the shuttle flies, that weaves thy 
 
 shroud ! 
 Wherei is the fable of thy former years ? 
 Thrown down the gulf of time ; as far from thee 
 As they had ne'er been thine ; the day in hand. 
 Like a bird struggling to get loose, is going ; 
 Scarce now possessed, so suddenly 'tis gone ; 
 And each swift moment fled, is death advanced 
 By strides as swift : eternity is all ; 
 And whose eternity ? who triumphs there ? 
 
NIGHT IV. 125 
 
 Bathing forever in the font of bhss ! 
 
 Forever basking in the Deity ! 
 
 Lorenzo ! who ? — Thy conscience shall reply. 
 
 give it leave to speak ; 'twill speak ere long, 
 Thy leave unask'd : Lorenzo ! hear it now, 
 While useful its advice, its accent mild. 
 By the great edict, by divine decree. 
 Truth is deposited with man's last hour ; 
 An honest hour, and faithful to her trust ; 
 Truth, eldest daughter of the Deity ; 
 Truth, of his council, when he made the worlds ; 
 Nor less, when he shall judge the worlds he 
 
 made; 
 Tho' silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound, 
 Smother'd with errors, and oppress'd with toys, 
 That heav'n-commission'd hour no sooner calls, 
 But from her cavern in the soul's abyss. 
 Like him they fable under ^tna whelm'd. 
 The goddess bursts in thunder, and in flame ; 
 Loudly convinces, and severely pains. 
 Dark demons I discharge, and hydra-stings; 
 The keen vibrations of bright truth — is hell : 
 
126 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Just definition ! tho' by schools untaught. 
 Ye deaf to truth ! peruse this parson'd page. 
 And trust, for once, a prophet, and a priest ; 
 " Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.* 
 
NIGHT V. 
 
 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF LITCHFIELD. 
 
 Lorenzo ! to recriminate is just. 
 
 Fondness for fame is' avarice of air. 
 
 I grant the man is vain who writes for praise. 
 
 Praise no man e'er deserved, who sought no more. 
 
 As just thy second charge. I grant the muse 
 Has often blush'd at her degen'rate sons, 
 Retain'd by sense to plead her filthy cause, 
 To raise the low, to magnify the mean. 
 And subtilize the gross into refined ; 
 As if to magic numbers' pow'rful charm 
 'Twas given to make a civet of their song 
 Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume. _ J^lJ&-CM^^ -' A 
 Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute. 
 And lifts our swine enjoyments from the mire. 
 
128 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause. 
 We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride ; 
 These share the man, and these distract him too : 
 Draw different ways, and clash in their commands. 
 Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars ; 
 But Pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground. 
 Joys shared by brute- creation Pride resents ; 
 Pleasure embraces : man would both enjoy. 
 And both at once ; a point how hard to gain ! 
 But what can't Wit, when stung by strong desire ? 
 
 Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise. 
 Since joys of sense can't rise to Reason's taste, 
 In subtle Sophistry's laborious forge. 
 Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops 
 To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause. 
 Wit calls the Graces the chaste zone to loose ; 
 Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl ; 
 A thousand phantoms and a thousand spells, 
 A thousand opiates scatters to delude, 
 To fascinate, inebrate, lay asleep. 
 And the fool'd mind delightfully confound. 
 Thus that which shock'd the judgment shocks no more ; 
 
NIGHT V. 129 
 
 That which gave Pride oflfence, no more offends. 
 Pleasure and Pride, by nature mortal toes, 
 At war eternal which in man shall reign. 
 By Wit's address patch up a fatal peace. 
 And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch. 
 From rank, refined to deUcate and gay. 
 Art, cursed Art ! wipes off the indebted blush 
 From Nature's cheek, and bronzes every shame. 
 Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt, 
 And Infamy stands candidate for praise. 
 
 All writ by man in favor of the soul, 
 These sensual ethics far, in bulk, transcend. 
 The flow'rs of eloquence profusely pour'd 
 O'er spotted Vice, fill half the letter'd world. 
 Can poAv'rs of genius exercise their page. 
 And consecrate enormities with song ? 
 
 But let not these inexpiable strains 
 Condemn the muse that knows her dignity, 
 Nor meanly stops at time, but holds the world 
 As 'tis in Nature's ample field, a point, 
 A point in her esteem ; from whence to start, 
 And run the round of universal space. 
 
130 THE COMPLAINT, 
 
 To visit being universal there, 
 
 And being's Source, that utmost flight of mind ! 
 
 Yet spite of this so vast circumference, 
 
 Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great. 
 
 Sing syrens only ? Do not angels sing ? 
 
 There is in Poesy a decent pride, 
 
 Which well becomes her when she speaks to Prose, 
 
 Her younger sister, haply not more wise. 
 
 Think'st thou, Lorenzo, to find pastimes hei-e ? 
 No guilty passion blown into a flame. 
 No foible flatter'd, dignity disgraced. 
 No fairy field of fiction, all on flower. 
 No rainbow colors here, or silken tale ; 
 But solemn counsels, images of awe. 
 Truths which Eternity lets fall on man 
 With double weight, thro' these revolving spheres, 
 This death-deep silence, and incumbent shade ; 
 Thoughts such as shall revisit your last hour. 
 Visit uncall'd, and live when life expires ; 
 And thy dark pencil. Midnight ! darker still 
 In melancholy dipp'd, embrowns the whole. 
 
 Yet this, even this, my laughter-loving friends ! 
 
NIGHT V. 131 
 
 Lorenzo ! and thy brothers of the smile ! 
 If what imports you most can most engage, 
 Shall steal your ear and chain you to my song. 
 Or if you fail me, know the wise shall taste 
 The truths I sing : the truths I sing shall feel, 
 And, feeling, give assent ; and their assent 
 Is ample recompense ; is more than praise. 
 But chiefly thine, Litchfield ! nor mistake ! 
 Think not unintroduced I force my way ; 
 Narcissa, not unknown, not unallied 
 By virtue or by blood, illustrious youth ! 
 To thee from blooming amaranthine bow'rs, 
 Where all the language Harmony, descends 
 Uncaird, and asks admittance for the muse : 
 A muse that will not pain thee with thy praise : 
 Thy praise she drops, by nobler still inspired. 
 thou blest Spirit ! whether the supreme. 
 Great antemundane Father ! in whose breast 
 Embryo creation, unborn being, dwelt, 
 And all its various revolutions roU'd 
 Present, though future, prior to themselves ; 
 Whose breath can blow it into nought again ; 
 
132 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Or, from his throne some delegated pow'r, 
 
 Who, studious of our peace, dost turn the thought 
 
 From vain and vile, to solid and sublime ! 
 
 Unseen thou lead'st me to delicious draughts 
 
 Of inspiration, from a purer stream, 
 
 And fuller of the god than that which burst 
 
 From famed CastaHa ; nor is yet allay'd 
 
 My sacred thirst, though long my soul has ranged 
 
 Through pleasing paths of moral and divine. 
 
 By thee sustain'd, and lighted by the stars. 
 
 By them best lighted are the paths of thought , 
 Nights are their days, their most illumin'd hours ! 
 By day the soul, o'erborne by life's career, 
 Stunn'd by the din, and giddy with the glare. 
 Reels far from reason, jostled by the throng. 
 By day the soul is passive, all her thoughts 
 Impos'd, precarious, broken, ere mature. 
 By night from objects free, from passion cool, 
 Thoughts uncontroU'd, and unimpress'd, the births 
 Of pure election, arbitrary range, 
 Not to the limits of one world confin'd ; 
 
NIGHT V. 13t 
 
 But from ethereal travels light on earth. 
 As voyagers drop anchor, for repose. 
 
 Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians, fond 
 Of feather'd fopperies, the sun adore : 
 Darkness has more divinity for me ; 
 It strikes thought inward ; it drives back the soul 
 To settle on herself, our point supreme ! 
 There lies our theatre ; there sits our judge. 
 Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull scene ; 
 'Tis the kind hand of providence stretch'd out 
 'Twixt man and vanity ; 'tis reason's reign. 
 And virtue's too ; these tutelary shades 
 Are man's asylum from the tainted throng. 
 Night is the good man's friend, and guardian too ; 
 It no less rescues virtue, than inspires. 
 
 Yirtue forever frail, as fair, below. 
 Her tender nature suffers in the crowd, 
 Nor touches on the world, without a stain : 
 The world 's infectious ; few bring back at eve. 
 Immaculate, the manners of the morn. 
 Something we thought, is blotted ; we resolv'd, 
 Is shaken ; we renounced, returns again. 
 
134 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Each salutation may slide in a sin 
 
 Unthought before, or fix a former flaw. 
 
 Nor is it strange : light, motion, concourse, noise, 
 
 All, scatter us abroad ; thought outward-bound 
 
 Neglectful of our home affairs, flies off" 
 
 In fume and dissipation, quits her charge. 
 
 And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe. 
 
 Present example gets within our guard. 
 And acts with double force, by few repell'd. 
 Ambition fires ambition ; love of gain 
 Strikes, like a pestilence, from breast to breast ; 
 Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapors breathe ; 
 And inhumanity is caught from man ; 
 From smiling man. A slight, a single glance, 
 And shot at random, often has brought home 
 A sudden fever, to the throbbing heart. 
 Of envy, rancor, or impure desire. 
 We see, we hear, with peril ; safety dwells 
 Remote from multitude ; the world's a school 
 Of wrong, and what proficients swarm around ! 
 We must or imitate or disapprove ; 
 Must list as their accomplices, or foes ; 
 
NIGHT V. 135 
 
 That stains our innocence ; this wounds our peace. 
 From nature's birth, hence, wisdom has been smit 
 With sweet recess, and languish'd for the shade. 
 
 This sacred shade, and solitude, what is it ? 
 'Tis the felt presence of the Deity. 
 Few are the faults we flatter when alone. 
 Vice sinks in her allurements, is ungilt, 
 And looks, like other objects, black by night. 
 By night an atheist half believes a god. 
 
 Niorht is fair virtue's immemorial friend ; 
 The conscious moon, through every distant age 
 Has held a lamp to wisdom, and let fall 
 On contemplation's eye, her purging ray. 
 The fam'd Athenian, he who woo'd from heaven 
 Philosophy the fair, to dwell with men, 
 And form their manners, not inflame their pride, 
 While o'er his head, as fearful to molest 
 His lab'ring mind, the stars in silence slide. 
 And seem all gazing on their future guest, 
 See him soliciting his ardent suit. 
 In private audience : all the live-long night. 
 Rigid in thought, and motionless, he stands ; 
 
136 THE C OMPLAIN T, 
 
 Nor quits his theme, or posture, till the sun 
 (Rude drunkard rising rosy from the main !) 
 Disturbs his nobler intellectual beam, 
 And gives him to the tumult of the world. 
 Hail, precious moments ! stol'n from the black waste 
 Of murder'd time ! auspicious midnight ! hail ! 
 The world excluded, ev'ry passion hushed. 
 And open'd a calm intercourse with heav'n, 
 Here the soul sits in council ; ponders past, 
 Predestines future action ; sees, not feels. 
 Tumultuous life ; and reasons with the storm ; 
 All her lies answers, and thinks down her charms. 
 
 What awful joy ! what mental liberty ! 
 I am not pent in darkness ; rather say 
 (If not too bold) in darkness I'm erabower'd, 
 Delightful gloom ! the clust'ring thoughts around 
 Spontaneous rise, and blossom in the shade ; 
 But droop by day, and sicken in the sun. 
 Thought borrows light elsewhere ; from that Fii-st Fire, 
 Fountain of animation ! whence descends 
 Urania, my celestial guest ! who deigns 
 Nio-htly to visit me, so mean ; and now 
 
NIGHT V. 13*7 
 
 Conscious, how needful discipline to man, 
 From pleasing dalliance with the charms of night 
 My wand'ring thought recalls, to what excites 
 Far other beat of heart ; Narcissa's tomb ! 
 
 Or is it feeble nature calls me back, 
 And breaks my spirit into grief again ? 
 Is it a Stygian vapor in my blood ? 
 A cold, slow puddle, creeping thro' my veins ? 
 Or is it thus with all men ? — Thus, with all. 
 What are we ? How unequal ! Now we soar, 
 And now we sink ; to be the same transcends 
 Our present prowess. Dearly pays the soul 
 For lodging ill ; too dearly rents her clay. 
 Reason, a baffled counsellor ! but adds 
 The blush of weakness to the bane of woe. 
 The noblest spirit fighting her hard fate. 
 In this damp, dusky region, charg'd with storms, 
 But feebly flutters, yet untaught to fly ; 
 Or, flying, short her flight, and sure her fall. 
 Our utmost strength, when down, to rise again ; 
 And not to yield, tho' beaten, all our praise. 
 
 'Tis vain to seek in men for more than man. 
 
138 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Tho' proud in promise, big in previous thought, 
 Experience damps our triumph. I, who late. 
 Emerging from the shadows of the grave, 
 Where grief detained me pris'ner, mounting high 
 Threw wide the gates of everlasting day, 
 And call'd mankind to glory, shook off pain, 
 Mortality shook off, in aether pure, 
 And struck the stars ; now feel my spirits fail ; 
 They drop me from the zenith ; down I rush, 
 Like him whom fable fledg'd with waxen wings. 
 In sorrow drown'd — but not, in sorrow, lost. 
 How wretched is the man who never mourn 'd ! 
 I dive for precious pearl, in sorrow's streani : 
 Not so the thoughtless man that only grieves ; 
 Takes all the torment and rejects the gain ; 
 (Inestimable gain !) and gives heav'n leave 
 To make him but more wretched, not more wise. 
 
 If wisdom is our lesson (and what else 
 Ennobles man ! what else have angels learn'd ?) 
 Grief ! more proficients in thy school are made. 
 Than genius, or proud learning, e'er could boast. 
 Voracious learning, often over-fed. 
 
NIGHT V. 139 
 
 Digests not into sense her motley meal. 
 This bookcase, with dark booty almost burst. 
 This forager on others' wisdom, leaves 
 Her native farm, her reason, quite untill'd. 
 With mix'd manure she surfeits the rank soil, 
 Dung'd, but not dress'd ; and rich to beggary. 
 A pomp untameable of weed prevails. 
 Her servant's wealth incumber'd wisdom mourns. 
 
 And what says genius ? " Let the dull be wise." 
 Genius, too hard for right, can prove it wrong ; 
 And loves to boast, where blush men less inspir'd. 
 It pleads exemption from the laws of sense ; 
 Considers reason as a leveller ; 
 And scorns to share a blessing with the crowd. 
 That wise it could be, thinks an ample claim 
 To glory, and to pleasure gives the rest. 
 Crassus but sleeps, Ardelio is undone. 
 Wisdom less shudders at a fool, than wit. 
 
 But wisdom smiles, when humbled mortals weep. 
 When sorrow wounds the breast, as ploughs the glebe, 
 And hearts obdurate feel her soft'ning shower. 
 Her seed celestial, then, glad wisdom sows ; 
 
140 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Her golden harvest triumphs in the soil. 
 
 If so, Narcissa ! welcome ray relapse ; 
 
 I '11 raise a tax on my calamity, 
 
 And reap rich compensation from my pain. 
 
 I '11 range the plenteous intellectual field ; 
 
 And gather ev'ry thought of sov'reign power 
 
 To chase the moral maladies of man ; 
 
 Thoughts, which may bear transplanting to the skies, 
 
 Tho' natives of this coarse, penurious soil ; 
 
 Nor wholly wither there, where seraphs sing. 
 
 Refin'd, exalted, not annull'd in heaven. 
 
 Reason, the sun that gives them birth, the same 
 
 In either clime, tho' more illustrious there, 
 
 These choicely cull'd, and elegantly rang'd, 
 
 Shall form a garland for Narcissa's tomb ; 
 
 And, peradventure, of no fading flowers. 
 
 Say, on what themes shall puzzled choice descend ? 
 " Th' importance of contemplating the tomb ; 
 Why men decline it ; suicide's foul birth ; 
 The various kinds of grief; the faults of age; 
 And death's dread character — invite my song." 
 
 And first th' importance of our end survey'd. 
 
NIGHT V. 141 
 
 Friends counsel quick dismission of our grief; 
 
 Mistaken kindness ! our hearts heal too soon. 
 
 Are they more kind than He who struck the blow ? 
 
 Who bid it do His errand in our hearts, 
 
 And banish peace, till nobler guests arrive, 
 
 And bring it back, a true, and endless peace ? 
 
 Calamities are friends : as glaring day 
 
 Of these unnumber'd lustres robs our sight ; 
 
 Prosperity puts out unnumber'd thoughts 
 
 Of import high, and light divine, to man. 
 
 The man how blest, who, sick of gaudy scenes, 
 (Scenes apt to thurst between us and ourselves !) 
 Is led by choice to take his fav'rite walk, 
 Beneath death's gloomy, silent, cypress shades, 
 Unpierc'd by vanity's fantastic ray ; 
 To read his monuments, to weigh his dust, 
 Visit his vaults, and dwell among the tombs ! 
 Lorenzo ! read with me Narcissa's stone ; 
 (Narcissa was thy fav'rite) let us read 
 Her moral stone ; few doctors preach so well ; 
 Few orators so tenderly can touch 
 The feeling heart. What pathos in the date ! 
 
H2 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Apt words can strike, and yet in them we see 
 Faint images of what we here enjoy. 
 What cause have we to build on length of life ? 
 Temptations seize, when fear is laid asleep ; 
 And ill foreboded is our strongest guard. 
 
 See from her tomb, as from an humble shrine, 
 Truth, radiant goddess ! sallies on my soul, 
 And puts delusion's dusky train to flight ; 
 Dispels the mists our sultry passions raise. 
 From objects low, terrestial, and obscene ; 
 And shows the real estimate of things ; 
 Which no man, unafflicted, ever saw ; 
 Pulls off the veil from virtue's rising charms ; 
 Detects temptation in a thousand lies. 
 Truth bids me look on men, as autumn leaves, 
 And all they bleed for, as the summer's dust, 
 Driv'n by the whirlwind ; lighted by her beams, 
 I widen my horizon, gain new powers. 
 See things invisible, feel things remote. 
 Am present with futurities ; think nought 
 To man so foreign, as the joys possess'd ; 
 Nought so much his, as those beyond the grave. 
 
IGHT V. 143 
 
 No folly keeps its color in her sight," 
 Pale worldly wisdom loses all her charms ; 
 In pompous promise from her schemes profound, 
 If future fate she plans, 'tis all in leaves, 
 Like sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss ! 
 At the first blast it vanishes in air. 
 Not so, celestial : wouldst thou know, Lorenzo ? 
 How differ worldly wisdom, and divine ? 
 Just as the waning, and the waxing moon. 
 More empty worldly wisdom ev'ry day ; 
 And ev'iy day more fair her rival shines. 
 When later, there 's less time to play the fool. 
 Soon our whole term for wisdom is expir'd 
 (Thou know'st she calls no council in the grave) ; 
 And everlasting fool is writ in fire. 
 Or real wisdom wafts us to the skies. 
 
 As worldly schemes resemble sibyl's leaves. 
 The good man's days to sibyl's books compare, 
 (In ancient story read, thou know'st the tale) 
 In price still rising, as in number less, 
 Inestimable quite his final hour. 
 For that who thrones can offer, offer thrones ; 
 
144 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Insolvent worlds the purchase cannot pay. 
 ** Oh let me die his death !" all nature cries. 
 " Then live his Hfe." — All nature falters there. 
 Our great physician daily to consult, 
 To commune with the grave, our only cure. 
 
 What grave prescribes the best ? — A friend's, and yet. 
 From a friend's grave, how soon we disengage ? 
 Ev'n to the dearest, as his marble, cold. 
 Why are friends ravish'd from us ? 'tis to bind. 
 By soft affection's ties, on human hearts. 
 The thought of death, which reason, too supine. 
 Or misemployed, so rarely fastens there. 
 Nor reason, nor affection, no, nor both 
 Combin'd, can break the witchcrafts of the world. 
 Behold th' inexorable hour at hand ! 
 Behold th' inexorable hour forgot ! 
 And to forget it the chief aim of life, 
 Tho' well to ponder it, is life's chief end. 
 
 Is death, that ever threat'ning, ne'er remote. 
 That all-important, and that only sure, 
 (Come when he will) an unexpected guest ? 
 Nay, tho' invited by the loudest calls 
 
NIGHT V. 145 
 
 Of blind imprudence, unexpected still ? 
 Tho' num'rous messengers are sent before 
 To warn his great arrival. What the cause, 
 The wond'rous cause, of this mysterious ill ? 
 All heav'n looks down astonish'd at the sight. 
 
 Is it that life has sown her joys so thick, 
 "We can't thrust in a single care between ? 
 Is it, that life has such a swarm of cares, 
 The thought of death can't enter for the throng ? 
 Is it, that time steals on with downy feet. 
 Nor wakes indulgence from her golden dream ? 
 To-day is so hke yesterday, it cheats ; 
 We take the lying sister for the same. 
 Life glides away, Lorenzo ! like a brook : 
 Forever changing, unperceiv'd the change. 
 In the same brook none ever bath'd him twice ; 
 To the same life none ever twice awoke. 
 We call the brook the same ; the same we think 
 Our life, tho' still more rapid in its flow ; 
 Nor mark the much irrevocably laps'd. 
 And mingled with the sea. Or shall we say 
 (Retaining still the brook to bear us on) 
 
146 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 That life is like a vessel on the stream ? 
 
 In life embark'd, we smoothly down the tide 
 
 Of time descend, but not on time intent ; 
 
 Amus'd, unconscious of the gliding wave ; 
 
 Till on a sudden we perceive a shock ; 
 
 We start, awake, look out ; what see we there ? 
 
 Our brittle bark is burst on Charon's shore. 
 
 Is this the cause death flies all human thought ? 
 Or is it, judgment by the will struck bhnd, 
 That domineering mistress of the soul ! 
 Like him so strong by Dalilah the fair ? 
 Or is it fear turns startled reason back, 
 From looking down a precipice so steep ? 
 'Tis dreadful ; and the dread is wisely placed. 
 By nature conscious of the make of man. 
 A dreadful friend it is, a terror kind, 
 A flaming sword to guard the tree of hfe. 
 By that imaw'd, in life's most smiling hour, 
 The good man would repine ; would suffer joys, 
 And burn impatient for his promised skies. 
 The bad on each punctilious pique of pride. 
 Or gloom of humour, would give rage the rein, 
 
NIGHT V. 147 
 
 Bound o'er the barrier, rush into the dark. 
 And mar the schemes of providence below. 
 
 What groan was that, Lorenzo ? — furies ! rise ; 
 And drown, in your less execrable yell, 
 Britannia's shame. There took her gloomy flight, 
 On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul, 
 Blasted from hell, with horrid lust of death. 
 Thy friend, the brave, the gallant Altamont, 
 So call'd, so thought — and then he fled the field. 
 Less base the fear of death, than fear of life. 
 Britain, infamous for suicide ! 
 An island in thy manners ! far disjoin'd 
 From the whole world of rationals beside ! 
 In ambient waves plunge thy polluted head, 
 Wash the dire stain, nor shock the Continent, 
 
 But thou be shock'd, while I detect the cause 
 Of self-assault, expose the monster's birth. 
 And bid abhorrence hiss it round the world. 
 Blame not thy clime, nor chide the distant sun : 
 The sun is innocent, thy clime absolv'd : 
 Immoral climes kind nature never made. 
 
148 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The cause I sing in Eden might prevail, 
 And proves it is thy folly, not thy fate. 
 
 The soul of man (let man in homage bow. 
 Who names his soul), a native of the skies ! 
 High-born, and free, her freedom should maintain, 
 Unsold, unraortgag'd for earth's httle bribes, 
 Th' illustrious stranger, in this foreign land. 
 Like strangers, jealous of her dignity, 
 Studious of home, and ardent to return, 
 Of earth suspicious, earth's inchanted cup 
 With cool reserve hght-touching, should indulge, 
 , On immortaUty, her godlike taste ; 
 There take large draughts ; make her chief banquet 
 there. 
 
 But some reject this sustenance divine ; 
 To beggarly vile appetites descend ; 
 Ask alms of earth, for guests that came from heaven ; 
 Sink into slaves ; and sell, for present hire. 
 Their rich reversion, and (what shares its fate) 
 Their native freedom, to the prince who sways 
 This nether world. And when his payments fail. 
 When his foul basket gorges them no more ; 
 
NIGHT V. 149 
 
 Or their pall'd palates loath the basket full ; 
 Are instantly, with wild demoniac rage. 
 For breaking all the chains of pro\ddence. 
 And bursting their confinement ; tho' fast barr'd 
 By laws divine and human ; guarded strong 
 With horrors doubled to defend the pass, 
 The blackest nature, or dire guilt, can raise ; 
 And moated round, with fathomless destruction. 
 Sure to receive and whelm them in their fall. 
 
 Such, Britons ! is the cause, to you unknown, 
 Or worse, o'erlook'd ; o'erlook'd by magistrates, 
 Thus, criminals themselves. I grant the deed 
 Is madness ; but the madness of the heart. 
 And what is that ? Our utmost bound of guilt. 
 A sensual, unreflecting life is big 
 With monstrous births, and suicide, to crown 
 The black, infernal brood. The bold to break 
 Heav'n's law supreme, and desperately rush 
 Thro' sacred nature's murder, on their own. 
 Because they never think of death, they die. 
 'Tis equally man's duty, glory, gain. 
 At once to shun, and meditate his end. 
 
160 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 When by the bed of languishment we sit, 
 
 (The seat of wisdom ! if our choice, not fate) 
 
 Or, o'er our dying friends, in anguish hang, 
 
 Wipe the cold dew, or stay the sinking head. 
 
 Number their moments, and, in ev'ry clock. 
 
 Start at the voice of an eternity ; 
 
 See the dim lamp of life just feebly lift 
 
 An agonizing beam, at us to gaze. 
 
 Then sink again, and quiver into death, 
 
 That most pathetic herald of our own ; 
 
 How read we such sad scenes ? As sent to man 
 
 In perfect vengeance ? No ; in pity sent. 
 
 To melt him down like wax, and then impress. 
 
 Indelible, death's image on his heart ; 
 
 Bleeding for others, trembling for himself. 
 
 We bleed, we tremble, we forget, we smile. 
 
 The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry. 
 
 Our quick-returning folly cancels all ; 
 
 As the tide rushing rases what is writ 
 
 In yielding sands, and smooths the letter'd shore. 
 
 Lorenzo ! hast thou ever weigh'd a sigh ? 
 Or studied the philosophy of tears ? 
 
NIGHTV. 151 
 
 (A science, yet, iinlectured in our schools !) 
 Hast thou descended deep into the breast, 
 And seen their source ? If not, descend with me 
 And trace these briny riv'lets to their springs. 
 Our fun'ral tears, from diff'rent causes, rise. 
 As if from separate cisterns in the soul, 
 Of various kinds, they flow. From tender hearts, 
 By soft contagion call'd, some burst at once. 
 And stream obsequious to the leading eye. 
 Some ask more time, by curious art distill'd. 
 Some hearts in secret hard, unapt to melt. 
 Struck by the magic of the public eye. 
 Like Moses' smitten rock, gush out amain. 
 Some weep to share the fame of the deceas'd. 
 So high in merit, and to them so dear. 
 They dwell on praises, which they think they share ; 
 And thus, without a blush, commend themselves. 
 Some mourn- in proof, that something they could love. 
 They weep not to relieve their grief, but show. 
 Some weep in perfect justice to the dead, 
 As conscious all their love is in arrear. 
 Some mischievously weep, not unapprised 
 
152 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Tears, sometimes, aid the conquest of an eye. 
 With what address the soft Ephesians draw 
 Their sable network o'er entangled hearts ? 
 As seen thro' crystal, how their roses glow. 
 While liquid pearl runs trickling down their cheek ? 
 Of hers not prouder Egypt's wanton queen, 
 Carousing gems, herself dissolv'd in love. 
 Some weep at death, abstracted from the dead, 
 And celebrate, like Charles, their own decease. 
 By kind construction some are deem'd to weep. 
 Because a decent veil conceals their joy. 
 
 Some weep in earnest ; and yet weep in vain ; 
 As deep in indiscretion, as in woe. 
 Passion, bhnd passion ! impotently pours 
 Tears, that deserve more tears ; while reason sleeps ; 
 Or gazes, like an idiot, unconcern'd ; 
 Nor comprehends the meaning of the storm ; 
 Knows not it speaks to her, and her alone. 
 Irrationals all sorrow are beneath. 
 That noble gift ! that privilege of man ! 
 From sorrow's pang, the birth of endless joy. 
 But these are barren of that birth divine : 
 
NIGHT V. 153 
 
 They weep impetuous, as the summer storm. 
 And full as short ! the cruel grief soon tam'd, 
 They make a pastime of the stingless tale ; 
 Far as the deep-resounding knell, they spread 
 The dreadful news, and hardly feel it more. 
 No grain of wisdom pays them for their woe. 
 
 Half round the globe, the tears pump'd up by death 
 Are spent in wat'ring vanities of life ; 
 In making folly flourish still more fair. 
 When the sick soul, her wonted stay withdrawn, 
 Reclines on earth, and sorrows in the dust ; 
 Instead of learning there her true support, 
 Tho' there thrown down her true support to learn. 
 Without heav'n's aid, impatient to be blest. 
 She crawls to the next shrub, or bramble vile, 
 Tho' from the stately cedar's arms she fell. 
 With stale, foresworn embraces, clings anew, 
 The stranger weds, and blossoms, as before, 
 In all the fruitless fopperies of life : 
 Presents her weed, well-fancied, at the ball, 
 And raffles for the death's-head on the ring. 
 
 So Avept Aurelia, till the destin'd youth 
 
 7* 
 
154: THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Stepp'd in, witi his receipt for making smiles. 
 
 And blanching sables into bridal bloom. 
 
 So wept Lorenzo fair Clarissa's fate ; 
 
 Who gave that angel boy, on whom he doats ; 
 
 And died to give him, orphan'd in his birth ! 
 
 Not such, Narcissa, my distress for thee. 
 
 I '11 make an altar of thy sacred tomb 
 
 To sacrifice to wisdom. — What wast thou ? 
 
 " Young, gay, and fortunate !" Each yields a theme. 
 
 I '11 dwell on each, to shun thought more severe ; 
 
 (Heav'n knows I labor with severer still !) 
 
 I '11 dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy death. 
 
 A soul without reflection, like a pile 
 
 Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. 
 
 And, first, thy youth. What says it to gray hairs ? 
 Narcissa, I 'm become thy pupil now — 
 Early, bright, transient, chaste, as morning dew. 
 She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to heaven. 
 Time on this head has snow'd ; yet still 'tis borne 
 Aloft ; nor thinks but on another's grave. 
 Cover'd with shame I speak it, age severe 
 Old worn-out vice sets down for virtue fair. 
 
NIGHT V. 155 
 
 With graceless gravity, chastising youth. 
 
 That youth chastis'd surpassing in a fault. 
 
 Father of all, forgetfulness of death ; 
 
 As if, like objects pressing on the sight. 
 
 Death had advanced too near us to be seen : 
 
 Or, that Ufe's loan time ripen'd into right ; 
 
 And men might plead prescription from the grave ; 
 
 Deathless, from repetition of reprieve. 
 
 Deathless ! far from it ! such are dead already ; 
 
 Their hearts are buried, and the world their grave. 
 
 Tell me, some god ! my guardian angel ! tell. 
 What thus infatuates ? what inchantment plants 
 The phantom of an age 'twixt us, and death 
 Already at the door ? He knocks, we hear him. 
 And yet we will not hear. What mail defends 
 Our untouch'd. hearts ? what miracle turns off 
 The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers 
 Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd ? 
 We stand, as in a battle, throngs on throngs 
 Around us falling ; wounded oft ourselves ; 
 Tho' bleeding with our wounds, immortal still ! 
 We see time's furrows on another's brow, 
 
156 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And death intrench'd, preparing his assault ; 
 
 How few themselves, in that just mirror see ! 
 
 Or, seeing, draw their inference as strong ! 
 
 There death is certain ; doubtful here : he must. 
 
 And soon ; we may, within an age, expire. 
 
 Though gray our heads, our thoughts and aims are 
 
 green ; 
 Like damag'd clocks, whose hand and bell dissent ; 
 Folly sings six,' while nature points at twelve. 
 
 Absurd longevity ! More, more, it cries : 
 More life, more wealth, more trash of every kind. 
 And wherefore mad for more, when relish fails ? 
 Object, and appetite, must club for joy ; 
 Shall folly labor hard to mend the bow. 
 Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without. 
 While nature is relaxing ev'ry string ? 
 Ask thought for joy ; grow rich and hoard within. 
 Think you the soul, when this life's rattles cease, 
 Has nothing of more manly to succeed ? 
 Contract the taste immortal ; learn ev'n now 
 To relish what alone subsists hereafter. 
 Divine or none, henceforth your joys forever. 
 
NIGHT V. 157 
 
 Of age the glory is, to wish to die. 
 That wish is praise and promise ; it applauds 
 Past life, and promises our future bliss. 
 What weakness see not children in their sires ? 
 Grand climacterical absurdities ! 
 Gray-hair'd authority, to faults of youth, 
 How shocking ! It makes folly thrice a fool ; 
 And our first childhood might our last despise. 
 Peace and esteem is all that age can hope. 
 Nothing but wisdom gives the first ; the last, 
 Nothing, but the repute of being wise. 
 Folly bars both ; our age is quite undone. 
 
 What folly can be ranker ? Like o\u' shadows, 
 Our wishes lenofthen, as our sun dechnes. 
 No wish should loiter then, this side the grave. 
 Our hearts should leave the world, before the knell 
 Calls for our carcases to mend the soil. 
 Enough to live in tempest, die in port ; 
 Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat 
 Defects of judgment ; and the wills subdue ; 
 Walk thouo^htful on the silent, solemn shore 
 Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon ; 
 
158 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And put good works on board ; and wait the wind 
 That shortly blows us into worlds unknown ; 
 If unconsider'd too, a dreadful scene ! 
 
 All should be prophets to themselves ; foresee 
 Their future fate ; their future fate foretaste ; 
 This art would waste the bitterness of death. 
 The thought of death alone the fear destroys. 
 A disaffection to that precious thought 
 Is more than midnight darkness on the soul, 
 Which sleeps beneath it, on a precipice, 
 Puff 'd ofiF by the first blast, and lost forever. 
 
 Dost ask, Lorenzo, why so warmly press'd. 
 By repetition hammer'd on thine ear, 
 The thought of death ? That thought is the machine, 
 The grand machine ! that heaves us from the dust, 
 And rears us into men. The thought plied home 
 Will soon reduce the ghastly precipice 
 O'er hanging hell, will soften the descent, 
 And gently slope our passage to the grave ; 
 How warmly to be wish'd ! What heart of flesh 
 Would trifle with tremendous ? dare extremes ? 
 Yawn o'er the fate of infinite ? What hand. 
 
NIGHT V. 159 
 
 Beyond the blackest brand of censure bold, 
 (To speak a language too well known to tbee) 
 Would at a moment give its all to chance, 
 And stamp the die for an eternity ? 
 
 Aid me, Narcissa ! aid me to keep pace 
 With destiny ; and ere her scissors cut 
 My thread of life, to break this tougher thread 
 Of moral death, that ties me to the world. 
 Sting thou my slumb'ring leason to send forth 
 A thought of observation on the foe ; 
 To sally ; and survey the rapid march 
 Of his ten thousand messengers to man ; 
 Who, Jehu-like, behind him turns them all. 
 All accident apart, by nature sign'd, 
 My warrant is gone out, tho' dormant yet ; 
 Perhaps behind one moment lurks my fate. 
 
 Must I then forward only look for death ? 
 Backward I turn mine eye, and find him there. 
 Man is a self-survivor ev'ry year. 
 Man, like a stream, is in perpetual flow. 
 Death 's a destroyer of quotidian prey. 
 My youth, my noontide, his ; my yesterday ; 
 
160 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The bold invader shares the present hour. 
 Each moment on the former shuts the grave. 
 While man is growing, life is in decrease ; 
 And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb. 
 Our birth is nothing but our death begun ; 
 As tapers waste, that instant they take" fire. 
 
 Shall we then fear, lest that should come to pass. 
 Which comes to pass each moment of our lives ? 
 If fear we must, let that death turn us pale. 
 Which murders strength and ardor ; what remains 
 Should rather call on death, than dread his call. 
 Ye partners of my fault, and my decline ! 
 Thoughtless of death but when your neighbor's knell 
 (Rude visitant) knocks hard at your dull sense, 
 And with its thunder scarce obtains your ear ! 
 Be death your theme in ev'ry place and hour ; 
 Nor longer want, ye monumental sires, 
 A brother-tomb to tell you, you shall die. 
 That death you dread, (so great is nature's skill !) 
 Know, you shall court, before you shall enjoy. 
 
 But you are learn'd ; in volumes deep you sit. 
 In wisdom shallow ; pompous ignorance ! 
 
NIGHT V. 161 
 
 Would you be still more learned than the learn'd ? 
 
 Learn well to know how much need not be known, 
 
 And what that knowledge which impairs your sense. 
 
 Our needful knowledge, like our needful food. 
 
 Unhedged, lies open in hfe's common field. 
 
 And bids all welcome to the vital feast. 
 
 You scorn what Hes before you in the page 
 
 Of nature and experience, moral truth ! 
 
 Of indispensable, eternal fruit ! 
 
 Fruit on which mortals, feeding, turn to gods ; 
 
 And dive in science for distinguish'd names, I 
 
 Dishonest fomentation of your pride. 
 
 Sinking in virtue as you rise in fame. 
 
 Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords 
 
 Light, but not heat ; it leaves you undevout. 
 
 Frozen at heart, while speculation shines. 
 
 Awake, ye curious indagators, fond 
 
 Of kn?hving aU, but what avails you known. 
 
 If you would learn death's character, attend. 
 
 All casts of conduct, all degrees of health, 
 
 All dyes of fortune, and all dates of age. 
 
 Together shook in his impartial um. 
 
162 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Come forth at random ; or, if choice is made. 
 The choice is quite sarcastic, and insults 
 All bold conjecture and fond hopes of man. 
 What countless multitudes not only leave, 
 But deeply disappoint us by their deaths ! 
 Though great our sorrow, greater our surprise. 
 
 Like other tyrants, death delights to smite. 
 What, smitten, most proclaims the pride of pow'r 
 And arbitrary nod. His joy supreme, 
 To bid the wretch survive the fortunate ; 
 The feeble wrap th' athletic in his shroud ; 
 And weeping fathers build their children's tomb : 
 Me thine, Narcissa ! — What though short thy date ? 
 Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures. 
 That Hfe is long which answers life's great end. 
 The tree that bears no fruit deserves no name. 
 The man of wisdom is the man of years. 
 In hoary youth Methusalems may die ; • 
 
 O how misdated on their flattering tombs ! 
 
 Narcissa's youth has lectured me thus far : 
 And can her gayety give counsel too ? 
 That, like the Jews' famed oracle of gems. 
 
NIGHT V. 163 
 
 Sparkles instruction ; sueh as throws new light, 
 And opens more the character of death, 
 111 known to thee, Lorenzo ! This thy vaunt : 
 ** Give death his due, the wretched and the old ; 
 E'en let him sweep his rubbish to the grave ; 
 Let him not violate kind nature's laws. 
 But own man born to live as well as die." 
 Wretched and old thou giv'st him : young and gay 
 He takes ; and plunder is a tyrant's joy. 
 What if I prove, '* The farthest from the fear 
 Are often nearest to the stroke of fate ?" 
 
 All more than common, menaces an end. 
 A blaze betokens brevity of life : 
 As if bright embers should emit a flame, 
 Glad spirits sparkled from Narcissa's eye. 
 And made youth younger, and taught life to live 
 As nature's opposites wage endless war. 
 For this otFence, as treason to the deep 
 Inviolable stupor of his reign, 
 Where lust and turbulent ambition sleep. 
 Death took swift vengeance. As he life detests, 
 More life is still more odious ; and reduced 
 
164 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 By conquest, aggrandizes more his pow'r. 
 But wherefore aggrandiz'd ? By heav'n's decree, 
 To plant the soul on her eternal guard. 
 In awful expectation of our end. 
 Thus runs death's dread commission, * Strike, but so 
 As most alarms the living by the dead.' 
 Hence stratagem delights him, and surprise. 
 And cruel sport with man's securities. 
 Not simple conquest, triumph is his aim ; 
 And where least feared, there conquest triumphs most. 
 This proves my bold assertion not too bold. 
 What are his arts to lay our fears asleep ? 
 Tiberian arts his purposes wrap up 
 In deep dissimulation's darkest night. 
 Like princes unconfess'd in foreign courts, 
 Who travel under cover, death assumes 
 The name and look of life, and dwells among us ; 
 He takes all shapes that serve his black designs ; 
 Though master of a wider empire far 
 Than that o'er which the Roman eagle flew : 
 Like Nero, he's a fiddler, charioteer ; 
 Or drives his phaeton in female guise ; 
 
NIGHT V. 1G5 
 
 Quite unsuspected; till the wheel beneath 
 His disarray 'd oblation he devours. 
 
 He most affects the forms least like himself, 
 His slender self : hence bui-ly corpulence 
 Is his familiar wear, and sleek diso-iiise. 
 Behind the rosy bloom he loves to lurk 
 Or ambush in a smile ; or, wanton, dive 
 In dimples deep : Love's eddies, which draw in 
 Unwary hearts, and sink them in despair. 
 Such on Narcissa's couch he loiter'd long 
 Unknown, and when detected, still was seen 
 To smile ; such peace has innocence in death ! 
 
 Most happy they ! whom least his arts deceive. 
 One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heav'n. 
 Becomes a mortal and immortal man. 
 Long on his wiles a piqued and jealous spy, 
 I 've seen, or dreamt I saw, the tyrant dress. 
 Lay by his horrors, and put on his smiles. 
 Say, muse, for thou remember'st, call it back. 
 And show Lorenzo the surprising scene ; 
 If 'twas a dream, his genius can explain. 
 
 'Twas in a circle of the gay I stood : 
 
166 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Death would have enter'd ; Nature push'd him back 
 
 Supported by a doctor of renown, 
 
 His point ho gain'd ; then artfully dismiss'd 
 
 The sage, for death design'd to be conceal'd. 
 
 He gave an old vivacious usurer 
 
 His meagre aspect, and his naked bones ; 
 
 In gratitude for plumping up his prey. 
 
 A pamper'd spendthrift, whose fantastic air, 
 
 Well-fashion'd figure, and cockaded brow, 
 
 He took in change, and underneath the pride 
 
 Of costly linen tuck'd his filthy shroud. 
 
 His crooked bow he straighten'd to a cane. 
 
 And hid his deadly shaft in Myra's eye. 
 
 The dreadful masquerader, thus equipp'd, 
 Outsallies on adventures. Ask you where ? 
 Where is he not ? For his peculiar haunts 
 Let this suffice ; sure as night follows day. 
 Death treads in Pleasure's footsteps round the world, 
 When Pleasure treads the paths which Reason shuns. 
 When against Reason Riot shuts the door, 
 And Gayety supplies the place of Sense, 
 Then foremost, at the banquet and the ball. 
 
NIGHT V. 167 
 
 Death leads the dance, or stamps the deadly die ; 
 Nor ever fails the midnight bowl to crown, 
 Gayly carousing to his gay compeers. 
 Inly he laughs to see them laugh at him. 
 As absent far ; and when the revel bums, 
 When fear is banish'd, and triumphant Thought, 
 Calling for all the joys beneath the moon, 
 Against him turns the key, and bids him sup 
 With their progenitors — he drops his mask ; 
 Frowns out at full ; they start, despair, expire. 
 
 Scarce with more sudden terror and surprise, 
 From his black masque of nitre, touch'd by fire. 
 He bursts, expands, roars, blazes, and devours. 
 And is not this triumphant treachery. 
 And more than simple conquest, in the fiend ? 
 
 And now, Lorenzo, dost thou wrap thy soul 
 In soft security, because unknown 
 Which moment is commission'd to destroy ? 
 In death's uncertainty thy danger lies. 
 Is death uncertain ? Therefore thou be fix'd ; 
 Fix'd as a sentinel, all eye, all ear, 
 All expectation of the coming foe. 
 
1G8 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Rouse, stand in arms, nor lean against thy spear ; 
 
 Lest slumber steal one moment o'er thy soul. 
 
 And fate surprise thee nodding. Watch, be strong ; 
 
 Thus give each day the merit and renown. 
 
 Of dying well ; tho' doom'd but once to die. 
 
 Nor let life's period hidden (as from most) 
 
 Hide too from thee the precious use of life. 
 
 Early, not sudden, was Narcissa's fate. 
 Soon, not surprising, death his visit paid. 
 Her thought went forth to meet him on his way, 
 Nor gayety forgot it was to die. 
 Tho' fortune too (our third and final theme,) 
 As as accomphce play'd her gaudy plumes. 
 And ev'ry glittering gewgaw, on her sight. 
 To dazzle, and debauch it from its mark. 
 Death's dreadful advent is the mark of man ; 
 And ev'ry thought that misses it, is blind. 
 Fortune, with youth and gayety, conspir'd 
 To weave a triple wreath of happiness, 
 (If happiness on earth) to crown her brow. 
 And could death charge thro' such a shining shield ? 
 
 That shining shield invites the tyrant's spear. 
 
NIGHT V. 169 
 
 As if to damp our elevated aims, 
 
 And strongly preach humility to man. 
 
 how portentous is prosperity ! 
 
 How, comet-like, it threatens, while it shines ! 
 
 I Few years but yield us proof of death's ambition 
 
 { To cull his victims from the fairest fold, 
 
 i And sheath his shafts in all the pride of life. 
 
 I 
 
 ! When flooded with abundance, purpled o'er 
 
 With recent honors, bloom'd with ev'ry bliss. 
 
 Set up in ostentation, made the gaze, 
 
 The gaudy centre, of the public eye. 
 
 When fortune thus has toss'd her child in air, 
 
 Snatch'd from the covert of an humble state, 
 
 I How often have I seen him dropp'd at once. 
 Our morning's envy ! and our ev'ning's sigh ! 
 
 I As if her bounties were the signal given, 
 The flow'ry wreath to mark the sacrifice, 
 And call death's arrows on the destin'd prey. 
 
 High fortune seems in cruel league with fate. 
 Ask you for what ? To give his war on man 
 The deeper dread, and more illustrious spoil ; 
 Thus to keep daring mortals more in awe. 
 
170 THE COMTLAINT. 
 
 And burns Lorenzo still for the sublime 
 Of life ? to hang his airy nest on high, 
 On the slight timber of the topmost bough, 
 Rock'd at each breeze, and menacing a fall ! 
 Granting grim Death at equal distance there : 
 Yet peace begins just where ambition ends. 
 What makes man wretch'd ? Happiness denied ? 
 Lorenzo! no: 'tis Happiness disdain'd. 
 She comes too meanly dress'd to win our smile ; 
 And calls herself Content, a homely name ! 
 Our flame is Transport, and Content our scorn. 
 Ambition turns, and shuts the door against her, 
 And weds a toil, a tempest, in her stead ; 
 A tempest to warm Transport near of kin. 
 Unknowing what our mortal state admits, 
 Life's modest joys we ruin, while we raise ; 
 And all our ecstacies are wounds to peace. 
 Peace, the full portion of mankind below. 
 
 And since thy peace is dear, ambitious youth ! 
 Of fortune fond ! as thoughtless of thy fate ! 
 As late I drew Death's picture, to stir up 
 Thy wholesome fears ; now, drawn in contrast, see 
 
 J 
 
NIGHT V. iTl 
 
 Gay Fortune's, thy vain hopes to reprimand. 
 See, high in air, the sportive goddess hangs. 
 Unlocks her casket spreads her ghtt'ring ware, 
 And calls the gidd.y winds to puflF abroad 
 Her random bounties o'er the gaping throng. 
 All rush rapacious ; friends o'er trodden friends ; 
 Sons o'er their fathers, subjects o'er their kings. 
 Priests o'er their gods, and lovers o'er the fair, 
 (Still more ador'd) to snatch the golden show'r. 
 
 Gold glitters most, where virtue shines no more ; 
 As stars from absent suns have leave to shine. 
 what a precious pack of votaries 
 Unkennell'd from the prisons, and the stews. 
 Pour in. all op'ning in their idol's praise ! 
 All, ardent, eye each wafture of her hand. 
 And, wide expanding their voracious jaws. 
 Morsel on morsel swallow down unchew'd, 
 Untasted, through mad appetite for more ; 
 Gorg'd to the throat, yet lean and rav'nous still. 
 Sagacious all, to trace the smallest game. 
 And bold to seize the greatest. If (blest chance !) 
 Court-zephers sweetly breathe, they launch, they fly. 
 
1*72 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 O'er just, o'er sacred, all forbidden ground, 
 Drunk with the burning scent of place or pow'r, 
 Staunch to the foot of lucre, till they die. 
 
 Or, if for men you take them, as I mark 
 Their manners, thou their various fates survey. 
 With aim mismeasur'd, and impetuous speed. 
 Some darting, strike their ardent wish far off, 
 I Through fury to possess it : some succeed, 
 ! But stumble, and let fall the taken prize. 
 I From some, by sudden blasts, 'tis whirl'd away. 
 I And lodg'd in bosoms that ne'er dream'd of gain. 
 ! To some it sticks so close, that, when torn off 
 I Torn is the man, and mortal is the wound. 
 I Some, o'er-enamour'd of their bags, run mad, 
 i Groan vmder gold, yet weep for want of bread. 
 Togetlier some (unhappy rivals !) seize. 
 And rend abundance into poverty ; 
 Loud croaks the raven of the law, and smiles : 
 Smiles too the goddess ; but smiles most at those, 
 (Just victims of exorbitant desire !) 
 Who perish at their own request, and, whelm'd 
 Beneath her load of lavish grants, expire. 
 
NIGHT V. 1V3 
 
 Fortune is famous for her numbers slain. 
 
 The number small, which happiness can bear. 
 
 Tho' various for awhile their fates ; at last 
 
 One curse involves them all : at death's approach, 
 
 All read their riches backward into loss, 
 
 And mourn, in just proportion to their store. 
 
 And death's approach, (if orthodox my song) 
 Is hasten'd by the lure of fortune's smiles. 
 And art thou still a glutton of bright gold ? 
 And art thou still rapacious of thy ruin ? 
 Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow ; 
 A blow, which, while it executes, alarms ; 
 And startles thousands, with a single fall. 
 As when some stately growth of oak, or pine, 
 Which nod? aloft, and proudly spreads her shade, 
 The sun's defiance, and the flock's defence ; 
 By the strong strokes of lab'ring hinds subdu'd. 
 Loud groans her last, and, rushing from her height 
 In cumb'rous ruin, thunders to the ground : 
 The conscious forest trembles at the shock. 
 And hill, and stream, and distant dale, resound. 
 
 These high-aim'd darts of death, and these alone, 
 
1*74 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Should I collect, my quiver would be full. 
 
 A quiver, which, suspended in mid air. 
 
 Or near heav'n's archer, in the zodiac, hung, 
 
 (So could it be) should draw the public eye. 
 
 The gaze and contemplation of mankind ! 
 
 A constellation awful, yet benign, 
 
 To guide the gay thro' life's tempestuous wave ; 
 
 Nor suffer them to strike the common rock, 
 
 " From greater danger to grow more secure. 
 
 And, wrapt in happiness, forget their fate.'* 
 
 Lysander, happy past the common lot. 
 Was warn'd a danger, but too gay to fear. 
 He woo'd the fair Aspasia : she was kind : 
 In youth, form, fortune, fame, they both were 
 
 bless'd, 
 All who knew, envied ; yet in envy lov'd : 
 Can fancy form more finish'd happiness ? 
 Fix'd was the nuptial hour. Her stately dome 
 Rose on the sounding beach. The glitt'ring spires 
 Float in the wave, and break against the shore : 
 So break those glitt'ring shadows, human joys. 
 The faithless morning smil'd : he takes his leave. 
 
NIGHT V. iTS 
 
 To re-embrace in ecstacies, at eve. 
 
 The rising storm forbids. The news arrives : 
 
 Untold, she saw it in her servant's eye. 
 
 She felt it seen (her heart was apt to feel) ; 
 
 And, drown'd, without the furious ocean's aid. 
 
 In suffocating sorrows, shares his tomb. 
 
 Now, round the sumptuous, bridal monument, 
 
 The guilty billows innocently roar ; 
 
 And the rough sailor, passing, drops a tear. 
 
 A tear ? — can tears suffice ? — But not for me. 
 
 How vain our efforts ! And our arts, how vain ! 
 
 The distant train of thought I took, to shun. 
 
 Has thrown me on my fate. — These died together ; 
 
 Happy in ruin ! undivorc'd by death ! 
 
 Or ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace. — 
 
 Narcissa ! pity bleeds at thought of thee. 
 
 Yet thou wast only near me ; not myself. 
 
 Survive myself? that cures all other woe. 
 
 Narcissa lives ! Philander is forgot. 
 
 the soft commerce ! the tender ties. 
 
 Close-twisted with the fibres of the heart ! 
 
176 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Which broken, break thera ; and drain oflf the soul 
 Of human joy ; and make it pain to live. — 
 And is it then to live ? When such friends part, 
 'Tis the survivor dies. — My heart ! no more. 
 
NIGHT VI. 
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 CONTAINING- THE NATURE, PROOF, AND IMPORTANCE OF 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Fbw ages have been deeper in dispute about religion than 
 this. The dispute about religion, and the practice of it, seldom go 
 together. The shorter, therefore, the dispute, the better. I think 
 it may be reduced to this single question. Is man immortal, or is 
 he not 1 If he is not, all our disputes are mere amusements, or 
 trials of skill. In this case, truth, reason, religion, which give 
 our discourses such pomp and solemnity, are (as will be shown) 
 mere empty sounds, without any meaning in them. But if man 
 is immortal, it will behoove him to be very serious about eternal 
 consequences ; or, in other words, to be truly religious. And this 
 great fundamental truth, unestablished or unawakened in the 
 minds of men, is. I conceive, the real source and support of all 
 our infideUty ; how remote soever the particular objections ad- 
 vanced may seem to be from it. 
 
178 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Sensible appearances affect most men much more than abstract 
 reasonings ; and we daily see bodies drop around us^ but the scul 
 is invisible. The power which inclination has over '.he :vLig- 
 ment is greater than can be well conceived by those that have 
 not had an experience of it; and of what numbers is it the sad 
 interest that souls should not survive ! The heathen world con- 
 fessed that they rather hoped than firmly believed immortality ; 
 and how many heathens have we still amongst us ! The sacred 
 page assures us, that life and immortality is brought to light by 
 the gospel: but by how many is the gospel rejected, or over- 
 looked ! From these considerations, and from my being, acci- 
 dentally, privy to the sentiments of some particular persons, I 
 have been long persuaded that most, if not all our infidels, 
 (whatever name they take, and whatever scheme, for argument's 
 cake, and to keep themselves in countenance, they patronize) are 
 supported in their deplorable error by some doubt of their tjn- 
 mortality, at the bottom. And I am satisfied that men once 
 thoroughly convinced of their immortality are not fur from being 
 Christians. For it is hard to conceive that a man fully conscious 
 eternal pain or happiness will certainly be his lot. should not 
 earnestly, and impartially, inquire after the surest means of es- 
 caping the one, and securing the other. And of such an earnest 
 and impartial inquiry, I well know the consequence. 
 
 Here, therefore, in proof of this most fundamental truth, some 
 plain arguments are off'ered — arguments derived from principles 
 which infidels admit in common with believers — arguments 
 which appear to me altogether irresistible ; and such as I am 
 satisfied will have great weight with all who give themselves the 
 
NIGHT VI . 1T9 
 
 small trouble of looking seriously into their o 9vn bosoms, and of 
 observing, with any tolerable degree of attention, what daily 
 passes, round about them, in the world. If some arguments 
 shall, here, occur which others have declined, they are submitted, 
 with all deference, to better judgments in this, of all points, the 
 most important. For, as to the being of a God, that is no longer 
 disputed ; but it is undisputed, for this reason only, viz., because 
 where the least pretence to reason is admitted, it must forever !>8 
 indisputable. And of consequence no man can be betrayed 
 into a dispute of that nature by vanity ; which has a principal 
 share in animating our modern combatants against other articles 
 of our belief. 
 
PART THE FIRST. 
 
 WHERE, AMONG OTHER THINGS, GLORY AND RICHES ARE 
 PARTICULARLY CONSIDERED. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY PELHAM, 
 
 FIRST LORD COMMISSIONER OF THE TREASURY, AND CHANCELLOR OF 
 THE EXCHEQUER. 
 
 She* (for T know not yet her name in heaven) 
 Nor early, like Karcissa, left the scene ; 
 Nor sudden, like Philander. What avail ? 
 This seeming mitigation but inflames ; 
 This fancied med'cine heightens the disease. 
 The longer known, the closer still she grew ; 
 And gradual parting is a gradual death. 
 'Tis the grim tyrant's engine, which extorts 
 By tardy pressure's still-increasing weight, 
 From hardest hearts, confession of distress. 
 
 the long, dark approach thro' years of pain, 
 Death's gall'ry ! (might I dare to call it so) 
 
 * Referring to Night the Fifth. 
 
NIGHT VI. 181 
 
 With dismal doubt, and sable terror, hung ; 
 
 Sick hope's pale lamp, its only glimm'ring ray : 
 
 There fate my melancholy walk ordaiu'd, 
 
 Forbid self-love itself to flatter, there. 
 
 How oft I gaz'd, prophetically sad ! 
 
 How oft I saw her dead, while yet in smiles ! 
 
 In smiles she sunk her grief, to lessen mine. 
 
 She spoke me comfort, and increas'd my pain. 
 
 Like pow'rful armies trenching at a town. 
 
 By slow, and silent, but resistless sap. 
 
 In his pale progress gently gaining ground. 
 
 Death urg'd his deadly siege ; in spite of art. 
 
 Of all the balmy blessings nature lends 
 
 To succor frail humanity. Ye stars ! 
 
 (Not now first made familiar to my sight) 
 
 And thou, moon ! bear witness ; many a night 
 
 He tore the pillow from beneath my head. 
 
 Tied down my sore attention to the shock, 
 
 By ceaseless depredations on a life 
 
 Dearer than that he left me. Dreadful post 
 
 Of observation ! darker ev'ry hour ! 
 
 Less dread the day that drove me to the brink, 
 
182 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And pointed at eternity below ; 
 When my soul shudder'd at futurity ; 
 When, on a moment's point, th' important dye 
 Of life and death spun doubtful, ere it fell, 
 And turn'd up life ; my title to more woe. 
 
 But why more woe ? More comfort let it be. 
 Nothing is dead, but that which wish'd to die ; 
 Nothing is dead, but wretchedness and pain ; 
 Nothing is dead, but what incumber'd, gall'd, 
 Block'd up the pass, and barr'd from real life. 
 Where dwells that wish most ardent of the wise ! 
 Too dark the sun to see it ; highest stars 
 Too low to reach it ; death, great death alone. 
 O'er stars and sun triumphant, land us there. 
 
 Nor dreadful our transition ; tho' the mind, 
 An artist at creating self-alarms. 
 Rich in expedients for inquietude. 
 Is prone to paint it dreadful. Who can take 
 Death's portrait true ? The tyrant never sat. 
 Our sketch, all random strokes, conjecture all ; 
 Close shuts the grave, nor tells one single tale. 
 Death, and his image rising in the brain, 
 
NIGHT VI. 183 
 
 Bear faint resemblance ; never are alike ; 
 Fear shakes the pencil, Fancy loves excess. 
 Dark ignorance is lavish of her shades ; 
 And these the formidable picture draw. 
 
 But grant the worst ; 'tis past ; new prospects rise 
 And drop a veil eternal o'er her tomb. 
 Far other views our contemplation claim, 
 Views that o'erpay the rigors of our life ; 
 Views that suspend our agonies in death. 
 Wrapt in the thought of immortality. 
 Wrapt in the single, the triumphant thought ! 
 Long life might lapse, age unperceiv'd come on ; 
 And find the soul unsated with her theme. 
 Its nature, proof, importance, fire my song. 
 that my song could emulate my soul ! 
 Like her, immortal. No ! — the soul disdains 
 A mark so mean ; far nobler hope inflames ; 
 If endless ages can outweigh an hour. 
 Let not the laurel, but the palm, inspire. 
 
 Thy nature, immortality ! who knows ? 
 And yet who knows it not ? It is but life 
 In stronger thread of brighter color spun. 
 
184 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And spun forever ; dipp'd by cruel fate 
 
 In Stygian dye, how black, how brittle here ! 
 
 How short our correspondence with the sun ! 
 
 And while it lasts, inglorious ! our best deeds, 
 
 How" wanting in their weight ! our highest joys 
 
 Small cordials no support us in our pain. 
 
 And give us strength to suffer. But how great 
 
 To mingle int'rests, converse, amities, 
 
 With all the sons of reason, scatter'd wide 
 
 Through habitable space, wherever born, 
 
 Howe'er endow'd ! to live free citizens 
 
 Of universal nature ! to lay hold 
 
 By more than feeble faith on the Supreme ! 
 
 To call heav'n's rich unfathomable minei 
 
 (Mines, which support archangels in their state) 
 
 Our own ! to rise in science, as in bhss, 
 
 Initiate in the secrets of the skies ! 
 
 To read creation ; read its mighty plan 
 
 In the bare bosom of the Deity ! 
 
 The plan, and execution, to collate ! 
 
 To see, before each glance of piercing thought, 
 
 All cloud, all shadow, blown remote ; and leave 
 
NIGHT VI. 185 
 
 No mystery — but that of love divine, 
 
 Which hfts us on the seraph's flaming wing, 
 
 From earth's Aceldama, this field of blood. 
 
 Of inward anguish, and of outward ill, 
 
 F)om darkness, and from dust, to such a scene ! 
 
 love's element ! true joy's illustrious home ! 
 
 From earth's sad contrast (now deplor'd) more fair ! 
 
 What exquisite vicissitude of fate ! 
 
 Blest absolution of our blackest hour ! 
 
 Lorenzo, these are thoughts that make man, man, 
 The wise illumine, aggrandize the great. 
 How great (while yet we tread the kindred clod, 
 And ev'ry moment fear to sink beneath 
 The clod we tread ; soon trodden by our sons) 
 How great, in the wild whirl of time's pursuits 
 To stop, and pause, involv'd in high presage, 
 Through the long vista of a thousand years. 
 To stand contemplating our distant selves, 
 As in a magnifying mirror seen, 
 Enlarg'd, ennobled, elevate, divine ! 
 To prophesy our own futurities ! 
 To gaze in thought on what all thought transcends ! 
 
186 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 To talk, with fellow-candidates, of joys 
 As far beyond conception, as desert, 
 Ourselves th* astonish'd talkers, and the tale ! 
 Lorenzo, swells thy bosom at the thought ? 
 The swell becomes thee : 'tis an honest pride. 
 Revere thyself ; — and yet thyself despise. 
 His nature no man can o'errate ; and none 
 Can underrate his merit. Take good heed, 
 Nor there be modest, where thou shouldst be proud ; 
 That almost universal error shun. 
 How just our pride, when we behold those heights ! 
 Kot those ambition paints in air, but those 
 Reason points out, and ardent virtue gains ; 
 And angels emulate ; our pride how just ! 
 When mount we ? when these shackles cast ? when 
 
 quit 
 This cell of the creation ? this small nest, 
 Stuck in a corner of the universe, 
 Wrapp'd up in fleecy cloud, and fine-spun air ? 
 Fine-spun to sense ; but gross and feculent 
 To souls celestial; souls ordain'dto breathe . 
 Ambrosial gales, and drink a purer sky ; 
 
NIGHT VI. 187 
 
 Greatly triumphant on time's farther shore. 
 Where virtue reigns, enrich'd with full arrears ; 
 While pomp imperial begs an alms of peace. 
 
 In empire high, or in proud science deep, 
 Ye born of earth ! on what can you confer. 
 With half the dignity, with half the gain, 
 The gust, the glow of rational delight. 
 As on this theme, which angels praise, and share ? 
 Man's fates and favors are a theme in heaven. 
 
 What wretched repetition cloys us here ! 
 What periodic potions for the sick ! 
 Distemper'd bodies ! and distemper'd minds ! 
 In an eternity, what scenes shall strike ! 
 Adventures thicken ! novelties surprise ! 
 What webs of wonder shall unravel there ! 
 What full day pour on all the paths of heaven. 
 And light th' Almighty's footsteps in the deep ! 
 How shall the blessed day of our discharge 
 Unwind, at once, the labyrinths of fate, 
 And straighten its inextricable maze ! 
 
 If inextinguishable thirst in man 
 To know ; how rich, how full, our banquet here ! 
 
188 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Here, not the moral world alone unfolds ; 
 The world material, lately seen in shades, 
 And, in those shades, by fragments only seen. 
 And seen those fragments by the lab'ring eye, 
 Unbroken, now, illustrious, and entire. 
 Its ample sphere, its universal frame, 
 In full dimensions, swells to the survey ; 
 And enters, at one glance, the ravish'd sight. 
 From some superior point (where, who can tell ? 
 Suffice it, 'tis a point where gods reside) 
 How shall the stranger man's illumin'd eye, 
 In the vast ocean of unbounded space. 
 Behold an infinite of floating worlds 
 Divide the crystal waves of ether pure, 
 In endless voyage, without port ? The least 
 Of these disseminated orbs, how great? 
 Great as they are, what numbers these surpass, 
 Hus^e, as leviathan, to that small race. 
 Those twinkling multitudes of Httle life. 
 He swallows unperceiv'd ! stupendous these ! 
 Yet what are these stupendous to the whole ? 
 As particles, as atoms, ill-perceiv'd ; 
 
NIGHT VI. 189 
 
 As circulating globules in our veins ; 
 So vast the plan : fecundity divine ! 
 Exub'rant source ! perhaps, I wrong thee still. 
 
 If admiration is a source of joy, 
 What transport hence ? yet this the least in heaven. 
 What this to that illustrious robe he wears 
 Who toss'd this mass of wonders from his hand, 
 A specimen, an earnest, of his power ? 
 'Tis, to that glory, whence all glory flows. 
 As the mead's meanest flow'ret to the sun, 
 Which gave it birth. But what this sun of heaveu ? 
 This bliss supreme of the supremely bless'd ? 
 Death, only death, the question can resolve, 
 By death cheap bought th' ideas of our joy ; 
 The bare ideas ! solid happiness 
 So distant from its shadow chas'd below. 
 
 And chase we still the phantom thro' the fire, . 
 O'er bog, and brake, and precipice, till death ? 
 And toil we still for sublunary pay ? 
 Defy the dangers of the field, and flood, 
 Or, spider-like, spin out our precious all, 
 Our more than vitals spin (if no regard 
 
190 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 To great futurity) in curious webs 
 
 Of subtle thought, and exquisite design ; 
 
 (Fine network of the brain !) to catch a fly ! 
 
 The momentary buz of vain renown ! 
 
 A name, a mortal immortahty ! 
 
 Or (meaner still) instead of grasping air, 
 For sordid lucre plunge we in the mire ? 
 Drudge, sweat, thro' ev'ry shame, for ev'ry gain. 
 For vile contaminating trash ; throw up 
 Our hope in heav'n, our dignity with man ? 
 And deify the dirt, matur'd to gold ? 
 Ambition, av'rice ; the two demons, these 
 Wliich goad thro' every slough our human herd, 
 Hard-travel'd from the cradle to the grave. 
 How low the wretches stoop ! how steep they climb ! 
 These demons burn mankind ; but most possess 
 Lorenzo's bosom, and turn out the skies. 
 
 Is it in time to hide eternity ? 
 And why not in an atom on the shore, 
 To cover ocean ? or a mote, the sun ? 
 Glory and wealth ! have they this blinding power ? 
 What if to them I prove Lorenzo blind ? 
 
NIGHT VI, 191 
 
 AVould it surprise thee ? be thou then surpris'd ; 
 Thou neither know'st : their nature learn from me. 
 
 Mark well, as foreign as these subjects seem, 
 What close connection ties them to my theme. 
 First, what is true ambition ? the pursuit 
 Of glory, nothing less than man can share. 
 Were they as vain as gaudy-minded man, 
 As flatulent with fumes of self-applause, 
 Their arts and conquests animals might boast, 
 And claim their laurel crowns, as well as we ; 
 But not celestial. Here we stand alone ; 
 As in our form, distinct, pre-eminent ; 
 If prone in thought, our stature is our shame. 
 And man should blush, his forehead meets the skies. 
 The visible and present are for brutes, 
 A slender portion ! and a narrow bound ! 
 These reason, with an energy divine, 
 O'erleaps ; and claims the future and unseen ; 
 The vast unseen ! the future fathomless ! 
 When the great soul buoys up to this high point, 
 Leaving gross nature's sediments below, 
 Then, and then only, Adam's offspring quits 
 
192 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The sage and hero of the fields and woods^ 
 Asserts his rank, and rises into Man. 
 This is ambition : this is human fire. 
 
 Can parts or place (two bold pretenders !) make 
 Lorenzo great, and pluck him from the throng ? 
 
 Genius and art, ambition's boasted wings, 
 Our boast but ill deserve. A feeble aid ! 
 Dedalian engin'ry ! if these alone 
 Assist our flight, fame's flight is glory's fall. 
 Heart-merit wanting, mount we ne'er so high. 
 Our height is but the gibbet of our name. 
 A celebrated wretch when I behold. 
 When I behold a genius bright, and base. 
 Of tow'ring talents, and terrestial aims ; 
 Methinks I see, as thrown from her high sphere, 
 The glorious fragment of a soul immortal. 
 With rubbish mix'd, and glittering in the dust. 
 Struck at the splendid, melancholy sight, 
 At once compassion soft, and envy, rise — 
 But wherefore envy ? Talents angel-bright. 
 If wanting worth, are shining instruments 
 
NIGHT VI. ]93 
 
 In false ambition's hand, to finish faults 
 Illustrious, and give infamy renown. 
 
 Great ill is an achievement of great powers. 
 Plain sense but rarely leads us far astray. 
 Reason the means, affections choose our end ; 
 Means have no merit, if our end amiss. 
 If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain ; 
 What is a Pelham's head, to Pelham's heart ? 
 Hearts are proprietors of all applause. 
 Right ends, and means, make wisdom : worldly-wise 
 It but half-witted, at its highest praise. , 
 
 Let genius then despair to make thee great ; 
 Nor flatter station : what is station high ? 
 'Tis a proud mendicant ; it boasts, and begs ; * 
 It begs an alms of homage from the throng, 
 And oft the throng denies its charity, 
 Monarchs, and ministers, are awful names ; 
 Whoever wear them, challenge our devoir. 
 Religion, pubhc order, both exact 
 External homage, and a supple knee. 
 To beings pompously set up, to serve 
 The meanest slave ; all more is merit's due, 
 
194 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Her sacred and inviolable right 
 
 Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man. 
 
 Our hearts ne'er bow but to superior worth ; 
 
 Nor ever fail of their allegiance there. 
 
 Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account. 
 
 And vote the mantle into majesty. 
 
 Let the small savage boast his silver fur ; 
 
 His royal robe unborrow'd, and unbought, 
 
 His own, descending fairly from his sires. 
 
 Shall man be proud to wear his livery, 
 
 And souls in ermine scorn a soul without ? 
 
 Can place, or lessen us, or aggrandize ? 
 
 Pigmies are pigmies still, though perch'd on Alps ; 
 
 And pyramids are pyramids in vales. 
 
 Each man makes his own statue, builds himself : 
 
 Virtue alone out-builds the pyramids ; 
 
 Her monuments shall last, when Egypt's fall. 
 
 Of these sure truths dost thou demand the cause ? 
 The cause is lodg'd in immortality ; 
 Hear, and assent. Thy bosom burns for power ; 
 What station charms thee ? I '11 install thee there ; 
 'Tis thine. And art thou greater than before ? 
 
NIGHT VI . 195 
 
 Then thou before wast something less than man. 
 
 Has thy new post betray 'd thee into pride ? 
 
 That treach'rous pride betrays thy dignity ; 
 
 That pride defames humanity, and calls 
 
 The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise. 
 
 That pride, like hooded hawks, in darkness soars, 
 
 From blindness bold, and tow'ring to the skies. 
 
 'Tis born of ignorance, which knows not man 
 
 An angel's second ; nor his second long. 
 
 A Nero quitting his imperial throne. 
 
 And courting glory from the tinkling string, 
 
 But faintly shadows an immortal soul. 
 
 With empire's self, to pride, or rapture, fir'd. 
 
 If nobler motives minister no cure, 
 
 Ev'n vanity forbids thee to be vain. 
 
 High worth is elevated place : 'tis more ; 
 It makes the post stand candidate for thee ; 
 Makes more than monarchs, makes an honest man ; 
 Tho' no exchequer it commands, 'tis wealth ; 
 And tho' it wears no ribbon, 'tis renown ; 
 Renown, that would not quit thee, tho' disgraced, 
 Nor leave thee pendent on a master's -smile. 
 
196 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Other ambition nature interdicts ; 
 
 Nature proclaims it most absurd in man, 
 
 By pointing at his origin, and end ; 
 
 Milk, and a swathe, at first, his whole demand ; 
 
 His whole domain, at last, a turf, or stone : 
 
 To whom, between, a world may seem too small. 
 
 Souls truly great dart forward on the wing 
 Of just ambition, to the grand result, 
 The curtain's fall ; there, see the buskin'd chief 
 Unshod behind this momentary scene ; 
 Reduced to his own stature, low or high. 
 As vice, or virtue, sinks him, or sublimes ; 
 And laugh at this fantastic mummery, 
 This antic prelude of grotesque events. 
 Where dwarfs are often stilted, and betray 
 A littleness of soul by worlds o'errun, 
 And nations laid in blood. Dread sacrifice 
 To Christian pride ! which had with horror shock'd 
 The darkest pagans, offer'd to their gods. 
 
 thou most Christian enemy to peace ! 
 Again in arms ? again provoking fate ? 
 That prince, and that alone, is truly great, 
 
NIGHT VI. 197 
 
 Who draws the sword reluctant, gladly sheaths; 
 On empire builds what empire far outweighs, 
 And makes his throne a scaffold to the skies. 
 
 Why this so rare ? because forgot of all 
 The day of death ; that venerable day. 
 Which sits as judge ; that day, which shall pronounce 
 On all our days, absolve them, or condemn. 
 Lorenzo, never shut thy thought against it ; 
 Be levees ne'er so full, afford it room. 
 And give it audience in the cabinet. 
 That friend consulted, flatteries apart, 
 Will tell thee fair, if thou are great, or mean. 
 
 To doat on aught may leave us, or be left, 
 Is that ambition ? then let flames descend, 
 Point to the centre their inverted spires. 
 And learn humiliation from a soul. 
 Which boasts her lineage from celestial fire. 
 Yet these are they, the world pronounces wise. 
 The world, which cancels nature's right and wrong, 
 And casts new wisdom : ev'n the grave man lends 
 His solemn face, to countenance the coin. 
 Wisdom for parts is madness for the whole. 
 
198 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 This stamps the paradox, and gives us leave 
 
 To call the wisest weak, the richest poor, 
 
 The most ambitious, unambitious, mean ; 
 
 In triumph, mean; and abject on a throne. 
 
 Nothing can make it less than mad in man, 
 
 To put forth all his ardor, ail his art, 
 
 And give his soul her full unbounded flight. 
 
 But reaching Him, who gave her wings to fly. 
 
 When blind ambition quite mistakes her road. 
 
 And downward pores, for that which shines above, 
 
 Substantial happiness, and true renown ; 
 
 Then, like an idiot gazing on the brook. 
 
 We leap at stars, and fasten in the mud ; 
 
 At glory grasp, and sink in infamy. 
 
 Ambition ! pow'rful source of good and ill ! 
 Thy strength in man, like length of wing in birds, 
 When disengag'd from earth, with greater ease. 
 And swifter flight, transports us to the skies : 
 By toys entangled, or in guilt bemir'd, 
 It turns a curse ; it is our chain, and scourge. 
 In this dark dungeon, where confin'd we lie. 
 Close-grated by the sordid bars of sense ; 
 
NTGHT VI. 199 
 
 All prospect of eternity shut out ; ^ 
 And, but for execution, ne'er set free. 
 
 With error in ambition justly charged. 
 Find we Lorenzo wiser in his wealth ? 
 What if thy rental I reform ? and draw 
 j An inventory new to set. thee right ? 
 
 Where, thy true treasure ? gold says, "Not in me,' 
 And, " Not in me," tne di'mond. Gold is poor; 
 India 's insolvent : seek it in thyself, 
 Seek in thy naked self, and find it there ; 
 In being so descended, form'd, endow'd ; 
 Sky-born, sky-guided, sky-returning race ! 
 Erect, immortal, rational, divine ! 
 In senses, which inherit earth, and heavens ; 
 Enjoy the various riches nature yields ; 
 Far nobler ; give the nches they enjoy ; 
 Give taste to fruits ; and harmony to groves ; 
 Their radiant beams to gold, and gold's bright sire ; 
 Take in, at once, the landscape of the world, 
 At a small inlet, which a grain might close. 
 And half create the wond'rous world they see. 
 Our senses, and our reason, are divine. 
 
200 THE compl'aint. 
 
 But for the magic organ's pow'rful charm. 
 Earth were a rude, uncolor'd chaos still. 
 Objects are but th' occasion ; ours th' exploit ; 
 Ours is the cloth, the pencil, and the paint, 
 Which nature's admirable pictures draws ; 
 And beautifies creation's ample dome. 
 Like Milton's Eve, when gazing on tne laRe, 
 Man makes the matchless image man admires. 
 Say then, shall man, his thoughts all sent abroad, 
 Superior wonders in himself forgot, 
 His admiration waste on objects round. 
 When heav'n makes him the soul of all he sees ? 
 Absurd ! not rare ! so great, so mean, is man. 
 
 What wealth in senses such as these ! what wealth 
 In fancy, fir'd to form a fairer scene 
 Than sense surveys ! In mem'ry's firm record, 
 Which, should it perish, could this world recall 
 From the dark shadows of o'erwhelming years ! 
 In colors fresh, originally bright 
 Preserve its portrait, and report its fate ! 
 What wealth in intellect, that sov'reign power ! 
 Which sense, and fancy, summons to the bar ; 
 
1 
 
 NIGHT VI. 201 
 
 Interrogates, approves, or reprehends ; 
 
 And from the mass those underhngs import, 
 
 From their materials sifted, and refin'd, 
 
 And in truth's balance accurately weigh 'd, 
 
 Fonns art, and science, government, and law ; 
 
 The solid basis, and the beauteous frame, 
 
 The vitals, and th*^ grace of civil life ! 
 
 And manners (sad exception !) set aside, 
 
 Strikes out, with master-hand, a copy fair 
 
 Of his idea, whose indulgent thought 
 
 Long, long, ere chaos teem'd, plann'd human bliss. 
 
 What wealth in souls that soar, dive, range around, 
 Disdaining limit, or from place, or time ; 
 And hear at once, in thought extensive, hear 
 Th' Almighty fiat, and the trumpet's sound ! 
 Bold, on creation's outside walk, and view 
 What was, and is, and more than e'er shall be ! 
 Commanding, with omnipotence of thought, 
 Creations new in fancy's field to rise ! 
 Souls, that can grasp whate'er th' Almighty made, 
 And wander wild, through things impossible ! 
 What wealth, in faculties of endless growth, 
 
 9* 
 
202 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 In quenchless passions violent to crave, 
 In liberty to choose, in pow'r to reach. 
 And in duration (how thy riches rise !) 
 Duration to perpetuate — boundless bliss ! 
 
 Ask you, what power resides in feeble man 
 That bliss to gain ? Is virtue's then, unknown ? 
 Virtue, our present peace, our future prize. 
 Man's unprecarious, natural estate, 
 Improveable at will, in virtue, lies ; 
 Its tenure sure ; its income is divine. 
 
 High-built alMjr.daiice, h(.ap on heap ! for what ? 
 To breed new wants, and beggar us the more ; 
 Then, make a richer scramble for the throng ? 
 Soon as this feeble pulse, which leaps so long 
 Almost by miracle, is tir'd with play. 
 Like iiibbish from disploding engines thrown, 
 Our magazines of hoarded trifles fly ; 
 Fly diverse ; fly to foreigners, to foes ; 
 New masters court, and call the former fool 
 (How justly !) for dependence on their stay. 
 Wide scatter, first, our playthings, then, our dust. 
 
 Dost court abundance for the sake of peace ? 
 
NIGHT VI. 203 
 
 Learn, and lament, thy self-defeated scheme : 
 
 Riches enable to be richer still ; 
 
 And richer still, Avhat mortal can resist ? 
 
 Thus wealth (a cruel task-master !) enjoins 
 
 New toils, succeeding toils, an endless train ! 
 
 And murders peace, which taught it first to shine. 
 
 The poor are half as wretched, as the rich ; ' 
 
 Whose proud and painful privilege it is. 
 
 At once, to bear a double load of woe ; 
 
 To feel the stings of envj, and of want, 
 
 Outrageous want! both Indi-i^s cannot cure. 
 
 A competence is vital to content. 
 Much wealth is corpulence, if not disease ; 
 Sick, or incumber'd, is our happiness. 
 A competence is all we can enjoy. 
 be content, where heav'n can give no more ! 
 More, like a flash of water from a lock. 
 Quickens our spirit's movement for an hour ; 
 But soon its force is spent, nor rise our joys 
 Above our native temper's common stream. 
 Hence disappointment lurks in ev'ry prize. 
 As bees in flow'rs; and stings us with success. 
 
204 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The rich man, who denies it, proudly feigns ; 
 Nor knows the wise are iprivj to the he. 
 Much learning shows how little mortals know ; 
 Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy : 
 At best, it babies us with endless toys, 
 And keeps us children till we drop to dust. 
 As monkies at a mirror stand amaz'd, 
 They fail to find, what they so plainly see ; 
 Thus men, in shining riches, see the face 
 Of happiness, nor know it is a shade ; 
 But gaze, and touch, and peep, and peep again, 
 And wish, and wonder it is absent still. 
 
 How few can rescue opulence from want ! 
 Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor ; 
 Who lives to fancy, never can be rich. 
 Poor is the man in debt ; the man of gold, 
 In debt to fortune, trembles at her pow'r. 
 The man of reason smiles at her and death. 
 what a patrimony this ! A being 
 Of such inherent strength and majesty. 
 Not worlds possess'd can raise it ; worlds destroy'd 
 Can't injure ; which holds on its glorious course, 
 
NIGHT VI. 20o 
 
 When thine, nature ! ends ; too blest to mourn 
 Creation's obsequies. What treasure, this ! 
 The monai :h is a beggar to the man. 
 
 Immortal ! ages past, yet nothing gone ! 
 Morn without eve! a race without a goal! 
 Unshorten'd by progression infinite ! 
 Futurity forever future ! life 
 Beginning still, where computation ends ! 
 'Tis the description of a deity ! 
 'Tis the description of the meanest slave : 
 The meanest slave dares then Lorenzo scorn ? 
 The meanest slave thy sov'reign glory shares. 
 Proud youth ! fastidious of the lower world ! 
 Man's lawful pride includes humility ; 
 Stoops to the lowest ; is too great to find 
 Inferiors ; all immortal ! brothers all ! 
 Proprietors eternal of thy love. 
 
 Immortal ! what can strike the sense so strong. 
 As this the soul ? it thunders to the thought ; 
 Reason amazes ; gratitude o'erwhelms ; 
 No more we slumber on the brink of fate ; 
 Rous'd at the sound, th' exulting soul ascends, 
 
TOO THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And breathes her native air ; an air that feeds 
 
 Ambitions high, and fans ethereal fires ; 
 
 Quick kindles all that is divine witnm us ; 
 
 Nor leaves one loit'ring thought beneath the stars. 
 
 Has not Lorenzo's bosom caught the flame ? 
 Immortal ! was but one immortal, how 
 Would others envy ! how would thrones adore ! 
 Because 'tis common, is the blessing lost ? 
 How this ties up the bounteous hand of heaven ! 
 vain, vain, vain ! all else : eternity ! 
 A glorious, and a needful refuge, that. 
 From vile imprisonment in abject views. 
 'Tis immortaUty, 'tis that alone^ 
 Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness. 
 The soul can comfort, elevate, aixd fill. 
 That only, and that amply, this performs ; 
 Lifts us above fife's pains, her joys above ; 
 Their terror those ; and these then nistre lose ; 
 Eternity depending covers all ; 
 Eternity depending all achieves ; 
 Sets earth at distance ; casts her into shades ; 
 Blends her distinctions ; abrogates her powers ; 
 
NIGHT VI. 207 
 
 The low, the lofty, joyous, and severe, 
 Fortune's dread frowns, and fascinating smiles, 
 Make one promiscuous and neglected heap, 
 The man beneath ; if I may call him man, 
 Whom immortality's full force inspires. 
 Nothing terrestrial touches his high thought ; 
 Suns shine unseen, and thunders roll unheard, 
 By minds quite conscious of their high descent. 
 Their present province, and their future prize ; 
 Divinely darting upward ev'ry wish. 
 Warm on the wing, in glorious absence lost. 
 
 Doubt you this truth ? why labors your behef ? 
 If earth's whole orb by some due distanc'd eye 
 Was seen at once, he^ tow'ring Alps would sink. 
 And levell'd Atlas leave an even sphere. 
 Thus earth, and all that earthly minds admire, 
 Is swallow'd in eternity's vast round. 
 To that ptnpendou: -^iew, when souls awake. 
 So large of late, so mountainous to man. 
 Time's toys subside ; and equal all below. 
 
 Enthusiastic, this ? then all are weak 
 But rank enthusiasts. To this godlike height. 
 
208 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Some souls have soar'd ; or martyrs ne'er had bled. 
 
 And all may do, what has by man been done. 
 
 Who, beaten by these sublunary storms. 
 
 Boundless, mterminable joys can weigh, 
 
 Unraptur'd, unexalted, uninflam'd ? 
 
 What slave unblest, who from to-morrow's dawn 
 
 Expects an empire ? He forgets his chain, 
 
 And, thron'd in thought, his absent sceptre waves. 
 
 And what a sceptre waits us ! what a throne ! 
 Her own immense appointments to compute, 
 Or comprehend her high prerogatives, 
 In this her dark minority, how toils, 
 How vainly pants, the human soul divine ? 
 Too great the bounty seems for earthly joy ; 
 What heart but trembles at so strange a bliss ? 
 
 In spite 'of all the truths the muse has sung, 
 Ne'er to be priz'd enough ! .nough revolv'd ! 
 Are there, who wrap the world so close about them, 
 They see no farther than the clouds ; and dance 
 On heedless vanity's fantastic toe. 
 Till, stumbling at a straw, in their career 
 Headlong they plunge, where end both dance and song ? 
 
NIGHT VI. 2C9 " 
 
 Are there, Lorenzo ? is it possible ? 
 
 Are there on earth (let me not call them men) 
 
 Who lodge a soul immortal in their br^sts ; 
 
 Unconscious as the mountain of its ore ; 
 
 Or rock, of its inestimable gem ? 
 
 When rocks shall melt, and mountains vanish, these 
 
 Shall know their treasure ; treasure, then, no more. 
 
 Are there (still more amazing !) who resist 
 The rising thought ? who smother, in its birth. 
 The glorious truth ? who struggle to be brutes ? 
 Who thro' this bosom-barrier burst their way ? 
 And, with revers'd ambition, strive to sink ? 
 Who labor downwards thro' th' opposing pow'rs 
 Of instinct, reason, and the world against them. 
 To dismal hopes, and shelter in the shock 
 Of endless night ? night darker than the grave's ? 
 Who fight the proofs of immortality ? 
 With horrid zeal, and execrable arts, 
 Work all their engines, level their black fires, 
 To blot from man this attribute divine, 
 (Than \'ital blood far dearer to the wise) 
 Blasphemers, and rank atheists to themselves ? 
 
2iJ THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 To contradict them see all nature rise ! 
 What object, what event, the moon beneath. 
 But argues, or endears, an after -scene ? 
 To reason proves, or weds it to desire ? 
 All things proclaim it needful ; some advance 
 One precious step beyond, and prove it sure. 
 A thousand arguments swarm round my pen, 
 From heav'n, and earth, and man. Indulge a few. 
 By nature, as her common habit worn ; 
 So pressing Providence a truth to teach, 
 Which truth untaught, all other truths were vain. 
 
 Thou ! whose all-providential eye surveys. 
 Whose hand directs, whose Spirit fills and warms 
 Creation, and holds empire far beyond ! 
 Eternity's Inhabitant august ! 
 Of two eternities amazing Lord ! 
 One past, ere man's or angel's had begun : 
 Aid ! while I rescue from the foe's assault 
 Thy glorious immortality in man : 
 A theme forever, and for all, of weight, 
 Of moment infinite ! but relish'd most 
 By those who love thee most, who most adore. 
 
NIGHT VI. 
 
 Nature, thy daughter, ever changing birth 
 Of thee, the great Immutable, to man 
 Speaks wisdom ; is his oracle supreme ; 
 And he who most consults her is most wise. 
 Lorenzo, to this heav'nly Delphos haste ; 
 And come back all-immortal, all- divine : 
 Look nature through, 'tis revolution all ; 
 All change, no death. Day follows night ; and night 
 The dying day ; stars rise, and set, and rise ; 
 Earth takes th' example. See the summer gay, 
 With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flow'rs 
 Droops into pallid autumn : winter gray. 
 Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm. 
 Blows autumn and his golden fruits avray ; 
 Then melts into the spring : soft spring, wiili breath 
 Favonian, from warm chambers of the south. 
 Recalls the first. All, to re-flourish, fades ; 
 As in a wheel, all sinks to re-ascend. 
 Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. 
 
 With this minute distinction, emblems just, 
 Nature revolves, but man advances ; both 
 Eternal ; that a circle, this a line ; 
 
212 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 That gravitates, this soars. Th' aspiring soul, 
 Ardent and tremulous, like flame, ascends; 
 Zeal and humility her wings to heav'n. 
 The world of matter, with its various forms. 
 All dies into new life. Life born from death 
 Rolls the vast mass, and shall forever roll. 
 'No single atom, once in being, lost, 
 With change of counsel charges the Most High. 
 
 What hence infers Lorenzo ? Can it be ? 
 Matter immortal ? And shall spirit die ? 
 Above the nobler, shall less noble rise ? 
 Shall man alone, for whom all else revives, 
 No resurrection know ? Shall man alone, 
 Imperial man ! be sown in barren ground, 
 Less privileged than grain, on which he feeds ? 
 Is man, in whom alone is pow'r to prize 
 The bliss of being, or with previous pain 
 Deplore its period, by the spleen of fate, 
 Severely doom'd death's single unrede».r.ied? 
 
 If nature's revolution speaks aloud. 
 In her gradation, hear her louder still. 
 Look nature through, 'tis neat gradation all. 
 
NIGHT VI. 213 
 
 By what minute degree her scale ascends ! 
 
 Each middle nature join'd at each extreme, 
 
 To that above it join'd, to that beneath. 
 
 Parts into parts reciprocally shot, 
 
 Abhor divorce. What love of union reigns ! 
 
 Here, dormant matter waits a call to life ; 
 
 Half-life, half-death, join there: here, life and sense; 
 
 There, sense from reason steals a ghmmering ray ; 
 
 Reason shines out in man. But how preserved 
 
 The chain unbroken upward, to the realms 
 
 Of incorporeal life ? those realms of bhss 
 
 Where death hath no dominion? Grant a make 
 
 Half mortal, half immortal : earthly, part, 
 
 And part etherial : grant the soul of man 
 
 Eternal ; or in man the series ends. 
 
 Wide yawns the gap ; connection is no more ; 
 
 Check'd reason halts ; her next step wants support; 
 
 Striving to chmb, she tumbles from her scheme ; 
 
 A scheme analogy pronounc'd so true : 
 
 Analogy, man's surest guide below. 
 
 Thus far, all nature calls on thy belief. 
 And will Lorenzo, c reless of the call, 
 
214 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 False attestation on all nature charge, 
 
 Rather than violate his league with death ; 
 
 Renounce his reason, rather than renounce 
 
 The dust belov'd, and run the risk of heav'n ? 
 
 what indignity to deathless souls ! 
 
 What treason to the majesty of man ! 
 
 Of man immortal ! Hear the lofty style : 
 j^,*' If so decreed, th' Almighty will be done. 
 mLet earth dissolve, yon pond'rous orbs descend, 
 \M.nd grind us into dust: the soul is safe; 
 
 The man emerges ; mounts above the wreck, 
 
 As tow'ring flame from nature's fun'ral pyre : 
 
 O'er devastation as a gainer smiles ; 
 
 His charter, his inviolable rights, 
 
 Well pleased to learn from thunder's impotence, 
 
 Death's pointless darts, and hell's defeated storms." 
 
 But these chimeras touch not thee, Lorenzo ! 
 
 The glories of the world th}^ sev'nfold shield. 
 
 Other ambition than of crowns in air, 
 
 And superlunary felicities, 
 
 Thy bosom warm. I '11 cool it, if I can ; 
 
 And turn' those Mories than enchant, aerainst thee. • 
 
NIGHT VI. 215 
 
 What ties thee to this life proclaims the next. 
 If wise, the cause that wounds thee is thy cure. 
 
 Come, my ambitious ! let us mount together 
 (To mount, Lorenzo never can refuse ;) 
 And from the clouds, where pride delights to dwell, 
 Look down on earth. — What seest thou? Wond'rous 
 
 things ! 
 Terrestrial wonders, that eclipse the skies. 
 What lengths of labor'd lands ! what loaded seas 
 Loaded by man, for pleasure, wealth, or war ! 
 Seas, winds, and planets, into service brought, 
 His art acknowledge, and promote his ends. ' 
 Nor can th' eternal rocks his will withstand. 
 What leveil'd mountains ! and what lifted vales ! 
 O'er vales and mountains sumptuous cities swell, 
 And gild our landscape with their glitt'ring spires. 
 Some 'mid the wond'ring waves majestic rise ; 
 And Neptune holds a mirror to their charms. 
 Far greater still ! (what cannot mortal might ?) 
 See wide dominions ravish'd from the deep ! 
 The narrov/'d deep with indignation foams. 
 Or southward turn ; to delicate, and grand, 
 
216 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The finer arts there ripen in the sun. 
 
 How the tall temples, as to meet their gods, 
 
 Ascend the skies ! the proud triumphal arch 
 
 Shows us half heav'n beneath its ample bend. 
 
 High through mid air, here streams are taught to flow ; 
 
 Whole rivers, there, laid by i'n basins, sleep. 
 
 Here, plains turn oceans ; there vast oceans join 
 
 Thro' kingdoms channell'd deep from shore to shore ; 
 
 And chang'd creation takes its face from man. 
 
 Beats thy brave breast for formidable scenes, 
 
 Where fame and empire wait upon the sword ? 
 
 See fields in blood ; hear naval thunders rise ; 
 
 Britannia's voice ! that awes the world to peace. 
 
 How yon enormous mole projecting breaks 
 
 The mid-sea, furious waves ! their roar amidst, 
 
 Out-speaks the Deity, and says, " main ! 
 
 Thus far, nor farther : new restraints obey.'* 
 
 Earth 's disembowell'd ! measur'd are the skies ! 
 
 Stars are detected in their deep recess ! 
 
 Creation widens ! vanquish'd nature yields ! 
 
 Her secrets are extorted ! Art prevails ! 
 
 What monuments of genius, spirit, pow'r ! 
 
NIGHT VI. 217 
 
 And now, Lorenzo, raptured at this scene. 
 Whose glories render lieav'n superfluous ! say, 
 Whose footsteps these ? — Immortals have been here. 
 Could less than souls immortal this have done ? 
 Earth 's cover'd o'er with proofs of souls immortal ; 
 And proofs of immortality forgot. 
 
 To flatter thy grand foible, I confess. 
 These are ambition's works ; and these are great : 
 But this the least immortal souls can do : 
 Transcend them all. — But what can these transcend ? 
 Dost ask me what ? — One sigh for the distress'd. 
 What then for infidels ? — a deeper sigh ! 
 'Tis moral grandeur makes the mighty man : 
 How little they, who think aught great below ! 
 All our ambitions death defeats, but one ; 
 And that it crowns. — Here cease we : but, ere long, 
 More pow'rful proof shall take the field against thee, 
 Stronger than death, and smiUng at the tomb. 
 
 10 
 
NIGHT VII. 
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 
 
 PREFACE TO SECOND PART. 
 
 As we are at war with the power, it were well if we wf.re at 
 war with the manners, of France. A land of levity is a land 
 of guilt, A serious mind is the native soil of every virtue, and 
 the single character that does true honor to mankind. The 
 soul's immortality has been the favorite theme with the serious 
 of all ages. Nor is it strange ; it is a subject by far the most 
 interesting and important that can enter the mind of man. Of 
 highest moment- this subject always was, and always will be. 
 Yet this its highest moment seems to admit of increase, at this 
 day ; a sort of occasional importance is superadded to the natu- 
 ral weight of it, if that opinion which is advanced in the Pre- 
 face to the preceding Night be just. It is there supposed that 
 all our infidels, whatever scheme, for argument's sake, and to 
 keep themselves in countenance, they patronize, are betrayed 
 into their deplorable error, by some doubt of their immortality, 
 at the bottom. And the more I consider this point, the more am 
 I persuaded of the truth of that opinion. Though the distrust 
 of a futurity is a strange error, yet is it an error into which bad 
 
NIGHT VII. 219 
 
 men may naturally be distressed. For it is impossible to bid de- 
 fiance to final ruin, without some refuge in imagination, some 
 presumption of escape. And what presumption is there 1 There 
 are but two in nature ; but two within the compass of human 
 thought ; and these are, — That either God will not, or cannot, 
 punish. Considering the Divine attributes, the first is too gross 
 to be digested by our strongest wishes. And, since omnipotence 
 is as much a Divine attribute as holiness, that God cannot pun- 
 ish is as absurd a supposition as the former. God certainly can 
 punish, as long as the wicked man exists. In non-existence, there- 
 fore, is their only refuge ; and, consequently, non-existence is 
 their strongest wish. And strong wishes have a strange influ- 
 ence on our opinions ; they bias the judgment in a manner al- 
 most incredible. And since on this member of their alternative, 
 there are some very small appearances in their favor, and none 
 at all on the other, they catch at this reed, they lay hold on this 
 chimera, to save themselves from the shock and horror of an im- 
 mediate and absolute despair. 
 
 On reviewing my subject by the light which this argument, and 
 others of like tendency, threw upon it, I was more inclined than 
 ever to pursue it, as it appeared to me to strike directly at the 
 main root of all our infidehty. In the following pages, it is ac- 
 cordingly pursued at large ; and some arguments for immortality, 
 new, at least to me, are ventured on in them. There, also, the 
 writer has made an attempt to set the gross absurdities and Hor- 
 rors of annihilation in a fuller and more affecting view, than is, 
 I think, to be met with elsewhere. 
 
 The gentlemen for whose sake this attempt was chiefly made, 
 
220 THE COMPLAINT, 
 
 profess great admiration for the wisdom of heathen antiquity : 
 what pity it is they are not sin-cere ! If they were sincere, how 
 would it mortify them to consider with what contempt and abhor- 
 rence their notions would have been received by those whom they 
 so much admire ! What degree of contempt and abhorrence would 
 fall to their share, may be conjectured by the following matter of 
 fact, in my opinion extremely memorable. Of all their heathen 
 worthies, Socrates, it is well known, was the most guarded, dis- 
 passionate, and composed : yet this great master of temper was 
 angry ; and angry at his last hour ; and angry with his friend : 
 and angry for what deserved acknowledgment ; angry for a right 
 and tender instance of true friendship towards him. Is not this 
 surprising ] What could be the cause 1 The cause was for his 
 honor; it was a truly noble, though, perhaps, a too punctilious 
 regard for immortality : for his friend asking him, with such an 
 affectionate concern as became a friend, ' Where he should de- 
 posit his remains V it was resented by Socrates, as implying a 
 dishonorable supposition, that he could be so mean as to have 
 regard for anything, even in himself, that was not immortal. 
 
 This fact, well considered, would make our infidels withdraw 
 their admiration from Socrates ; or make them endeavor, by their 
 imitation of this illustrious example, to share his glory : and, 
 consequently, it would iHcline them to peruse the following pages 
 with candor and impartiality ; which is all I desire, and that 
 for their sakes : for I am persuaded, that an unprejudiced infidel 
 must, necessarily, receive some advantage-^us impressions from 
 them. 
 
 July 7, 1744. 
 
PART THE SECOND. 
 
 CONTAINING THE NATURE, PROOF, AND IMPORTANCE 
 OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Heav'n gives the needful, but neglected, call. 
 What day, what hour, but knocks at human hearts, 
 To wake the soul to sense of future scenes ? 
 Deaths stand, like Mercuries, in ev'ry way. 
 And kindly point us to our journey's end. 
 Pope, who couldst make immortals, art thou dead ? 
 I give thee joy : nor will I take my leave ; 
 So soon to follow. Man but dives to death ; 
 Dives from the sun, in fairer day to rise ; 
 The grave, his subterranean road to bliss. 
 Yes, infinite indulgence plann'd it so ; 
 Through various parts our glorious story runs : 
 Time gives the preface, endless age unrolls 
 The volume (ne'er unroll'd !) of human fate. 
 This, earth and skies* already have proclaim'd. 
 
 * Night the Sixth. 
 
222 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 The world 's a prophecy of worlds to come ; 
 
 And who, what God foretells (who speaks in things 
 
 Still louder than in words) shall dare deny ? 
 
 If nature's arguments appear too weak. 
 
 Turn a new leaf, and stronger read in man. 
 
 If man sleeps on, untaught by what he sees. 
 
 Can he prove infidel to what he feels ? 
 
 He, whose blind thought futurity denies. 
 
 Unconscious bears, Bellerophon ! like thee. 
 
 His own indictment ; he condemns himself ; 
 
 Who reads his bosom, reads immortal life ; 
 
 Or, Nature, there, imposing on her sons. 
 
 Has written fables ; man was made a lie. 
 
 Why discontent forever harbor'd there ? 
 Incurable consumption of our peace ! 
 Resolve me, why the cottager and king. 
 He whom sea-sever'd realms obey, and he 
 Who steals his own dominion from the waste. 
 Repelling winter blasts with mud and straw. 
 Disquieted alike, draw sigh for sigh,- 
 In fate so distant, in complaint so near ? 
 
 Is it, that things terrestrial can't content ? 
 
NIGHT VII. 223 
 
 Deep in rich pasture, will thy flocks complain ? 
 
 Not so ; but to their master is denied 
 
 To share their sweet serene. Man, ill at ease, 
 
 In this, not his own place, this foreign field, 
 
 Where Nature fodders him with other food 
 
 Than was ordain'd his cravings to suflSce, 
 
 Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast, 
 
 Sighs on for something more, when most enjoy'd. 
 
 Is Heav'n then kinder to thy flocks than thee ? 
 
 Not so ; thy pasture richer, but remote ; 
 
 In part, remote ; for that remoter part 
 
 Man bleats from instinct, tho' perhaps, debauch'd 
 
 By sense, his reason sleeps, nor dreams the cause. 
 
 The cause how obvious, when his reason wakes ! 
 
 His grief is but his grandeur in disguise ; 
 
 And discontent is immortality. 
 
 Shall sons of ether, shall the blood of Heav'n, 
 Set up their hopes on earth, and stable here, 
 With brutal acquiescence in the mire ; 
 Lorenzo, no ! they shall be nobly pain'd ; 
 The glorious foreigners, distrest, shall sigh 
 On thrones ; and thou congratulate the sigh : 
 
224 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Man's misery declares him born for bliss : 
 His anxious heart asserts the truth I sing, 
 And gives the sceptic in his head the lie. 
 
 Our heads, our hearts, our passions, and our pow'rs 
 Speak the same language ; call us to the skies : 
 Unripen'd these in this inclement clime, 
 Scarce rise above conjecture and mistake ; 
 And for this land of trifles those too strong 
 Tumultuous rise, and tempest human life : 
 What prize on earth can pay us for the storm ? 
 Meet objects for our passions Heav'n ordain'd. 
 Objects that challenge all their fire, and leave 
 No fault but in defect : bless'd Heav'n ! avert 
 A bounded ardor for unbounded bliss ; 
 for a bliss unbounded ! far beneath 
 A soul immortal is a mortal joy. 
 Nor are our pow'rs to perish immature ; 
 But, after feeble effort here, beneath 
 A brighter sun, and in a nobler soil 
 Transplanted from this sublunary bed, 
 Shall flourish fair, and put forth all their bloom. 
 
 Reason progressive, instinct is complete ; 
 
NIGHT VII, 225 
 
 Swift instinct leaps ; slow reason feebly climbs. 
 
 Brutes soon their zenith reach ; their little all 
 
 Flows in at once ; in ages they no more 
 
 Could know, or do, or covet, or enjoy. 
 
 Were man to hve coeval with the sun, 
 
 The patriarch pupil would be learning still. 
 
 Yet, dying, leave his lesson half unlearnt. 
 
 Men perish in advance, as if the sun 
 
 Should set ere noon, in eastern oceans drown'd ; 
 
 If fit with dim illustrious to compare, 
 
 The sun's meridian, with the soul of man. 
 
 To man, why, step-dame Nature ! so severe ? 
 
 Why thrown aside thy master-piece half wrought, 
 
 While meaner efforts thy last hand enjov ? 
 
 Or, if abortively poor man must die, 
 
 Nor reach what reach he might, why die in dread ! 
 
 Why curs'd with foresight ? wise to misery ? 
 
 Why of his proud prerogative the prey ? 
 
 Why less pre-eminent in rank than pain ? 
 
 His immortality alone can tell ; 
 
 Full ample fund to balance all amiss, 
 
 And turn the scale in favor of the just ! 
 
 10^ 
 
226 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 His immortality alone can solve 
 That darkest of enigmas, human hope — 
 Of all the darkest, if at death we die. 
 Hope, eager hope, th' assassin of our joy, 
 All present blessings treading under foot, 
 Is scarce a milder tyrant than despair. 
 With no past toils content, still planning new, 
 Hope turns us o'er to death alone for ease. 
 Possession, why more tasteless than pursuit ? 
 Why is a wish far dearer than a crown ? 
 That wish accomplish'd, why the grave of bliss ? 
 Because, in the great future buried deep. 
 Beyond our plans of empire and renown. 
 Lies all that man with ardor should pursue ; 
 And He who made him bent him to the right. 
 
 Man's heart th' Almighty to the future sets, 
 By secret and inviolable springs ; 
 And makes his hope his sublunary joy. 
 Man's heart eats all things, and is hungry still : 
 ' More, more !' the glutton cries : for somethinor new 
 So rages appetite, if man can't mount. 
 He will descend. He starves on the possest. 
 
NIGHT VII- 227 
 
 Hence, the world's master, from ambition's spire. 
 In Caprea plunged ; and dived beneath the brute. 
 In that rank sty why wallow'd empire's son 
 Supreme ? Because he could no higher fly ; 
 His riot was ambition in despair, . 
 
 Old Rome consulted birds : Lorenzo 1 thou. 
 With more success, the flight of hope survey ; 
 Of restless hope, forever on the wing. 
 High perch'd o'er ev'ry thought that falcon sits, 
 To fly at all tlmt rises in her sight ; 
 And, never stooping but to mount again 
 Next moment, she betrays her aim's mistake, 
 And owns her quarry lodged bej^ond the grave. 
 
 There should it fail us (it must fail us there, 
 If being fails,) more mournful riddles rise, 
 And virtue vies with hope in mystery. 
 Why virtue ? Where its praise, its being fled ? 
 Virtue is true self-interest pursued : 
 What true self interest of quite mortal man ? 
 To close with all that makes him happy here, 
 If vice (as sometimes) is our friend on earth. 
 Then vice is virtue : 'tis our sov'reia-n a:ood. 
 
228 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 In self-applause is virtue's golden prize ? 
 
 No self-applause attends it on thy scheme : 
 
 Whence self- applause ? From conscience of the right. 
 
 And what is right, but means of happiness ? 
 
 No means of happiness when virtue yields. 
 
 That basis failing, falls the building too. 
 
 And lays in ruin ev'ry virtuous joy. 
 
 The rigid guardian of a blameless heart. 
 So long rever'd, so long reputed wise. 
 Is weak ; with rank knight-errantries o'errun. 
 Why beats thy bosom with illustrious dreams 
 Of self-exposure, laudable and great ? 
 Of gallant enterprise, and glorious death ? 
 Die for thy country ? — thou romantic fool ! 
 Seize, seize the plank thyself, and let her sink : 
 Thy country ! what to thee ? — The Godhead, what ? 
 (I speak with awe !) tho' he should bid thee bleed ; 
 If, with thy blood, thy final hope is spilt, 
 Nor can Omnipotence reward the blow : 
 Be deaf; preserve thy being ; disobey. 
 
 Nor is it disobedience : know, Lorenzo ? 
 Whate'er th' Almighty's subsequent command, 
 
NIGHT VII. 229 
 
 His fii-st command is this : — " Man, love thyself.'" 
 In this alone, free agents are not free. 
 Existence is the basis, bliss the prize ; 
 If virtue costs existence, 'tis a crime ; 
 Bold violation of our law supreme, 
 Blact suicide : though nations, which consult 
 Their gain, at thy expense, resound applause. 
 Since virtue's recompense is doubtful, here. 
 If man dies wholly, well may we demand, 
 Why is man sufFer'd to be good in vain ? 
 Why to be good in vain, is man enjoin'd ? 
 Why to be good in vain, is man betray'd ? 
 Betrayed by traitors lodged in his own breast. 
 By sweet complacencies from virtue felt ? 
 Why whispers nature lies on virtue's part ? 
 Or if blind instinct (which assumes the name 
 Of sacred conscience) plays the fool in man. 
 Why reason made accompHce in the cheat ? 
 Why are the wisest loudest in her praise ? 
 Can man by reason's beam be led astray ? 
 Or, at his peril, imitate his God ? 
 
230 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Since virtue sometimes ruins us on earth, 
 Or both are true, or man survives the grave. 
 
 Or man survives the grave, or own, Lorenzo, 
 Thy boast supreme, a wild absurdity. 
 Dauntless thy spirit : cowards are thy scorn. 
 Grant man immortal, and thy scorn is just. 
 The man immortal, rationally brave. 
 Dares rush on death — because he cannot die. 
 But if man loses all when life is lost. 
 He lives a coward, or a fool expires. 
 A daring infidel (and such there are, 
 From pride, example, lucre, rage, revenge. 
 Or pure heroical defect of thought,) 
 Of all earth's madmen, most deserves a chain. 
 
 When to the grave we follow the renown'd 
 For valor, virtue, science, all we love, 
 And all we praise ; for worth, whose noon-tide beam. 
 Enabling us to think in higher style. 
 Mends our ideas of ethereal pow'rs ; 
 Dream we, that lustre of the moral world 
 Goes out in stench, and rottenness the close ? 
 Why was he wise to know, and warm to praise, 
 
NIGHT VII. 231 
 
 And strenuous to transcribe in human life, 
 The mind Almighty ? Could it be, that fate, 
 Just when the lineaments began to shine, 
 And dawn, the Deity should snatch the draught, 
 With night eternal blot it out, and give 
 The skies alarm, lest angels too might die ! 
 
 If human souls, why not angelic too 
 Extinguish'd ? and a solitary God 
 O'er ghastly ruin, frowning from his throne ? 
 Shall we this moment gaze on God in man ? 
 The next, lose man forever in the dust ? 
 From dust we disengage, or man mistakes ; 
 And there, where least his judgment fears a flaw. 
 Wisdom and worth how boldly he commends ! 
 Wisdom and worth are sacred names ; rever'd, 
 Where not embrac'd ; applauded ! deified ! 
 Why not compassion'd too ? If spirits die. 
 Both are calamities ; inflicted both 
 To make us but more wretched : wisdom's eye 
 Acute, for what ? To spy more miseries ; 
 And worth, so recompensed, new-points their stings. 
 Or man surmounts the grave, or gain is loss, 
 
232 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And worth exalted, humbles us the more. 
 Thou wilt not patronize a scheme that makes 
 Weakness and vice the refuge of mankind ! 
 
 " Has virtue, then, no joys ?" — Yes, joys dear-bought. 
 Talk ne'er so long, in this imperfect state. 
 Virtue and vice are at eternal war. 
 Virtue 's a combat ; and who fights for nought ? 
 Or for precarious, or for small reward ? 
 Who virtue's self-reward so loud resound, 
 Would take degrees angehc here below, 
 And virtue, while they compliment, betray, 
 By feeble motives, and unfaithful guards ; 
 The crown, th' unfading crown, her soul inspires ; 
 'Tis that, and that alone, can countervail 
 The body's treach'ries, and the world's assaults : 
 On earth's poor pay our famish'd virtue dies. 
 Truth incontestable ! In spite of all 
 A Bayle has preached, or a Voltaire believed. 
 
 In man, the more we dive, the more we see 
 Heav'n's signet stamping an immortal make. 
 Dive to the bottom of his soul, the base 
 Sustaining all, what find we ? Knowledge, love. 
 
NIGHT VII. 233 
 
 As light and heat essential to the sun, 
 
 These to the soul. And why, if souls expire ? 
 
 How little lovely here ? How little known ? 
 
 Small knowledge we dig up with endless toil ! 
 
 And love unfeign'd may purchase perfect hate. 
 
 Why starv'd, on earth, our angel-appetites. 
 
 While brutal are indulged their fulsome fill ? 
 
 Were then, capacities divine conferr'd, 
 
 As a mock diadem, in savage sport. 
 
 Rank insult of our pompous poverty. 
 
 Which reaps but pain from seeming claims so fair ? 
 
 In future age hes no redress ? And shuts 
 
 Eternity the door on our complaint ? 
 
 If so, for what strange ends were mortals made ! 
 
 The worst to wallow, and the best to weep : 
 
 The man who merits most, must most complain. 
 
 Can we conceive a disregard in heav'n. 
 
 What the worst perpetrate, or best endure ? 
 
 This cannot be. To love, and know, in man 
 Is boundless appetite, and boundless pow'r : 
 And tliese demonstrate boundless objects too. 
 Objects, pow'rs, appetites, Heav'n suits in all : 
 
234 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Nor nature through, e'er violates this sweet 
 Eternal concord on her tuneful string. 
 Is man the sole exception from her laws ? 
 Eternity struck off from human hope, 
 (I speak with truth, but veneration too) 
 Man is a monster, the reproach of Heav*n, 
 A stain, a dark impenetrable cloud, 
 On nature's beauteous aspect : and deforms, 
 (Amazing blot !) deforms her with her lord. 
 If such is man's allotment, what is heav'n ? 
 Or own the soul immortal, or blaspheme. 
 
 Or own the soul immortal, or invert 
 All order. Go, mock-majesty ! go, man ! 
 And bow to thy superiors of the stall : 
 Through ev'ry scene of sense superior far : 
 They graze the turf untill'd ; they drink the stream 
 Unbrew'd and ever full, and un-embitter'd 
 With doubts, fears, fruitless hopes, regrets, despairs ; 
 Mankind's peculiar ! reason's precious dow'r ! 
 No foreign clime they ransack for their robes ; 
 Nor brothers cite to the litigious bar ; 
 Their good is good entire, unmix'd, unmarr'd ; 
 
NIGHT VII. 235 
 
 They find a paradise in every field, 
 
 On boughs forbidden, where no curses hang ; 
 
 Their ill no more than strikes the sense ; unstretch*d 
 
 By previous dread, or murmur in the rear : 
 
 When the worst comes, it comes unfear'd ; one stroke 
 
 Begins and ends their woe : they die but once ; 
 
 Blest, incommunicable privilege ! for which 
 
 Proud man, who rules the globe, and reads the stars, 
 
 Philosopher, or hero, sighs in vain. 
 
 Account for this prerogative in brutes. 
 No day, no glimpse of day, to solve the knot. 
 But what beams on it from eternity. 
 sole and sweet solution ! that unites 
 The difficult, and softens the severe ; 
 The cloud on nature's beauteous face dispels ; 
 Restores bright order ; casts the brute beneath ; 
 And re-enthrones us in supremacy 
 Of joy, e'en here : admit immortal life. 
 And virtue is knight-errantry no more ; 
 Each virtue brings in hand a golden dow'r. 
 Far richer in reversion ; hope exults ; 
 And though, much bitter in our cup is thrown, 
 
236 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Predominates, and gives the taste of heav'n. 
 wherefore is the Deity so kind ? 
 Astonishing beyond astonishment ! 
 Heav'n our reward — for heav'n enjoy'd below. 
 
 Still unsubdued thy stubborn heart ? — For there 
 The traitor lurks who doubts the truth I sing. 
 Reason is guiltless ! will alone rebels. 
 What, in that stubborn heart, if I should find 
 New unexpected witnesses against thee ? 
 Ambition, pleasure, and the love of gain ! 
 Canst thou suspect that these, which make the soul 
 The slave of earth, should own her heir of heav'n ? 
 Canst thou suspect what makes us disbelieve 
 Our immortality, should prove it sure ? 
 
 First, then, Ambition summon to the bar. 
 Ambition's shame, extravagance, disgust. 
 And inextinguishable nature, speak. 
 Each much deposes ; hear them in their turn. 
 
 Thy soul, how passionately fond of fame ! 
 How anxious th at fond passion to conceal ! 
 We blush, detected in designs on praise, 
 Though for best deeds, and from the best of men ; 
 
NIGHT VII. 237 
 
 And why ? Because immortal. Ait divine 
 Has made the body tutor to the soul ; 
 Heav'n kindly gives our blood a moral flow; 
 Bids it ascend the glowing cheek, and there 
 Upbraid that little heart's inglorious aim, 
 Which stoops to court a character from man : 
 While o'er us in tremendous judgment sit 
 Far more than man, with endless praise and blame. 
 
 Ambition's boundless appetite out-speaks 
 The verdict of its shame. When souls take fire 
 At high presumptions of their own desert, 
 One age is poor applause ; the mighty shout, 
 The thunder by the living few begun, 
 Late time must echo ; worlds unborn resound. 
 We wish our names eternally to live : 
 Wild dream ! which ne'er had haunted human thought 
 Had not our natures been eternal too. 
 Instinct points out an int'rest in hereafter ; 
 But our blind reason sees not where it lies ; 
 Or seeing, gives the substance for the shade. 
 
 Fame is the shade of immortality, 
 And 'n itself a shadow. Soon as caught, 
 
238 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Contemn'd ; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp. 
 Consult th' ambitious, 'tis ambition's cure. 
 " And is this all ?" cried Caesar, at his height, 
 Disgusted. This third proof ambition brings 
 Of immortality. The first in fame. 
 Observe him near, your envy will abate : 
 Sham'd at the disproportion vast between 
 The passion and the purchase, he will sigh 
 At such success, and blush at his renown. 
 And why ? Because far richer prize invites 
 His heart ; far more illustrious glory calls ; 
 It calls in whispers, yet the deafest hear. 
 
 A.nd can ambition a fourth proof supply ? 
 It can, and stronger than the former three ; 
 Yet quite o'erlook'd by some reputed wise. 
 Though disappointments in ambition pain. 
 And though success disgusts, yet still, Lorenzo ! 
 In vain we strive to pluck it from our hearts ; 
 By nature planted for the noblest ends. 
 Absurd the fam'd advice to Pyrrhus giv'n. 
 More prais'd than ponder'd ; specious, but unsound. 
 Sooner that hero's sword the world had qucll'd. 
 
NIGHT vir. 239 
 
 Than reason his ambition. Man must soar. 
 
 An obstinate activity within, 
 
 An insuppressive spring, will toss him up, 
 
 In spite of fortune's load. Not kings alone. 
 
 Each villager has his ambition too ; 
 
 No sultan prouder than his fetter'd slave : 
 
 Slaves build their litttle Babylons of straw. 
 
 Echo the proud Assyrian in their hearts, 
 
 And cry, " Behold the wonders of my might !" 
 
 And why ? Because immortal as their lord : 
 
 And souls immortal must forever heave 
 
 At something great ; the glitter, or the gold ; 
 
 The praise of mortals, or the praise of Heav'n. 
 
 Nor absolutely vain is human praise. 
 When human is supported by divine. 
 I'll introduce Lorenzo to himself: 
 Pleasure and pride (bad masters !) share our hearts. 
 As love of pleasure is ordain'd to guard 
 And feed our bodies, and extend our race : 
 The love of praise is planted to protect 
 And propagate the glories of the mind. 
 What is it, but the love of praise, inspires. 
 
240 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Matures, refines, embellishes, exalts, 
 
 Earth's happiness ? From that, the delicate, 
 
 The grand, the marvellous, of civil life. 
 
 Want and convenience, under-workers, lay 
 
 The bases, on which love of glory builds. 
 
 Nor is thy life, O virtue ! less in debt 
 
 To praise, thy secret stimulating friend. 
 
 Were man not proud, what merit should we miss ! 
 
 Pride made the virtues of the pagan world. 
 
 Praise is the salt that seasons right to man, 
 
 And whets his appetite for moral good. 
 
 Thirst of applause is virtue's second guard ; 
 
 Reason her first ; but reason wants an aid ; 
 
 Our private reason is a flatterer ; 
 
 Thirst of applause calls public judgment in 
 
 To poise our own, to keep an even scale, 
 
 And give endanger'd virtue fairer play. 
 
 Here a fifth proof arises, stronger still ; 
 Why this so nice construction of our hearts ; 
 These delicate moralities of sense ; 
 This constitutional reserve of aid 
 To succor virtue, when our reason fails ; 
 
NIGHT VII. 241 
 
 If virtue, kept alive by care and toil, 
 And, oft, the mark of injuries on earth, 
 When labor'd to maturity (its bill 
 Of disciplines and pains unpaid,) must die ? 
 Why freighted rich, to dash against a rock ? 
 Were man to perish when most fit to live, 
 how misspent were all these stratagems. 
 By skill divine inwoven in our frame ! 
 Where are Heav'n's hohness and mercy fled ? 
 Laughs Heav'n at once at virtue and at man ? - " - 
 If not, why that discourag'd, this destroy'd ? 
 Thus far ambition. What says Avarice ? 
 This her chief maxim, which has long been thine : 
 * The wise and wealthy are the same.' I grant it. 
 To store up treasure, with incessant toil, 
 This is man's province, this his highest praise, 
 To this great end keen instinct stings him on. 
 To guide that instinct. Reason ! is thy charge ; 
 'Tis thine to tell us where true treasure lies : 
 But, Reason failing to discharge her trust, 
 Or to the deaf discharging it in vain, 
 A blunder follows ; and blind industry. 
 
 11 
 
242 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Gall'd by the spur, but stranger to the course, 
 
 (The course where stakes of more than gold are won) 
 
 O'erloading, with the cares of distant age, 
 
 The jaded spirits of the present hour, 
 
 Provides for an eternity below. 
 
 * Thou shalt not covet,' is a wise command ; 
 But bounded to the wealth the sun surveys ; 
 Look farther, the command stands quite revers'd, 
 And av'rice is a virtue most divine. 
 Is faith a refuge for our happiness ? 
 Most sure. And is it not for reason too ? 
 Nothing this world unriddles, but the next. 
 Whence inextinguishable tliirst of gain ? 
 From inextinguishable life in man. 
 Man, if not meant, by worth, to reach the skies, 
 Had wanted wing to fly so far in guilt. 
 Sour grapes, I grant, ambition, avarice : 
 Yet still their root is immortality. 
 These its wild growths so bitter, and so base, 
 (Pain and reproach !) religion can reclaim, 
 Refine, exalt, throw down their pois'nous lee. 
 And make them sparkle in the bowl of bliss. 
 
 J 
 
NIGHT VII. 243 
 
 See, the third witness laughs at bliss remote, 
 And falsely promises an Eden here : 
 Truth she shall speak for once, though prone to lie, 
 A common cheat, and Pleasure is her name. 
 To Pleasure never Avas Lorenzo deaf; 
 Then hear her now, now first thy real friend. 
 
 Since nature made us not more fond than proud 
 Of happiness, (whence hypocrites in joy ! 
 Makers of mirth, artificers of smiles !) 
 Why should the joy most poignant sense affords 
 Burn us with blushes, and rebuke our pride ? — 
 Those heav'n-born blushes tell us man descends 
 E'en in the zenith of his earthly bliss : 
 Should reason take her infidel repose. 
 This honest instinct speaks our lineage high : 
 This instinct calls on darkness to conceal 
 Our rapturous relation to the stalls. 
 Our glory covers us with noble shame, 
 And he that 's unconfounded is unmann'd. 
 The man that blushes is not quite a brute. 
 Thus far with thee, Lorenzo ! will I close ; 
 Pleasure is good, and man foi pleasure made ; 
 
244 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 But pleasure full of glory, as of joy : 
 Pleasure which neither blushes nor expires. 
 
 The witnesses are heard. : the cause is o'er ; 
 Let conscience file the sentence in her court, 
 Dearer than deeds that half a realm convey : 
 Thus, seal'd by truth, th' authentic record runs. 
 
 "Know all: know, infidels, — unapt to know! 
 'Tis immortality your nature solves ; 
 'Tis immortality deciphers man. 
 And opens all the myst'ries of his make. 
 Without it, half his instincts are a riddle ; 
 Without it. all his virtues are a dream. 
 His very crimes attest his dignity. 
 His sateless thirst of pleasure, gold, and fame. 
 Declares him born for blessings infinite : 
 What less than infinite makes un-absurd 
 Passions, which all on earth but more inflames ? 
 Fierce passions, so mismeasured to this scene, 
 Stretch'd out, like eagles' wings, beyond our nest. 
 Far, far beyond the worth of all below. 
 For earth too large, presage a nobler flight, 
 And evidence our title to the skies," 
 
NIGHT VII. 245 
 
 Ye gentle theologues, of calmer kind ! 
 Whose constitution dictates to your pen, 
 Who, cold yourselves, think ardor comes from hell ! 
 Think not our passions from corruption sprung, 
 Though to corruption now they lend their wings ; 
 That is their mistress, not their mother. All 
 (And justly) reason deem divine : I see, 
 I feel a grandeur in the passions too. 
 Which speaks their high descent, and glorious end : 
 Which speaks them rays of an eternal fire. 
 In Paradise itself they burnt as strong. 
 Ere Adam fell ; though wiser in their aim. 
 Like the proud Eastern, struck by Providence, 
 What though our passions are run mad, and stoop. 
 With low, terrestrial appetite, to graze 
 On trash, on toys, dethroned from high desire ? 
 Yet still, through their disgrace, no feeble ray 
 Of greatness shines, and tells us whence they fell : 
 But these, (like that fall'n monarch when reclaimed) 
 When reason moderates the rein aright. 
 Shall re-ascend, remount their former sphere. 
 Where once they soar'd illustrious ; ere seduced 
 
246 
 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 By wanton Eve's debauch, to stroll on earth, 
 And set the sublunary world on fire. 
 
 But grant their frenzy lasts ; their frenzy fails 
 To disappoint one providential end. 
 For which Heav'n blew up ardor in our hearts : 
 Were reason silent, boundless passion speaks 
 A future scene of boundless objects too. 
 And brings glad tidings of eternal day. 
 Eternal da}^ ! 'Tis that enlightens all ; 
 And all, by that enlighten'd, proves it sure. 
 Consider man as an immortal being. 
 Intelligible all ; and all is great ; 
 A crystalline transparency prevails. 
 And strikes full lustre through the human sphere 
 Consider man as mortal, all is dark 
 And wretched ; reason weeps at the survey. 
 
 The learn'd Lorenzo cries, " And let her weep, 
 Weak, modern reason : ancient times were wise. 
 Authority, that venerable guide. 
 Stands on my part ; the famed Athenian Porch 
 (And who for wisdom so renown'd as they ?) 
 Denied this immortality to man." 
 
NIGHT VII. 24*7 
 
 I grant it ; but affirm, they proved it too. 
 A riddle this ! — Have patience ; I '11 explain. 
 
 What noble vanities, what moral flights, 
 Glitt'ring through their romantic wisdom's page. 
 Make us, at once, despise them, and admire ! 
 Fable is flat to these high-season'd sires ; 
 They leave the extravagance of song below. 
 " Flesh shall not feel ; or, feeling, shall enjoy 
 The dagger or the rack ; to them, alike 
 A bed of roses, or the burning bull." 
 In men exploding all beyond the grave. 
 Strange doctrine, this ! — As doctrine, it was strange ; 
 But not,. as prophecy; for such it proved. 
 And, to tlieir own amazement, was fulfill'd : 
 They feign'd a firmness Christians need not feign. 
 The Christian truly triumph'd in the flame ; 
 The Stoic saw, in double wonder lost, 
 Wonder at thera, and wonder at himself. 
 To find the bold adventures of his thought 
 Not bold, and that he strove to He in vain. 
 
 Whence, then, those thoughts ? those tow'ring 
 thoughts, that flew 
 
248 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Such monstrous heights? — From instinct and from 
 
 pride. 
 The glorious instinct of a deathless soul, 
 Confus'dly conscious of her dignity, 
 Suggested truths they could not understand. 
 In lust's dominion, and in passion's storm, 
 Truth's system broken, scatter'd fragments lay, 
 As hght in chaos, glimm'ring through the gloom ; 
 Smit with the pomp of lofty sentiments. 
 Pleased pride proclaim'd what reason disbelieved. 
 Pride, like the Delphic priestess, with a swell, 
 Raved nonsense, destined to be future sense. 
 When life immortal in full day should shine. 
 And death's dark shadows fly the gospel sun. 
 They spoke, what nothing but immortal souls 
 Could speak ; and thus the truth they question'd, proved. 
 
 Can then absurdities, as well as crimes. 
 Speak man immortal ? All things speak him so. 
 Much has been urged ; and dost thou call for more ? 
 Call ; and with endless questions be distress'd, 
 All unresolvable, if earth is all. 
 
 " Why life a moment ; infinite, desire ? 
 
NIGHT VII. 249 
 
 Our wish, eternity ? our home, the grave ? 
 Heav'n's promise dormant hes in human hope ; 
 Who wishes hfe immortal, proves it too. 
 Why happiness pursued, though never found ? 
 Man's thirst of happiness declares it is, 
 (For nature never gravitates to nought ;) 
 That thirst, unquench'd, declares it is not here. 
 My Lucia, thy Clarissa call to thought ; 
 Why cordial friendship riveted so deep 
 As hearts to pierce at first, at parting, rend, 
 If friend, and friendship, vanish in an hour ? 
 Is not this torment in the mask of joy ? 
 Why by reflection marr'd the joys of sense ? 
 Why past and future preying on our hearts. 
 And putting all our present joys to death ? 
 Why labors reason ? Instinct were as well ; 
 Instinct, far better ; what can choose, can err ; 
 how infallible the thoughtless brute ! 
 'Twere well his holiness were half as sure. 
 Reason with inclination, why at war ? 
 Why sense of guilt ? Why conscience up in arms ? 
 Conscience of guilt, is prophecy of pain, 
 
250 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And bosom-counsel to decline the blow. 
 Reason with inclination ne'er had jarr'd, 
 If nothing future paid forbearance here. 
 Thus on — these and a thousand pleas uncall'd, 
 All promise, some ensure, a second scene ; 
 Which, were it doubtful, would be dearer far 
 Then all things else most certain ; were it false, 
 What truth on earth so precious as the lie ? 
 This -world it gives us, let what will ensue ; 
 This world it gives, in that high cordial, hope ; 
 The future of the present is the soul : 
 How this life groans, when sever'd from the next ! 
 Poor, mutilated wretch, that disbelieves ! 
 By dark distrust his being cut in two, 
 In both parts perishes ; life void of joy, 
 Sad prelude of eternity in pain ! 
 
 Couldst thou persuade me, the next life could fail 
 Our ardent wishes, how should I pour out 
 My bleeding heart in anguish, new, as deep : 
 Oh with what thoughts, thy hope, and my despair, 
 Abhorr'd Annihilation ! blasts the soul, 
 And wide extends the bounds of human woe ! 
 
NIGHT VII. 251 
 
 Could I believe Lorenzo's systeig true, 
 
 In this black channel would ray ravings run. 
 
 " Grief from the future borrow'd peace, ere-while. 
 The future vanish'd ! and the present pain'd ! 
 Strange import of unprecedented ill ! 
 Fall, how profound ! like Lucifer's, the fall : 
 Unequal fate ! his fall, without his guilt ! 
 From where fond hope built her pavilion high, 
 The gods among, hurl'd headlong, hurl'd at once 
 To night ! to nothing ! darker still than night. 
 If 'twas a dream, why wake me, my worst foe ? 
 Lorenzo ! boastful of the name of friend ! 
 O for delusion ! for error still ! 
 Could vengeance strike much stronger than to plant 
 A thinkinor beino; in a world like this. 
 Not over-rich before, now beggar 'd quite ; 
 More curs'd than at the fall? — The sun goes out! 
 The thorns shoot up ! What thorns in ev'ry 
 
 thought ! 
 Why sense of better ? It embitters worse. 
 Why sense ? why life ; if but to sigh, then sink 
 To what I was ? Twice nothing ! and much woe ! 
 
252 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Woe from Heav'n's bounties — Woe from what was 
 
 wont 
 To flatter most, high intellectual pow'rs ! 
 
 " Thought, virtue, knowledge ! blessings, by thy 
 scheme 
 All poison'd into pains. First, knowledge, once 
 My soul's ambition, now her greatest dread. 
 To know myself, true wisdom ? — N'o, to shun 
 That shocking science, parent of despair ! 
 Avert thy mirror ; if I see, I die. 
 
 ** Know my Creator ! Climb his blest abode 
 By painful speculation, pierce the veil. 
 Dive in his nature, read his attributes. 
 And gaze in admiration — on a foe. 
 Obtruding life, withholding happiness ; 
 From the full rivers that surround his throne, 
 Nor letting fall one drop of joy on man : 
 Man gasping for one drop, that he might cease 
 To curse his birth, nor envj^ reptiles more ! 
 Ye sable clouds ! Ye darkest shades of night ! 
 Hide him, forever hide him, from my thought, 
 
NIGHT VII. 253 
 
 Once all my comfort ; source, and soul of joy ! 
 Now leagued with furies, and with thee* 'gainst me. 
 
 " Know his achievements ! Study his renown ! 
 Contemplate this amazing universe. 
 Dropt from his hand, with miracles replete ! 
 For what ? 'Mid miracles of nobler name, 
 To find one miracle of misery ? 
 To find the being which alone can know 
 And praise his works, a blemish on his praise ? 
 Through Nature's ample range, in thought to stroll. 
 And start at man, the single mourner there. 
 Breathing high hope : chain'd down to pangs and 
 death ? 
 
 " Knowing is suflf'ring : and shall virtue share 
 The sigh of knowledge ? — Virtue shares the sigh. 
 By straining up the steep of excellent, 
 By battles fought, and from temptation won. 
 What gains she, but the pang of seeing worth, 
 Angehc worth, soon shuffled in the dark 
 With ev'ry vice, and swept to brutal dust ? 
 Merit is madness ; virtue is a crime ; 
 * Lorenzo. 
 
254 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 A crime to reason, if it costs us pain 
 Unpaid : what pain, amidst a thousand more, 
 To think the most abandon'd, after days 
 Of triumph o'er their betters, find in death 
 As soft a pillow, nor make fouler clay ! 
 
 " Duty ! — Religion ! — These, our duty done. 
 Imply reward. Religion is mistake. 
 
 Duty ! There 's none, but to repel the cheat. 
 
 Ye cheats, away ! ye daughters of my pride ! 
 
 Who feign yourselves the fav'iites of the skies : 
 
 Ye tow'ring hopes ! abortive energies ! 
 
 That toss and struggle in my lying breast, 
 
 To scale the skies, and build presumptions there. 
 
 As I were heir of an eternity. 
 
 Vain, vain ambitions ! trouble me no more. 
 
 Why travel far in quest of sure defeat ? 
 
 As bounded as my being, be my wish. 
 
 All is inverted, wisdom is a fool. 
 
 Sense ! take the rein : blind passion drive us on ; 
 
 And ignorance ! befriend us on our way ; 
 
 Ye new, but truest patrons of our peace ! 
 
 Yes ; give the pulse full empire ; live the brute. 
 
NIGHT VII. 255 
 
 Since as the brute we die. Tlie sura of man, 
 Of god-like man ! to revel and to rot. 
 
 "But not on equal terms with other brutes : 
 Their revels a more poignant rehsh yield. 
 And safer too ; they never poisons choose. 
 Instinct, than reason, makes more wholesome meals. 
 And sends all-marring murmur far away. 
 For sensual life they best philosophize ; 
 Theirs, that serene the sages sought in rain : 
 'Tis man alone expostulates with Heav'n : 
 His, all the pow'r, and all the cause, to mourn. 
 Shall human eyes alone dissolve in tears ? 
 And bleed in anguish none but human hearts ? 
 The wide-stretch'd realm of intellectual woe, 
 Surpassing sensual far, is all our own. 
 In life so fatally distinguish'd, why 
 Cast in one lot, confounded, lurap'd in death ? 
 
 ** Ere yet in being, was mankind in guilt ? 
 Why thunder'd this pecuHar clause against us. 
 All-mortal and all-wretched ? — Have the skies 
 Reasons of state their subjects may not scan. 
 Nor humbly reason, when they sorely sigh ? — 
 
256 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 All-mortal, and all- wretched ! — 'Tis too much ; 
 Uparallel'd in nature : 'tis too much ; 
 On being unrequested at thy hands. 
 Omnipotent ! for I see nought but pow'r. 
 
 "And why see that ? Why thought ? To toil and 
 eat, 
 Then make our bed in darkness, needs no thought. 
 What superfluities are reas'ning souls ! 
 give eternity ! or thought destroy. 
 But without thought our curse were half unfelt ; 
 Its blunted edge would spare the throbbing heart ; 
 And, therefore, 'tis bestow'd. I thank thee. Reason, 
 For aiding life's too small calamities. 
 And giving being to the dread of death. 
 Such are thy bounties ! — Was it then too much 
 For me to trespass on the brutal rights ? 
 Too much for Heav'n to make one emmet more ? 
 Too much for chaos to permit my mass 
 A longer stay with essences unwrought, 
 Unfashion'd, untormented into man ? 
 Wretched preferment to this round of pains ! 
 Wretched capacity of frenzy, thought ! 
 
NIGHT VII. 257 
 
 Wretched capacity of dying, life ! 
 
 Life, thought, worth, wisdom, all (0 foul revolt !) 
 
 Once friends to peace, gone over to the foe. 
 
 " Death then has changed its nature too : death ! 
 Come to my bosom, thou best gift of heav'n ! 
 Best friend of man ! since man is man no more. 
 Why in this thorny wilderness so long. 
 Since there 's no promis'd land's ambrosial bow*r, 
 To pay me with its honey for my stings ? 
 If needful to the selfish schemes of Heav'n 
 To sting us sore, why mock'd our misery ? 
 Why this so sumptuous insult o'er our heads ? 
 Why this illustrious canopy display'd ? 
 Why so magnificently lodged despair ? 
 At stated periods, sure-returning, roll 
 These glorious orbs, that mortals may compute 
 Their length of labors, and of pains ; nor lose 
 Their misery's full measure ? — Smiles with flow'rs, 
 And fruits, promiscuous, ever-teeming earth. 
 That man may languish in luxurious scenes, 
 And in an Eden mourn his wither'd joys ? 
 Claim earth and skies man's admiration, due 
 
258 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 For such delights ? Blest animals ! too wise 
 To wonder ; and too happy to complain ! 
 
 " Our doom decreed demands a mournful scene 
 Why not a dungeon dark, for the condemn'd ? 
 Why not the dragon's subterranean den, 
 For man to howl in ? Why not his abode 
 Of the same dismal color with his fate ? 
 A Thebes, a Babylon, at vast expense 
 Of time, toil, treasure, art, for owls and adders, 
 As congruous, as for man this lofty dome, 
 Which prompts proud thought, and kindles high desire 
 If, from her humble chamber in the dust. 
 While proud thought swells, and high desire inflames. 
 The poor worm calls us for her inmates there ; 
 And, round us, death's inexorable hand 
 Draws the dark curtain close ; undrawn no more. 
 
 " Undrawn no more ! — Behind the cloud of death. 
 Once I beheld a sun : a sun which gilt 
 That sable cloud, and turn'd it all to gold : 
 How the grave 's alter'd ! Fathomless as hell ! 
 A real hell to those who dreamt of heav'n. 
 Annihilation ! how it yawns before me ! 
 
NIGHT VII. 259 
 
 Next moment I may drop from thought, from sense, 
 The privilege of angels, and of worms, 
 An outcast from existence ! and this spirit, 
 This all-pervading, this all- conscious soul, 
 This particle of energy divine 
 Which travels nature, flies from star to star. 
 And visits gods, and emulates their pow'rs, 
 Forever is extinguish'd. Horror ! Death ! 
 Death of that death I fearless once survey 'd ! — 
 When horror universal shall descend. 
 And heav'n's dark concave urn all human race, 
 On that enormous unrefunding tomb, 
 How just this verse ! this monumental sigh !" 
 Beneath the lumber of demolish'd worlds. 
 Deep in the rubbish of the gen'ral wreck. 
 Swept ignominious to the common mass 
 Of matter never dignified with life, 
 Here lie proud rationals ; the sons of heav*n 
 The lords of earth ! the property of worms ! 
 Beings of yesterday, and no to-morrow ! 
 Who lived in terror, and in pangs expired ! 
 All gone to rot in chaos ; or, to make 
 
260 THE COMPLAINT, 
 
 Their happy transit into blocks or brutes, 
 
 Nor longer sully their Creator's name. 
 
 Lorenzo, hear, pause, ponder, and pronounce. 
 Just is this history ? If such is man. 
 Mankind's historian, though divine, might weep : 
 And dares Lorenzo smile ? — I know thee proud : 
 For once let pride befriend thee : pride looks pale 
 At such a scene, and sighs for something more. 
 Amid thy boasts, presumptions, and displays. 
 And art thou then a shadow ? less than shade ? 
 A nothing ? less than nothing ? To have been. 
 And not to be, is lower than unborn. 
 Art thou ambitious ? Why, then, make the worm 
 Thine equal ? Runs thy taste of pleasure high ? 
 Why patronize sure death of ev'ry joy ? 
 Charm riches ? Why choose begg'ry in the grave. 
 Of ev'ry hope a bankrupt ! and forever ? 
 Ambition, pleasure, avarice, persuade thee 
 To make that world of glory, rapture, wealth. 
 They* lately proved, thy soul's supreme desire. 
 
 What art thou made of ? Rather how unmade ? 
 * In the Sixth Night. 
 
NIGHT VII. 261 
 
 Great Nature's master-appetite destroy'd ! 
 
 Is endless life, and happiness, despised ? 
 
 Or both wish'd, here, where neither can be found ? 
 
 Such man's perverse eternal war with Heav'n ! 
 
 Darest thou persist ? And is there nought on earth, 
 
 But a long train of transitory forms. 
 
 Rising, and breaking, milUons in an hour ? 
 
 Bubbles of a fantastic deity, blown up 
 
 In sport, and then in cruelty destroy'd ? 
 
 Oh ! for what crime, unmerciful Lorenzo ! 
 
 Destroys thy scheme the whole of human race ? 
 
 Kind% fell Lucifer, compared to thee : 
 
 Oh ! spare this waste of being half divine : 
 
 And vindicate th' economy of heav'n. 
 
 Heav'n is all love ; all joy in giving joy : 
 It never had created, but to bless : 
 And shall it, then, strike off the list of hfe 
 A being blest, or worthy so to be ? 
 Heav'n starts at an annihilating God. 
 
 Is that, all nature starts at, thy desire ? 
 Art such a clod to wish thyself all clay ? 
 What is that dreadful wish ? — The dying groan 
 
262 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Of nature, murder'd by the blackest guilt. 
 What deadly poison has thy nature drunk ? 
 To nature undebauch'd no shock so great ; 
 Nature's first wish is endless happiness ; 
 Annihihation is an after-thought, 
 A monstrous wish, unborn till virtue dies. 
 And, oh ! what depth of horror lies enclos'd ! 
 For non-existence no man ever wish'd. 
 But first, he wish'd the Deity destroy'd. 
 
 If so, what words are dark enough to draw 
 Thy picture true ? The darkest are too fair. 
 Beneath what baleful planet, in what hour 
 Of desperation, by what fury's aid. 
 In what infernal posture of the soul. 
 All hell invited, and all hell in joy 
 At such a birth, a birth so near of kin. 
 Did thy foul fancy whelp so black a scheme 
 Of hopes abortive, faculties half blown. 
 And deities begun, reduced to dust ? 
 
 There's nought, thou say'st, but one eternal flux 
 Of feeble essences, tumultuous driven 
 Through time's rough billows into night's abyss. 
 
NIGHT VII. 263 
 
 Say, in this rapid tide of human ruin, 
 
 Is there no rock, on which man's tossing thought 
 
 Can rest from terror, dare his fate survey, 
 
 And boldly think it something to be born ? 
 
 Amid such hourly wrecks of being fair. 
 
 Is there no central all-sustaining base, 
 
 All-realizing, all- connecting Pow'r, 
 
 Which, as it call'd forth all things, can recall, 
 
 And force destruction to refund her spoil ? 
 
 Command the grave restore her taken pray ? 
 
 Bid death's dark vale its human harvest yield. 
 
 And earth, and ocean, pay their debt of man. 
 
 True to the grand deposit trusted there ? 
 
 Is there no potentate, whose out-stretch'd arm, 
 
 When rip'ning time calls forth th' appointed hour, 
 
 Pluck'd from foul devastation's famish'd maw. 
 
 Binds present, past, and future, to his throne ? 
 
 His throne, how glorious, thus divinely graced. 
 
 By germinating beings clust'ring round ! 
 
 A garland worthy the divinity ! 
 
 A throne, by Heav'n's omnipotence in smiles. 
 
 Built (like a Pharos tow'ring in the waves) 
 
264 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Amidst immense effusions of his love ! 
 An ocean of communicated bliss ! 
 
 An all-prolific, all-preserving God ! 
 This were a God indeed. — And such is man, 
 As here presumed : he rises from his fall. 
 Think'st thou Omnipotence a naked root. 
 Each blossom fair of Deity destroy'd ? 
 Nothing is dead ; nay, nothing sleeps ; each soul. 
 That ever animated human clay, 
 Now wakes ; is on the wing ; and where, where, 
 Will the swarm settle ! — When the trumpet's call. 
 As sounding brass, collects us round heav'n's throne, 
 Conglobed we bask in everlasting day, 
 (Paternal splendor) and adhere forever. 
 Had not the soul this outlet to the skies, 
 In this vast vessel of the universe. 
 How should we gasp, as in an empty void ! 
 How in the pangs of famish'd hope expire ! 
 
 How bright this prospect shines ! How gloomy thine. 
 A trembling world ! and a devouring God ! 
 Earth, but the shambles of Omnipotence ; 
 Heav'n's face all stain'd with causeless massacres 
 
NIGHT VII. 265 
 
 Of countless millions, born to feel the pang 
 Of being lost. Lorenzo, can it be ? 
 This bids us shudder at the thoughts of life. 
 Who would be born to such a phantom world. 
 Where nought substantial, but our misery ? 
 Where joy (if joy) but heightens our distress, 
 So soon to perish, and revive no more ? 
 The greater such a joy, the more it pains. 
 A world, where dark, mysterious vanity 
 Of good, and ill, the distant colors blends, 
 Confounds all reason, and all hope destroys ; 
 Reason, and hope, our sole asylum here ! 
 A world, so far from great (and yet how great 
 It shines to thee !) there 's nothing real in it ; 
 Being a shadow ! consciousness a dream ! 
 A dream, how dreadful ! Universal blank 
 Before it, and behind ! Poor man, a spark 
 From non-existence struck by wrath divine, 
 Glitt'ring a moment, nor that moment sure, 
 'Midst upper, nether, and surrounding night, 
 His sad, sure^ sudden, and eternal tomb ! 
 Lorenzo, dost thou feel these arguments ? 
 
 12 
 
266 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Or is there nought but vengeance can be felt ? 
 How hast thou dared the Deity dethrone ? 
 How dared indict him of a world like this ? 
 If such the world, creation was a crime ; 
 For what is crime, but cause of misery ? 
 Retract, blasphemer ! and unriddle this, 
 Of endless arguments, above, below, 
 Without us, and within, the short result — 
 ** If man 's immortal, there 's a God in heav'n." 
 
 But wherefore such redundancy ? such waste 
 Of argument ? One sets my soul at rest ; 
 One obvious, and at hand, and, oh ! — at heart. 
 So just the skies, Philander's life so pain'd, 
 His heart so pure ; that, or succeeding scenes 
 Have palms to give, or ne'er had he been born. 
 
 " What an old tale is this !" Lorenzo cries. — 
 I grant this argument is old ; but truth 
 No years impair ; and had not this been true, 
 Thou never hadst despised it for its age. 
 TiTith is immortal as thy soul ; and fable 
 As fleeting as thy joys. Be wise, nor make 
 
NIGHT VII. 267 
 
 Heaven's highest blessing, vengeance ; be wise ! 
 Nor make a curse of immortahty. 
 
 Say, know'st thou what it is ? or what thou art ? 
 Know'st thou th' importance of a soul immortal ? 
 Behold this midnight glory : worlds on worlds ! 
 Amazing pomp ! Redouble this amaze ! 
 Ten thousand add ; add twice ten thousand more ; 
 Then weigh the whole ; one soul outweighs them all, 
 And calls th' astonishing magnificence 
 Of unintelUgent creation, poor. 
 
 For this, believe not rae ; no man believe ; 
 Trust not in words, but deeds ; and deeds no less 
 Than those of the Supreme ; nor his, a few ; 
 Consult them all ; consulted, all proclaim 
 Thy soul's importance ; tremble at thyself ; 
 For whom Omnipotence has waked so long : 
 Has waked, and work'd, for ages ; from the birth 
 Of nature to this unbelieving hour. 
 
 In this small province of his vast domain 
 (All nature bow, while I pronounce his name !) 
 What has God done, and not for this sole end, 
 To rescue souls from death ? The soul's high price 
 
268 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Is writ in all the conduct of the skies. 
 
 The soul's high price is the creation's key. 
 
 Unlocks its mysteries, and naked lays 
 
 The genuine cause of ev'ry deed divine : 
 
 That is the chain of ages, which maintains 
 
 Their obvious correspondence, and unites 
 
 Most distant periods in one blest design : 
 
 That is the mighty hinge, on which have turn'd 
 
 All revolutions, whether we regard 
 
 The nat'ral, civil, or religious world ; 
 
 The former tAvo but servants to the third : 
 
 To that their duty done, they both expire, 
 
 Their mass new-cast, forgot their deeds renown'd ; 
 
 And angels ask, *' Where once they shone so fair ?" 
 
 To lift us from this abject, to sublime ; 
 This flux, to permanent ; this dark to day ; 
 This foul, to pure ; this turbid, to serene ; 
 This mean, to mighty ! for this glorious end 
 Th' Almighty, rising, his long sabbath broke : 
 The world was made ; was ruin'd ; was restor'd ; 
 Laws from the skies were publish'd ; were repeal'd ; 
 On earth, kings, kingdoms, rose ; kings, kingdoms, fell 
 
NIGHT VII. 269 
 
 Famed sages lighted up the pagan world ; 
 Prophets from Sion darted a keen glance 
 Thro' distant age ; saints travell'd ; martyrs bled ; 
 By wonders sacred nature stood controll'd ; 
 The hving were translated ; dead were raised ; 
 Angels, and more than angels, came from heav'n ; 
 And, Oh ! for this, descended lower still ; 
 Gilt was hell's gloom ; astonish'd at his guest, 
 For one short moment Lucifer adored : 
 Lorenzo ! and wilt thou do less ? — For this, 
 That hallow'd page, fools scoff at, was inspired. 
 Of all these truths' thrice-venerable code ! 
 Deists, perform your quarantine ! and then 
 Fall prostrate ere you touch it, lest you die. 
 
 Nor less intensely bent infernal pow'rs 
 To mar, than those of light, this end to gain. 
 what a scene is here ! — Lorenzo, wake. 
 Rise to the thought ; exert, expand thy soul 
 To take the vast idea : it denies 
 All else the name of great. Two warring worlds ! 
 Not Europe against Afric ; warring worlds, 
 Of more than mortal ! mounted on the wing ! 
 
270 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 On ardent wings of energy and zeal 
 High-hov'ring o'er this little brand of strife ! 
 This sublunary ball — But strife, for what ? 
 In their own cause conflicting ? No ; in thine, 
 In man's. His single int'rest blows the flame ; 
 His the sole stake ; his fate the trumpet sounds, 
 Which kindles war immortal. How it burns ! 
 Tumultuous swarms of deities in arms ! 
 Force, force opposing, till the waves run high. 
 And tempest nature's universal sphere. 
 Such opposites eternal, steadfast, stem. 
 Such foes implacable, are Good and 111 ; 
 Yet man, vain man, would mediate peace between 
 them. 
 Think not this fiction : ** There was war in heav'n." 
 From heav'n's high crystal mountain where it hung, 
 Th' Almighty's out-stretch'd arm took down his bow, 
 And shot his indignation at the deep : 
 Re-thunder'd hell, and darted all her fires. 
 And seems the stake of little moment still ? 
 And slumbers man, who singly caused the storm ? 
 He sleeps. — And art thou shock'd at mysteries ? 
 
NIGHT VII. 2Yl 
 
 The greatest, thou. How dreadful to reflect, 
 What ardor, care, and counsel, mortals cause 
 In breasts divine ! How httle in their own ! 
 
 Where'er I turn, how new proofs pour upon me ! 
 How happily this wondrous view supports 
 My former argument ! How strongly strikes 
 Immortal hfe's full demonstration here ! 
 Why this exertion ? Why this strange regard 
 From Heav'n's Omnipotence indulged to man ? 
 Because, in man, the glorious, dreadful power, 
 Extremely to be pain'd, or blest, forever. 
 Duration gives importance ; swells the price. 
 An angel, if a creature of a day. 
 What would he be ? A trifle of no weight ; 
 Or stand, or fall ; no matter which ; he 's gone. 
 Because immortal, therefore is mdulged 
 This strange regard of deities to dust. 
 Hence, heav'n looks down on earth with all her eyes : 
 Hence, the soul's mighty moment in her sight : 
 Hence, ev'ry soul has partisans above. 
 And every thought a critic in the skies : 
 Hence, clay, vile clay ! has angels for its guard. 
 
272 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And ev'iy guard a pasdon for his charge : 
 Hence, from all age, the cabinet divine 
 Has held high counsel o'er the fate of man. 
 
 Nor have the clouds those gracious counsels hid. 
 Angels undrew the curtain of the throne, 
 And Providence came forth to meet mankind : 
 In various modes of emphasis, and awe, 
 He spoke his will, and trembling nature heard ; 
 He spoke it loud, in thunder, and in storm. 
 Witness, thou Sinai ! whose cloud- covered height, 
 And shaken basis, own'd the present God : 
 Witness, ye billows ! whose returning tide. 
 Breaking the chain that fasten'd it in air. 
 Swept Egypt, and her menaces, to hell : 
 Witness, ye flames ! th' Assyrian tyrant blew 
 To sev'nfold rage, as impotent, as strong : 
 And thou, earth ! witness, whose expanding jaws 
 Closed o'er* Presumption's sacrilegious sons : 
 Has not each element, in turn, subscrib'd 
 The soul's high price, and sworn it to the wise ? 
 Has not flame, ocean, ether, earthquake, strove 
 * Korah, &c. 
 
NIGHT VII. 273 
 
 To strike this truth through adamantine man ? 
 
 If not all adamant, Lorenzo ! hear ; 
 
 All is delusion, nature is wrapt up. 
 
 In tenfold night, from reason's keenest eye ; 
 
 There 's no consistence, meaning, plan, or end, 
 
 In all beneath the sun, in all above, 
 
 (As far as man can penetrate) or heaven 
 
 Is an immense, inestimable prize ; 
 
 Or all is nothing, or that prize is all. — 
 
 And shall each toy be still a match for heaven ? 
 
 And full equivalent for groans below ? 
 
 Who would not give a trifle to prevent 
 
 What he would give a thousand worlds to cure ? 
 
 Lorenzo ! thou hast seen (if thine, to see) 
 All nature, and her God (by nature's course. 
 And nature's course controll'd) declare for me : 
 The skies above proclaim " immortal man !" 
 And, " man immortal !" all below resounds. 
 The world 's a system of theology. 
 Read by the greatest strangers to the schools ; 
 If honest, learn'd; -and sages o'er a plough. 
 Is not, Lorenzo, then, imposed on thee 
 
 12* 
 
274 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 This hard alternative ; or to renounce 
 Thy reason, and thy sense ; or, to believe ? 
 What then is unbelief ? 'Tis an exploit ; 
 A strenuous enterprise : to gain it, man 
 Must burst through ev'ry bar of common sense. 
 Of common shame, magnanimously wrong. 
 And what rewards the sturdy combatant ? 
 His prize, repentance ; infamy, his crown. 
 
 But wherefore infamy ? — For want of worth, 
 Down the steep precipice of wrong he slides ; 
 There 's nothmg to support him in the right. 
 Faith in the futm-e wanting, is at least 
 In embryo, ev'ry weakness, ev'ry guilt ; 
 And strong temptation ripens it to birth. 
 If this life's gain invites him to the deed, 
 Why not his country sold, his father slain ? 
 'Tis virtue to pursue our good supreme ; 
 And his supreme, his only good, is here. 
 Ambition, av'rice, by the wise disdain'd. 
 Is perfect wisdom, while mankind are fools. 
 And think a turf or tomb-stone covers all : 
 These find employment, and provide for sense 
 
NIGHT VII. 275 
 
 A riclier pasture, and a larger range ; 
 And sense by right divine ascends the throne. 
 When reason's prize and prospect are no more : 
 Virtue no more we think the will of Heav'n. 
 Would Heav'n quite beggar virtue, if belov'd ? 
 
 * Has virtue charms ?' — I grant her heav'nly fair: 
 But if unportion'd, all will int'rest wed ; 
 Though that our admiration, this our choice. 
 The virtues grow on immortality ! 
 That root destroy'd, they wither and expire. 
 A Deity belie v'd will nought avail ; 
 Rewards and punishments make God adored ; 
 And hopes and fears give conscience all her pow*r. 
 As in the dying parent dies the child. 
 Virtue with immortality expires. 
 Who tells me he denies his soul immortal, 
 Whate'er his boast, has told me, he 's a knave. 
 His duty 'tis to love himself alone ; 
 Nor care, though mankind perish, if he smiles. 
 Who thinks ere long the man shall wholly die. 
 Is dead already ; nought but brute survives. 
 
 And are there such ? — Such candidates there are 
 
2Y6 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 For more than death ; for utter loss of being, 
 Being, the basis of the Deity ! 
 Ask you the cause ? — The cause they will not tell : 
 Nor need they : Oh, the sorceries of sense ! 
 They work this transformation on the soul, 
 Dismount her like the serpent at the fall, 
 Dismount her from her native wing (which soar'd 
 Ere-while ethereal heights) and throw her down. 
 To lick the dust, and crawl in such a thought. 
 
 Is it in words to paint you ? ye fall'n ! 
 Fall'n from the wings of reason, and of hope ! 
 Erect in stature, prone in appetite ! 
 Patrons of pleasure, posting into pain ! 
 Lovers of argument, averse to sense ! 
 Boasters of liberty, fast bound in chains ! 
 Lords of the wide creation, and the shame ! 
 More senseless than th' irrationals you scorn ! 
 More base than those you rule ! than those you pity. 
 Far more undone ! O ye most infamous 
 Of beings, from superior dignity ! 
 Deepest in woe, from means of boundless bliss ; 
 Ye curst by blessings infinite ! because 
 
NIGHT VII, 
 
 277 
 
 Most highly favor'd, most profoundly lost ! 
 Ye motley mass of contradiction strong ! 
 And are you, too, convinced your souls fly off 
 In exhalation soft, and die in air. 
 From the full flood of evidence against you ? 
 ^n the coarse drudgeries and sinks of sense, 
 Your souls have quite worn out the make of heav'n, 
 By vice new cast, and creatures of your own : 
 But though you can deform, you can't destroy ; 
 To curse, not uncreate, is all your power. - - 
 
 Lorenzo, this black brotherhood renounce ; 
 Renounce St. Evremont, and read St. Paul. 
 Ere rapt by miracle, by reason wing'd, 
 His mounting mind made long abode in heav*n. 
 This is free thinking, unconfined to parts. 
 To send the -soul, on curious travel bent, 
 Through all the provinces of human thought ; 
 To dart her flight through the whole sphere of man ; 
 Of this vast universe to make the tour ; 
 In each recess of space, and time, at home : 
 Familiar with their wonders ; diving deep. 
 And, like a prince of boundless int'rests there. 
 
2*78 THE COM r LAIN T. 
 
 Still most ambitious of the most remote : 
 To look on truth unbroken, and entire ; 
 Truth in the system, the full orb ; where truths 
 By truths enlighten'd, and sustain'd, afford 
 An arch-like strong foundation, to support 
 Th' incumbent weight of absolute, complete 
 Conviction : here the more we press, we stand 
 More firm ; who most examine, most believe. 
 Parts, like half-sentences, confound : the whole 
 Conveys the sense, and God is understood ; 
 Who not in fragments writes to human race : 
 Read his whole volume. Sceptic ! then reply. 
 
 This, this, is thinking free, a thought that grasps 
 Beyond a grain, and looks beyond an hour. 
 Turn up thine eye, survey this midnight scene : 
 What are earth's kingdoms, to yon boundless orbs, 
 Of human souls, one day, the destined range ? 
 And what yon boundless orbs to Godlike man ? 
 Those num'rous worlds that throng the firmament, 
 And ask more space in heav'n, can roll at large 
 In man's capacious thought, and still kave room 
 For ampler orbs, for new creations, thei e. 
 
NIGHT VII. 279 
 
 Can such a soul contract itself, to gripe 
 A point of no dimension, of no weight ? 
 It can ; it does : the world is such a point, 
 And, of that point, how small a part enslaves ? 
 
 How small a part — of nothing, shall I say ? 
 Why not ? — ^friends, our chief treasure, how they drop ! 
 Lucia, Narcissa fair, Philander, gone ! 
 The grave, like fabled Cerberus, has op'd 
 A triple mouth ; and, in an awful voice, 
 Loud calls my soul, and utters all I sing. 
 How the world falls to pieces round about us. 
 And leaves us in a ruin of our joy ! 
 What says this transportation of my friends ? 
 It bids me love the place where now they dwell, 
 And scorn this wretched spot, they leave so poor. 
 Eternity's vast ocean lies before thee ; 
 There, there, Lorenzo ! thy Clarissa sails. 
 Give thy mind sea-room ; keep it wide of earth. 
 That rock of souls immortal ; cut thy cord ; 
 Weigh anchor : spread thy sails ; call ev'ry wind ; 
 Eye thy great Pole-star ; make the land of life. 
 
 Two kinds of life has double-natured man. 
 
280 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And two of death ; the last far more severe. 
 Life animal is nurtur'd by the sun ; 
 Thrives on his bounties, triumphs in his beams. 
 Life rational subsists on higher food, 
 Triumphant in His beams who made the day. 
 When we leave that sun, and are left by this, 
 (The fate of all who die in stubborn guilt,) 
 'Tis utter darkness, strictly double death. 
 We sink by no judicial stroke of Heav'n, 
 But nature's course ; as sure as plummets fall. 
 Since God, or man, must alter ere they meet 
 (For light and darkness blend not in one sphere) 
 'Tis manifest, Lorenzo ! who must change. 
 
 If, then, that double death should prove thy lot. 
 Blame not the bowels of the Deity ; 
 Man shall be blest, as far as man permits. 
 Not man alone, all rationals, heav'n arms 
 With an illustrious, but tremendous, power 
 To counteract its ow^n most gracious ends ; 
 And this, of strict necessity, not choice ; 
 That power denied, men, angels, were no more, 
 But passive engines, void of praise, or blame. 
 
NIGHT VII. 281 
 
 A nature rational implies the power 
 
 Of being blest, or wretched, as we please ; 
 
 Else idle Reason would have nought to do ; 
 
 And he that would be barr'd capacity 
 
 Of pain, courts incapacity of bliss. 
 
 Heav'n wills our happiness, allows our doom ; 
 
 Invites us ardently, but not compels ; 
 
 Heav'n but persuades, almighty man decrees ; 
 
 Man is the maker of immortal fates. 
 
 Man falls by man, if finally he falls ; 
 
 And fall he must, who learns from death alone, 
 
 The dreadful secret, — that he lives forever. 
 
 Why this to thee ? Thee yet, perhaps, in doubt 
 Of second life ? But wherefore doubtful still ? 
 Eternal life is nature's ardent wish ? 
 What ardently we wish, we soon believe : 
 Thy tardy faith declares that wish destroyed : 
 What has destroy'd it ?— Shall I tell thee, what ? 
 When fear'd the future, 'tis no longer wish'd ; 
 And, when unwish'd, we strive to disbelieve. 
 " Thus infidelity our guilt betrays." 
 Nor that the sole detection ! blush, Lorenzo ! 
 
282 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Blush for hypocrisy, if not for guilt. 
 
 The future fear'd ? An infidel, and fear ! 
 
 Fear what ? a dream ? a fable ? — How thy dread, 
 
 Unwilling evidence, and therefore strong, 
 
 Affords my cause an undesign'd support ! 
 
 How disbelief affirms, what it denies ! 
 
 " It, unawares, asserts immortal life." — 
 
 Surprising ! Infidehty turns out 
 
 A creed, and a confession of our sins : 
 
 Apostates, thus, are orthodox divines. 
 
 Lorenzo ! with Lorenzo clash no more ; 
 Nor longer a transparent vizor wear. 
 Think'st thou, religion only has her mask ? 
 Our infidels are Satan's hypocrites. 
 Pretend the worst, and, at the bottom, fail. 
 When visited by thought, (thought will intrude), 
 Like him they serve, they tremble, and believe. 
 Is there hypocrisy so foul as this ? 
 So fatal to the welfare of the world ? 
 What detestation, what contempt, their due ? 
 And, if unpaid, be thank'd for their escape 
 That Christian candor they strive hard to scorn. 
 
NIGHT VII. 283 
 
 If not for that asylum, they might find 
 A hell on earth ; nor 'scape a worse below. 
 
 With insolence and impotence of thought, 
 Instead of racking fancy, to refute, 
 Reform thy manners, and the truth enjoy. — 
 But shall I dare confess the dire result ? 
 Can thy proud reason brook so black a brand ? 
 Fl-om purer manners, to sublimer faith, 
 Is nature's unavoidable ascent ; 
 An honest deist, where the gospel shines, 
 Matur'd to nobler, in the Christian ends. 
 When that blest change arrives, e'en cast aside 
 This song superfluous ; life immortal strikes 
 Conviction, in a flood of light divine. 
 A Christian dwells, like Uriel,* in the sun ; 
 Meridian evidence puts doubt to flight ; 
 And ardent hope anticipates the skies. 
 Of that bright sun, Lorenzo ! scale the sphere ; 
 'Tis easy ; it invites thee ; it descends 
 From heaven to woo, and waft thee whence it came : 
 Read and revere the sacred page ; a page 
 * Milton. 
 
284 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Where triumphs immortahty ; a page 
 Which not the whole creation could produce ; 
 Which not the conflagration shall destroy ; 
 In nature's ruin's not one letter lost : 
 'Tis printed in the mind of gods forever. 
 
 In proud disdain of what e'en gods adore, 
 Dost smile ? — Poor wretch ! thy guardian angel weeps. 
 Angels, and men, assent to what I sing ; 
 Wits smile, and thank me for my midnight dream. 
 How vicious hearts fume phrensy to the brain ? 
 Parts push us on to pride, and pride to shame ; 
 Pert infidelity is wit's cockade, 
 To grace the brazen brow that braves the skies. 
 By loss of being, dreadfully secure. 
 Lorenzo ! if thy doctrine wins the day. 
 And drives my dreams, defeated, from the field ; 
 If this is all, if earth a final scene. 
 Take heed ; stand fast ; be sure to be a knave ; 
 A knave in grain ! ne'er deviate to the right : 
 Shouldst thou be good — how infinite thy loss ! 
 Guilt only makes annihilation gain. 
 Blest scheme ! which life deprives of comfort, death 
 
NIGHT VII. 285 
 
 Of hope ; and which vice only recommends. 
 If so ; where, infidels ! your bait thrown out 
 To catch weak converts ? Where your lofty boast 
 Of zeal for virtue, and of love to man ? 
 Annihilation ! I confess, in these. 
 
 What can reclaim you ? Dare I hope profound 
 Philosophers the converts of a song ? 
 Yet know, its title* flatters you, not me ! 
 Yours be the praise to make my title good ; 
 Mine, to bless Heav'n, and triumph in your praise. 
 But since so pestilential your disease, 
 Though sov'reign is the med'cine I prescribe, 
 As yet, I'll neither triumph nor despair : 
 But hope, ere long my midnight dream will wake 
 Your hearts, and teach your wisdom — to be wise : 
 For why should souls immortal, made for bliss. 
 E'er wish (and wish in vain !) that souls could die ? 
 What ne'er can die. Oh ! grant to live ; and crown 
 The wish, and aim, and labor of the skies ; 
 Increase, and enter on the joys of heaven : 
 Thus shall my title pass a sacred seal, 
 * The Infidel Reclaimed. 
 
286 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Receive an imprimatur from above, 
 While angels shout — An Infidel Reclaim'd ! 
 To close, Lorenzo ! ^pite of all my pains. 
 Still seems it strange, that thou shouldst live forever ? 
 Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all ? 
 This is a miracle ; and that no more. 
 Who gave beginning, can exclude an end. 
 Deny thou art : then, doubt if thou shalt be. 
 A miracle, with miracles inclos'd. 
 Is man : and starts his faith at what is strange ? 
 What less than wonders, from the wonderful ; 
 What less than miracles, from God, can flow ? 
 Admit a God — that mystery supreme ! 
 That cause uncaus'd ! All other wonders cease ; 
 Nothing is marvellous for Him to do : 
 Deny Him — all is mystery besides ; 
 Millions of mysteries ! Each darker far 
 Than that thy wisdom would, unwisely, shun. 
 If weak thy faith, why choose the harder side ? 
 We nothing know, but what is marvellous ; 
 Yet what is marvellous, we can't beheve. 
 So weak our reason, and so great our God, 
 
NIGHT VII. 287 
 
 What most surprises in the sacred page, 
 
 Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true. 
 
 Faith is not reason's labor, but repose. 
 
 To faith, and virtue, why so backward, man ? 
 From hence : — The present strongly strikes us all ; 
 The future, faintly : Can we, then, be men ? 
 If men, Lorenzo ! tlie reverse is right. 
 Reason is man's peculiar ; sense, the brute's. 
 The present is the scanty realm of sense ; 
 The future, reason's empire unconfin'd ; 
 On that expending all her godlike power. 
 She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there ; 
 There, builds her blessings ; there, expects her praise ; 
 And nothing asks of fortune, or of men. 
 And what is reason ? Be she, thus, defin'd ; 
 Reason is upright stature in the soul. 
 Oh ! be a man ; — and strive to be a god. 
 
 "For what? (thou sayst) : To damp the joys of 
 life ?" 
 Ko ; to give heart and substance to thy joys. 
 That tyrant, hope ; mark, how she domineers ; 
 She bids us quit realities, for dreams ; 
 
288 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Safety, and peace, for hazard, and alarm ; 
 
 That tyrant o'er the tyrants of the soul. 
 
 She bids ambition quit its taken prize. 
 
 Spurn the luxuriant branch on which it sits, 
 
 Tho' bearing crowns, to spring at distant game ; 
 
 And plunge in toils, and dangers — for repose. 
 
 If hope precarious, and of things, when gain'd. 
 
 Of little moment, and as little stay, 
 
 Can sweeten toils and dangers into joys ; 
 
 What then, that hope, which nothing can defeat, 
 
 Our leave unask'd ? Rich hope of boundless bliss ! 
 
 Bliss, past man's pow'r to paint it ; time's, to close ! 
 
 This hope is earth's most estimable prize : 
 This is man's portion, while no more than man : 
 Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here ; 
 Passions of prouder name befriend us less. 
 Joy has her tears ; and transport has her death ; 
 Hope, like a cordial, innocent, tho' strong, 
 Man's heart, at once, inspirits, and serenes ; 
 Nor makes him pay his wisdom for his joys ; 
 'Tis all, our present state can safely bear.. 
 Health to the frame ! and vigor to the mind ! 
 
NIGHT VII. 289 
 
 And to the modest eye chastis'd delight ! 
 Like the fair summer-ev'ning, mild, and sweet ! 
 'Tis man's full cup ; his paradise below ! 
 
 A blest hereafter, then, or hop'd, or gain'd, 
 Is all ; — our whole of happiness : full proof, 
 I chose no trivial or inglorious theme. 
 And know, ye foes to song ! (well-meaning men, 
 Tho' quite forgotten* half your Bible's praise !) 
 Important truths, in spite of verse may please : 
 Grave minds you praise ; nor can you praise too much 
 If there is weight in an eternity. 
 Let the grave Hsten ; — and be graver still. 
 
 * The poetical parts of it. 
 
 13 
 
NIGHT VIII 
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY ; OR, THE MAN OF THE 
 WORLD ANSWERED. 
 
 THE LOVE OF THIS LIFE THE AMBITION AND PLEASURE, 
 
 WITH THE WIT AND WISDOM, OF THE WORLD. 
 
 And has all nature, then, espous'd my part ? 
 
 Have I brib'd heav'n, and earth, to plead against thee ? 
 
 And is thy soul immortal ? What remains ? 
 
 All, all, Lorenzo ! Make immortal blest. 
 
 Unblest immortals ! What can shock us more ? 
 
 And yet, Lorenzo still affects the world ; 
 
 There, stows his treasui-e ; thence, his title draws, 
 
 Man of the world ! (for such wouldst thou be call'd) 
 
 And art thou proud of that inglorious style ? 
 
 Proud of reproach ? for a reproach it was. 
 
 In ancient days ; and Christian, — in an age. 
 
 When men were men, and not asham'd of heaven, 
 
NIGHT VIII. 291 
 
 Fir'd their ambition, as it crown'd their joy. 
 Sprinkled with dews from the CastaUan font, 
 Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer 
 A purer spirit, and a nobler name. 
 
 Thy fond attachments fatal, and inflam'd. 
 Point out my path, and dictate to my song : 
 To thee, the world bow fair ! how strongly strikes 
 Ambition ! and gay pleasure stronger still ! 
 Thy triple bane ! the triple bolt, that lays 
 Thy virtue dead ! be these my triple theme ; 
 Nor shall thy wit, or wisdom, be forgot. 
 
 Common the theme ; not so the song ; if she 
 My song invokes, Urania, deigns to smile. 
 The charm that chains us to the world, her foe, 
 If she dissolves, the man of earth, at once. 
 Starts from his trance, and sighs for other scenes ; 
 Scenes, where these sparks of night, these stars, shall 
 
 shine 
 Unuumber'd suns, (for all things, as they are, 
 The blest behold) ; and, in one glory, pour 
 Their blended blaze on man's astonish'd sight ; 
 A blaze, — the least illustrious object there. 
 
292 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Lorenzo ! since eternal is at hand, 
 To swallow time's ambitions ; as the vast 
 Leviathan, the bubbles vain, that ride 
 High on the foaming billow ; what avail 
 High titles, high descent, attainments high. 
 If unattain'd our highest ? Lorenzo ! 
 What lofty thoughts these elements above. 
 What tow'ring hopes, what sallies from the sun. 
 What grand surveys of destiny divine, 
 And pompous presage of unfathom'd fate. 
 Should roll in bosoms, where a spirit burns. 
 Bound for eternity ! In bosoms read 
 By Him, who foibles in archangels sees ! 
 On human hearts He bends a jealous eye. 
 And marks, and in heav'n's register inrolls. 
 The rise, and progress, of each option there ; 
 Sacred to doomsday ! that the page unfolds. 
 And spreads us to the gaze of gods and men. 
 
 And what an option, O Lorenzo ! thine ? 
 This Avorld ! and this, unrivall'd by the skies ! 
 A world, where lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold, 
 Three demons, that divide its realms between them. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 293 
 
 With strokes alternate buffet to and fro 
 Man's restless heart, their sport, their flying ball ; 
 Till, with the giddy circle, sick, and tir'd, 
 It pants for peace, and drops into despair. 
 Such is the world Lorenzo sets above 
 That glorious promise angels were esteem'd 
 Too mean to bring ; a promise their ador'd 
 Descended to communicate, and press. 
 By counsel, miracle, hfe, death, on man. 
 Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom woos. 
 And on its thorny pillow seeks repose ; 
 A pillow, which, like opiates ill-prepar'd, 
 Intoxicates, but not composes ; fills 
 The visionary mind with gay chimeras. 
 All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest ; 
 What unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy ? 
 How frail, men, things ! how momentary both ! 
 Fantastic chase, of shadows hunting shades ! 
 The gay, the busy, equal, tho' unlike ; 
 Equal in wisdom, differently wise ! 
 Through flow'ry meadows, and through dreary wastes, 
 One bustling, and )ne dancing, into death. 
 
294 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 There 's not a day, but, to the man of thought. 
 Betrays some secret, that throws new reproach 
 On life, and makes him sick of seeing more. 
 The scenes of business tell us — " what ai-e men ;" 
 The scenes of pleasure — " what is all beside ;" 
 There, others we despise ; and here, ourselves. 
 Amid disgust eternal, dwells dehght ? 
 'Tis approbation strikes the string of joy. 
 
 What wondrous prize has kindled this career, 
 Stuns with the din, and chokes us with the dust. 
 On life's gay stage one inch above the grave ? 
 The proud run up and down in quest of eyes ; 
 The sensual in pursuit of something worse ; 
 The grave, of gold, the politic, of power ; 
 And all, of other butterflies, as vain ! 
 As eddies draw things frivolous, and light. 
 How is man's heart by vanity drawn in ; 
 On the swift circle of returning toys, 
 Whirl'd, straw-like, round and round, and then in- 
 
 gulph'd, 
 Where gay delusion darkens to despair ! 
 
 " This is a beaten track." Is this a track 
 
NIGHT VIII. 295 
 
 Should not be beaten ? Never beat enough, 
 Till enough learnt the truths it would inspire. 
 Shall truth be silent because folly frowns ? 
 Turn the world's history ; what find we there, 
 But fortune's sports, or nature's cruel claims. 
 Or woman's artifice, or man's revenge. 
 And endless inhumanities on man ? 
 Fame's trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell, 
 It brings bad tidings : how it hourly blows 
 Man's misadventures round the list'nino- world ! 
 
 o 
 
 Man is the tale of narrative old time : 
 
 Sad tale ! which high as Paradise begins ; 
 
 As if the toil of travel to delude. 
 
 From stage to stage, in his eternal round. 
 
 The days, his daughters, as they spin our hours 
 
 On fortune's wheel, where accident unthought 
 
 Oft, in a moment, snaps life strongest thread, 
 
 Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells. 
 
 With, nov/ and then, a wretched farce between; 
 
 And fills his chronicle with human woes. 
 
 Time's daughters, true as those of men deceive us 
 Not one, but puts some cheat on all mankind ; 
 
296 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 While in their father's bosom, not yet ours, 
 
 They flatter our fond hopes ; and promise much 
 
 Of amiable ; but hold him not o'er-wise, 
 
 Who dares to trust them ; and laugh round the year, 
 
 At still confiding, still confounded, Man, 
 
 Confiding, tho' confounded ; hoping on. 
 
 Untaught by trial, unconvinc'd by proof. 
 
 And ever looking for the never seen. 
 
 Life to the last, like hardened felons, hes ; 
 
 Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires. 
 
 Its little joys go out by one and one. 
 
 And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night ; 
 
 Night darker, than what, now, involves the pole. 
 
 Thou, who dost permit these ills to fall. 
 For gracious ends, and wouldst, that man should mourn ! 
 Thou, whose hand this goodly fabric fram'd. 
 Who know'st it best, and wouldst that man should know ! 
 What is this sublunary world ? A vapor ; 
 A vapor all it holds ; itself, a vapor ; 
 From the damp bed of chaos, by thy beam 
 Exhal'd, ordain'd to swim its destin'd hour 
 In ambient air, then melt, and disappear. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 297 
 
 Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom ; 
 As mortal, tho' less transient, than her sons ; 
 Yet they doat on her, as the world and they 
 Were both eternal, solid ; Thou, a dream. 
 
 They doat, on what ? immortal views apart, 
 A region of outsides ! a land of shadows ! 
 A fruitful field of flow'ry promises ! 
 A wilderness for joys ! perplex'd with doubts. 
 And sharp with thorns ! a troubled ocean, spread 
 With bold adventurers, their all on board ; 
 ISTo second hope, if here their fortune frowns ; 
 Frown soon it must. Of various rates they fail. 
 Of ensigns various ; all alike in this, 
 All restless, anxious ; toss'd with hopes, and fears, 
 In calmest skies ; obnoxious all to storm ; 
 And stormy the most gen'ral blast of life : 
 All bound for happiness ; yet few provide 
 The chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies ; 
 Or virtue's helm, to shape the course design'd : 
 All, more or less, capricious fate lament, 
 Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb'd, 
 And farther from their wishes, than before ; 
 
 13^ 
 
298 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 All, more or less, against each other dash, 
 To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven, 
 And sufF'ring more from folly, than from fate. 
 
 Ocean ! thou dreadful, and tumultuous home 
 Of dangers, at eternal war with man ! 
 Death's capital, where most he domineers, 
 With all his chosen terrors frowning round, 
 (Tho' lately feasted high at Albion's* cost) 
 Wide op'ning, and loud roaring still for more ! 
 Too faithful mirror ! how dost thou reflect 
 The melancholy face of human life ! 
 The strong resemblance tempts me farther still : 
 And, haply, Britain may be deeper struck 
 By moral truth, in such a mirror seen. 
 Which nature holds forever at her eye. 
 
 Self-flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in hope, 
 When young, with sanguine cheer, and streamers gay, 
 We cut our cable, launch into the world, 
 And fondly dream each wind and star our friend ; 
 All, in some darling enterprize embark'd : 
 But where is he can fathom its event ? 
 
 * Admiral Balchen, &c. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 299 
 
 Amid a multitude of artless hands, 
 Ruin's sure perquisite ! her lawful prize ! 
 Some steer aright ; but the black blast blows hard, 
 And puffs them wide of hope : with hearts of proof. 
 Full against wind, and tide, some win their way ; 
 And when strong effort has deserv'd the port, 
 And tug^'d it into view, 'tis won ! 'tis lost ! 
 Tho' strong their oar, still stronger is their fate ; 
 They strike ; and while they triumph, they expire. 
 In stress of weather, most ; some sink outright ; 
 O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close ; 
 To-morrow knows not they were ever born. 
 Others a short memorial leave behind, 
 Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulfed ; 
 It floats a moment, and is seen no more : 
 One Cfesar lives ; a thousand are forgot. 
 How few, beneath auspicious planets born, 
 (Darlings of providence ! fond fate's elect!) 
 With swelling sails make good the promis'd port. 
 With all their wishes freighted ! Yet ev'n these. 
 Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain ; 
 Free fi'om misfortune, not from nature free, 
 
300 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 They still are men ; and when is man secure ? 
 As fatal time ; as storm ! the rush of years 
 Beats down their strength ; their numberless escapes 
 In ruin end : and, now, their proud success 
 But plants new terrors on the victor's brow : 
 What pain to quit the world, just made their own, 
 Their nest so deeply down'd, and built so high ! 
 Too low they build, who build beneath the stars. 
 
 Wo then apart (if wo apart can be 
 From mortal man), and fortune at our nod. 
 The gay ! rich ! great ! triumphant ! and august ! 
 What are they ? — The most happy (strange to sa)' !) 
 Convince me most of human misery : 
 What are they ? sraihng wretches of to-morrow ! 
 More wretched, then, than e'er their slave can be ; 
 Their treach'rous blessings, at the day of need. 
 Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting : 
 Then, what provoking Indigence in wealth ! 
 What aggravated impotence in power ! 
 High titles, then, what insult of their pain ! 
 If that sole anchor, equal to the waves, 
 Immortal hope ! defies not the rude storm, 
 
NIGHT VIII. 301 
 
 Takes comfort from the foaming billow's rage. 
 And makes a welcome harbor of the tomb. 
 
 This is a sketch of what thy soul admires : 
 ** But here (thou sayst) the miseries of life 
 Are huddled in a group. A more distinct 
 Survey, perhaps, might bring thee better news." 
 Look on life's stages ; they speak plainer still ; 
 The plainer they, the deeper wilt thou sigh. 
 Look on thy lovely boy ; in him behold 
 The best that can befall the best on earth ; 
 The boy has virtue by his mother's side : 
 Yes, on Florello look ; a father's heart 
 Is tender, tho' the man's is made of stone ; 
 The truth, through such a medium seen, may make 
 Impression deep, and fondness prove thy friend. 
 
 Florello lately cast on this rude coast 
 A helpless infant ; now a heedless child ; 
 To poor Clarissa's throes, thy care succeeds : 
 Care full of love, and yet severe as hate ! 
 O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns ! 
 Needful austerities his will restrain ; 
 As thorns fence in the tender plant from harm. 
 
802 THE COMPLAIJ^T, 
 
 As yet, his reason cannot go alone ; 
 But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on. 
 His little heart is often terrified ; 
 The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale 
 Its pearly dew-drop trembles in his eye ; 
 His harmless eye ! and drowns an angel there. 
 Ah ! what avails his innocence ? the task 
 Enjoin'd must discipline his early powers ; 
 He learns to sigh, ere he is known to sin : 
 Guiltless ! and sad, a wretch before the fall ! 
 How cruel this ! more cruel to forbear. 
 Our nature such, with necessary pains. 
 We purchase prospects of precarious peace : 
 Tho' not a father, this might steal a sigh. 
 Suppose him disciplin'd aright (if not, 
 'Twill sink our poor account to poorer still) ; 
 Ripe from the tutor, proud of liberty. 
 He leaps inclosure, bounds into the world ; 
 The world is taken, after ten years' toil. 
 Like ancient Troy; and all its joys his own. 
 Alas ! the world 's a tutor more severe ; 
 Its lessons hard, and ill deserve his pains ; 
 
NIGHT VIII. 303 
 
 Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught, 
 Or books (fair virtue's advocates !) inspir'd. 
 
 For who receives him mto public life ? 
 Men of the world, the terrae-filial breed, 
 Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere, 
 Which glitter'd long, at distance, in his sight. 
 And, in their hospitable arms, inclose : 
 Men, who think nous^ht so stronj^ of the romance, 
 So rank knight-errant, as a real friend : 
 Men, that act up to reason's golden rule. 
 All weakness of affection quite subdued : 
 Men, that would blush at being thought sincere, 
 And feign, for glory, the few faults they want ; 
 That love a lie, where truth would pay as well ; 
 As if, to them, vice shone her own reward. 
 
 Lorenzo ! canst thou bear a shocking sight ? 
 Such, for Florello's sake, 'twill now appear : 
 See, the steel'd files of season' d veterans, 
 Train'd to the world, in burnish'd falsehood bright ; 
 Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace ; 
 All soft sensation, in the throng, rubb'd off; 
 All their keen purpose, in politeness, sheath'd ; 
 
304 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 His friends eternal — during interest ; 
 
 His foes implacable — when worth their while ; 
 
 At war with ev'ry welfare, but their own ; 
 
 As wise as Lucifer, and half as good ; 
 
 And by whom, none, but Lucifer, can gain — 
 
 Naked, through these (so common fate ordains), 
 
 Naked of heart, his cruel course he runs. 
 
 Stung out of all, most amiable in life, 
 
 Prompt truth, and open thought, and smiles unfeigned ; 
 
 Affection, as his species, wide diffused ; 
 
 Noble piesumptions to mankind's renown; 
 
 Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love. 
 
 Those claims to joy (if mortals joy might claim) 
 Will cost him many a sigh ; till time, and pains, 
 From the slow mistress of this school. Experience, 
 And her assistant, pausing, pale. Distrust, 
 Purchase a dear-bought clue to lead his youth. 
 Through serpentine obliquities of life. 
 And the dark labyrinth of human hearts. 
 And happy ! if the clue shall come so cheap ; 
 For, while we learn to fence with pubhc guilt. 
 Full oft we feel its foul contagion too, 
 
NIGHT VIII. 30i 
 
 If less than heav'nly virtue is our guard. 
 Thus, a strange kind of curst necessity- 
 Brings down the sterling temper of his soul, 
 By base alloy, to bear the current stamp. 
 Below call'd wisdom ; sinks him into safety ; 
 And brands him into credit with the world ; 
 Where specious titles dignify disgrace, 
 And nature's injuries are arts of life ; 
 Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes ; 
 And heav'nly talents make infernal hearts ; 
 That unsurmountable extreme of guilt ! 
 
 Poor Machiavel ! who labor'd hard his plan. 
 Forgot, that genius needs not go to school ; 
 Forgot, that man, without a tutor wise. 
 His plan had practis'd, long before 'twas writ. 
 The world 's all title-page, there 's no contents ; 
 The world 's all face ; the man who shows his heart, 
 Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn'd, 
 A man I knew, who hv'd upon a smile ; 
 And well it fed him ; he look'd plump and fair ; 
 While rankest venom foam'd through ev'ry vein. 
 Lorenzo ! what I tell thee, take not ill ! 
 
306 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Living, he fawn'd on ev'ry fool alive ; 
 
 And, dying, curs'd the friend on whom he liv'd. 
 
 To such proficients thou art half a saint. 
 
 In foreign realms (for thou hast travel'd far) 
 
 How curious to contemplate two state rooks, 
 
 Studious their nests to feather in a trice. 
 
 With all the necromantics of their art. 
 
 Playing the game of faces on each other, 
 
 Making court sweet-meats of their latent gall, 
 
 In foolish hope, to steal each other's trust ; 
 
 Both cheating, both exulting, both deceiv'd ; 
 
 And, sometimes, both (let earth rejoice) undone ! 
 
 Their parts we doubt not ; but be that their shame ; 
 
 Shall men of talents, fit to rule mankind. 
 
 Stoop to mean wiles, that would disgrace a fool ? 
 
 And lose the thanks of those few friends they serve ? 
 
 For who can thank the man he cannot see ? 
 
 Why so much cover? It defeats itself. 
 Ye, that know all things ! know ye not, men's hearts 
 Are therefore known, because they are conceal'd ? 
 For why conceal'd? — The cause they need not tell. 
 I give him joy, that 's awkward at a lie ; 
 
NIGHT VIII. 307 
 
 Whose feeble nature truth keeps still in awe ; 
 His incapacity is his renown, 
 "lis great, 'tis manly, to disdain disguise ; 
 It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength. 
 Thou say'st, 'Tis needful : Is it therefore right ? 
 Howe'er, I grant it some small sign of grace, 
 To strain at an excuse : And wouJdst thou then 
 Escape that cruel need ? Thou mayst, with ease ; 
 Think no post needful that demands a knave. 
 When late our civil helm was shifting hands. 
 So P thought : Think better, if you can. 
 
 But this, how rare ! the public path of hfe 
 Is dirty : — Yet, allow that dirt its due, 
 It makes the noble mind more noble still : 
 The world 's no neuter ; it will wound or save ; 
 Our virtue quench, or indignation fire. 
 You say, the world, well known, will make a man : — 
 The world, well known, will give our hearts to heaven, 
 Or make us demons, long before we die. 
 
 To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shmes, 
 Take either part, sure ills attend the choice ; 
 Suj*e, tho' not equal, detriment ensues. 
 
808 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Not virtue-self is deified on earth ; 
 
 Virtue has her relapses, conflicts, foes ; 
 
 Foes, that ne'er fail to make her feel their hate. 
 
 Virtue has her peculiar set of pains ; 
 
 True ; friends to virtue, last, and least, complain ; 
 
 But if they sigh, can others hope to smile ? 
 
 If wisdom has her miseries to mourn. 
 
 How can poor folly lead a happy life ? 
 
 And if both suffer, what has earth to boast. 
 
 Where he most happy who the least laments ? 
 
 Where much, much patience, the most envied state. 
 
 And some forgiveness, needs the best of ffiends ? 
 
 For friend, or happy life, who looks not higher, 
 
 Of neither shall he find the shadow here. 
 
 The world's sworn advocate, without a fee, 
 Lorenzo smartly, with a smile, replies : 
 *' Thus far thy song is right ; and all must own 
 Virtue has her peculiar set of pains — 
 And joys peculiar who to vice denies ? 
 If vice it is, with nature to comply : 
 If pride, and sense, are so predominant. 
 To check, not overcome them, makes a saint, 
 
IGHT VIII. 309 
 
 Can nature in a plainer voice proclaim 
 Pleasure, and glory, the chief good of man ?" 
 
 Can pride, and sensuality, rejoice ? 
 From purity of thought, all pleasure springs ; 
 And, from an humble spirit, all our peace. 
 Ambition, pleasure ! let us talk of these : 
 Of these, the porch, and academy, talk'd ; 
 Of these, each following age had much to say ; 
 Yet unexhausted, still, the needful theme. 
 Who talks of these, to mankind all at once 
 He talks ; for where the saint from either free ? 
 Are these thy refuge ? — No ; these rush upon thee ; 
 Thy vitals seize, and vulture-like, devour : 
 I'll try, if I can pluck thee from thy rock, 
 Prometheus ! from this barren ball of earth ; 
 If reason can unchain thee, thou art free. 
 
 And, first, thy Caucasus, ambition calls ; 
 Mountain of torments ! eminence of woes ! 
 Of courted woes ! and courted through mistake ! 
 'Tis not ambition charms thee ; 'tis a cheat 
 
 Will make thee start, as H at his Moor. 
 
 Dost graps at greatness ? first, know what it is : 
 
310 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Think'st thou thy greatness in distinction Hes ? 
 
 Not in the feather, wave it e'er so high, 
 
 By fortune stuck, to mark us from the throng, 
 
 Is glory lodg'd : 'tis lodg'd in the reverse ; 
 
 In that which joins, in that which equals, all. 
 
 The monarch, and his slave ; — " A deathless soul, 
 
 Unbounded prospect, and immortal kin, 
 
 A father God, and brothers in the skies ;" 
 
 Elder, indeed, in time ; but less remote 
 
 In excellence, perhaps, than thought by man ; 
 
 Why greater what can fall, than what can rise ? 
 
 If still delirious, now, Lorenzo ! go ; 
 And with thy full-blown brothers of the world, 
 Throw scorn around thee ; cast it on thy slaves ; 
 Thy slaves, and equals : how scorn cast on them 
 Rebounds on thee I if man is mean, as man. 
 Art thou a God ? if fortune makes him so. 
 Beware the consequence : a maxim that, 
 Which draws a monstrous picture of mankind, 
 Where, in the drapery, the man is lost ; 
 Externals flutt'ring, and the soul forgot. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 311 
 
 Thy greatest glory when dispos'd to boast, 
 Boast that aloud, in which thy servants share. 
 We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy ; 
 Judge we, in their caparisons, of men ? 
 It nought avails thee, where, but what, thou art ; 
 All the distinctions of this little life 
 Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man. 
 When through death's straits earth's subtile serpents 
 
 creep. 
 Which wrigrprle into wealth, or climb renown. 
 As crooked Satan the forbidden tree, 
 They leave their party-color'd robe behind, 
 All that now glitters, while they rear aloft 
 Their brazen crests, and hiss at us below. 
 Of fortune's fucus strip them, yet alive ; 
 Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still, 
 Away with all, but moral, in their minds ; 
 And let, what then remains, impose their name. 
 Pronounce them weak, or worthy ; great, or mean. 
 How mean that snuff of glory fortune lights. 
 And death puts out ! dost thou demand a test, 
 A test at once, infallible, and short. 
 
312 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Of real greatness ? that man greatly lives, 
 Whate'er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies ; 
 High-flush'd with hope, where heroes shall despair. 
 If this a true criterion, many courts. 
 Illustrious, might afford but few grandees. 
 
 Th' Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveys 
 Nought greater, than an honest, humble heart ; 
 An humble heart, his residence ! pronounc'd 
 His second seat ; and rival to the skies. 
 The private path, the secret acts of men, 
 If noble, far the noblest of our lives ! 
 How far above Lorenzo's glory sits 
 Th' illustrious master of a name unknown; 
 Whose worth unrivall'd, and unwitness'd, loves 
 Life's sacred shades, where gods converse with men ; 
 And peace, beyond the world's conception, smiles ! 
 As thou (now dark), before we part, shalt see. 
 
 But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns. 
 Lorenzo 's sick, but when Lorenzo 's seen ; 
 And, when he shrugs at public business, lies. 
 Denied the public eye, the public voice, 
 As if he liv'd on others' breath, he dies. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 313 
 
 Fain would he make the world his pedestal ; 
 Mankind the gazers, the sole figure, he. 
 Knows he, that mankind praise against their will, 
 And mix as much detraction as they can ? 
 Knows he, that faithless fame her whisper has, 
 As well as trumpet ? that his vanity 
 Is so much tickled from not hearing all ? 
 Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise. 
 Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines, 
 Taking his country by five hundred ears, 
 Senates at once admire him, and despise, 
 With modest laughter lining loud applause, 
 Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame ? 
 His fame, which (like the mighty Caesar), crown'd 
 With laurels, in full senate, greatly falls. 
 By seeming friends, that honor, and destroy. 
 We rise in glory, as we sink in pride 
 Where boasting ends, there dignity begins : 
 And yet, mistaken beyond all mistake. 
 The blind Lorenzo 's proud — of being proud ; 
 And dreams himself ascending in his fall. 
 
 An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain ; 
 
 14 
 
314 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 All vice wants hellebore ; but, of all vice. 
 Pride loudest calls, and for the largest bowl ; 
 Because, all other vice unlike, it flies, 
 In fact, the point, in fancy most pursued. 
 Who court applause, oblige the world in this ; 
 They gratify man's passion to refuse. 
 Superior honor, when assumed, is lost ; 
 Ev'n good men turn banditti, and rejoice, 
 Like Kouli-Kan, in plunder of the proud. 
 
 Tho' somewhat disconcerted, steady still 
 To the world's cause, with half a face of joy, 
 Lorenzo cries — " Be, then, ambition cast ; 
 Ambition's dearer far stands unimpeach'd, 
 Gay pleasure ! proud ambition is her slave ; 
 For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill ; 
 For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes ; 
 And paves his way, with crowns, to reach her smile'; 
 Who can resist her charms ?" — or, should ? Lorenzo ! 
 What mortal shall resist, where angels yield ? 
 Pleasure 's the mistress of ethereal powers ; 
 For her contend the rival gods above ; 
 Pleasure 's the mistress of the world below ; 
 
IS'IGHTVIII. 315 
 
 And well it is for man, that pleasure charms ; 
 
 How would all stagnate, but for pleasure's ray ! 
 
 How would the frozen stream of action cease ! 
 
 What is the pulse of this so busy world ? 
 
 The love of pleasure : that, thro' ev'ry vein, 
 
 Throws motion, warmth ; and shuts out death from life. 
 
 Tho' various are the tempers of mankind, 
 Pleasure's gay family holds all in chains : 
 Some most affect the black ; and some, the fair ; 
 Some honest pleasure court ; and some, obscene. 
 Pleasures obscene are various, as the throng 
 Of passions, that can err in human hearts ; 
 Mistake their objects, or transgress their bounds. 
 Think you there 's but one whoredom ? whoredom, all, 
 But when our reason licenses delight. 
 Dost doubt, Lorenzo ? thou shalt doubt no more. 
 Thy father chides thy gallantries ; yet hugs 
 An ugly, common harlot, in the dark. 
 A rank adulterer with others' gold ; 
 And that hag, vengeance, in a corner, charms. 
 Hatred her brothel has, as well as love, 
 Where horrid epicures debauch in blood. 
 
316 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Whate'er the motive, pleasure is the mark ; 
 
 For her, the black assassin draws his sword ; 
 
 For her, dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp, 
 
 To which no single sacrifice may fall ; 
 
 For her, the saint abstains ; the miser starves ; 
 
 The stoic proud, for pleasure, pleasure scorn'd ; 
 
 For her, affliction's daughters grief indulge, 
 
 And find, or hope, a luxury in tears ; 
 
 For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy ; 
 
 And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death. 
 
 Thus universal her despotic power. 
 
 And as her empire wide, her praise is just. 
 Patron of pleasure ! doater on delight ! 
 I am thy rival ; pleasure I profess ; 
 Pleasure, the purpose of my gloomy song. 
 Pleasure is nought but virtue's gayer name ; 
 I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low ; 
 Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flower ; 
 And honest Epicurus' foes were fools. 
 
 But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence 
 If o'erstrain'd wisdom still retains the name. 
 How knits austerity her cloudy brow. 
 
NIGHT viir. 317 
 
 And blames, as bold, and hazardous, the praise 
 Of pleasure, to mankind, unprais'd, too dear ! 
 Ye modern stoics ! hear my soft reply ; 
 Their senses men will trust ; we can't impose ; 
 Or, if we could, is imposition right ? 
 Own honey sweet ; but, owning, add this sting ; 
 " When mix'd with poison, it is deadly too." 
 Truth never was indebted to a lie. 
 Is nought but virtue, to be prais'd, as good ? 
 "Why then is health preferr'd before disease ? 
 What natui-e loves is good, without our leave. 
 And where no future drawback cries, " beware ;" 
 Pleasure, though not from virtue, should prevail. 
 'Tis balm to life, and gratitude to heaven ; 
 How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy'd ! 
 The love of pleasure is man's eldest born, 
 Born in his cradle, living to his tomb ; 
 Wisdom, her younger sister, tho' more grave. 
 Was meant to minister, and not to mar, 
 Imperial pleasure, queen of human hearts. 
 Lorenzo ! thou, her majesty's renown'd, 
 Tho' uncoift, counsel, learned in the world ! 
 
318 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Who think'st thyself a Murray, with disdain 
 Mayst look on me. Yet, my Demosthenes ! 
 Canst thou plead pleasure's cause as well as I ? 
 Know'st thou her nature, purpose, parentage ? 
 Attend my song, and thou shalt know them all ; 
 And know thyself ; and know thyself to be 
 (Strange truth !) the most abstemious man alive. 
 Tell not Calista ; she will laugh thee dead ; 
 
 Or send thee to her hermitage with L . 
 
 Absurd presumption ! Thou, who never knew'st 
 A serious thought ! shalt thou dare dream of joy ? 
 No man e'er found a happy life by chance, 
 Or yawn'd il into being, with a wish ; 
 Or, with the snout of grov'ling appetite, 
 E'er smelt it out, and grubb'd it from the dirt. 
 An art it is, and must be learnt ; and learnt 
 With unremitting effort, or be lost ; 
 And leave us perfect blockheads in our bliss. • 
 The clouds may drop down titles and estates ; 
 Wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought ; 
 Sought before all ; but (how unlike all else 
 We seek on earth !) 'tis never sought in vain. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 319 
 
 First, pleasure's birth, rise, strength, and grandeur 
 see: 
 Brought forth by wisdom, nurs'd by discipline, 
 By patience taught, by perseverance crown'd. 
 She rears her head majestic ; round her throne • 
 Erected in the bosom of the just. 
 Each virtue, lifted, forms her manly guard. 
 For what are virtues ? (formidable name !) 
 What, but the fountain, or defence, of joy ? 
 Why then commanded ? need mankind commands, 
 At once to merit, and to make, their bliss ? — 
 Great Legislator ! scarce so great, as kind ! 
 If men are rational, and love delight, 
 Thy gracious law but flatters human choice; 
 In the transgression lies the penalty ; 
 And they the most indulge who most obey. 
 
 Of pleasure, next, the final cause explore ; 
 Its mighty purpose, its important end. 
 Not to turn human brutal, but to build 
 Divine on human, pleasure came from heaven. 
 In aid to reason was the goddess sent ; 
 To call up all its strength by such a charm. 
 
320 T H E C O M P L A I N T . 
 
 Pleasure, first, succors virtue ; in return, 
 
 Virtue gives pleasure an eternal reign. 
 
 What, but the pleasure of food, friendship, faith, 
 
 Supports life nat'ral, civil, and divine ? 
 
 'Tis from the pleasure of repast, we live ; 
 
 'Tis from the pleasure of applause, we please ; 
 
 'Tis from the pleasure of belief, we pray 
 
 (All pray'r would cease, if unbeliev'd the prize) : 
 
 It serves ourselves, our species, and our God ; 
 
 And to serve more, is past the sphere of man. 
 
 Glide, then, forever, pleasure's sacred stream ! 
 
 Through Eden as Euphrates ran, it runs. 
 
 And fosters ev'ry growth of happy life ; 
 
 MaKes a new Eden where it flows ; — but such 
 
 As must be lost, Lorenzo! by thy fall. 
 
 "What mean I by thy fall ?"— Thou'lt shortly see, 
 While pleasure's nature is at large display'd ; 
 Already sung her origin, and ends. 
 Those glorious ends, by kind, or by degree. 
 When pleasure violates, 'tis then a vice, 
 And vengeance too ; it hastens into pain. 
 From due refreshment, life, health, reason, joy ; 
 
NIGHT VIII. 321 
 
 From wild excess, pain, grief, distraction, death ; 
 
 Heav'n's justice this proclaims, and that her love. 
 
 What greater evil can I wish my foe. 
 
 Than his full draught of pleasure, from a cask 
 
 Unbroach'd by just Authority, ungaug'd 
 
 By temperance, by reason unrefin'd ? 
 
 A thousand demons lurk within the lee. 
 
 Heav'n, others, and ourselves! uninjur'd these, 
 
 Drink deep, the deeper, then, the more divine ; 
 
 Angels are angels from indulgence there ; 
 
 'Tis unrepenting pleasure makes a god. 
 
 Dost think thyself a god from other joys ? 
 A victim rather ! shortly sure to bleed. 
 The wrong must mourn, can Heav'n's appointment fail ? 
 Can man outwit Omnipotence ? strike out 
 A self-wrought happiness unmeant by him 
 Who made us, and the world we would enjoy ? 
 Who forms an instrument, ordains from whence 
 Its dissonance, or harmony, shall rise. 
 Heav'n bid the soul this mortal frame inspire ; 
 Bid virtue's ray divine inspire the soul 
 With unprecarious flows of vital joy ; 
 
822 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And, without breathing, man as well might hope 
 For life, as, without piety, for peace. 
 
 " Is virtue, then, and piety the same ?" 
 No ; piety is more ; 'tis virtue's source ; 
 Mother of ev'ry worth, as that of joy. 
 Men of the world this doctrine ill digest ; 
 They smile at piety ; yet boast aloud 
 Good will to men ; nor know, they strive to part 
 What nature joins, and thus confute themselves. 
 With piety begins all good on earth ; 
 Tis the first born of rationality. 
 Conscience, her first law broken, wounded hes ; 
 Enfeebled, lifeless, impotent to good ; 
 A feign'd affection bounds her utmost power. 
 Some we can't love, but for th' Almighty's sake ; 
 A foe to God was ne'er true friend to man ; 
 Some sinister intent taints all he does, 
 And, in his kindest actions, he 's unkind. 
 
 On piety, humanity is built ; 
 And, on humanity, much happiness ; 
 And yet still more on piety itself. 
 A soul in commerce with her Go 1, is heav*n ; 
 
NIGHT VIII. 323 
 
 Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life ; 
 
 The whirls of passions, and the strokes of heart. 
 
 A Deity believ'd, is joy begun ; 
 
 A Deity ador'd, is joy ad vane 'd ; 
 
 A Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd. 
 
 Each branch of piety delight inspires ; 
 
 Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next, 
 
 O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides ; 
 
 Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, 
 
 Tliat joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still ; 
 
 Pray'r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a stream 
 
 Of glory on the consecrated hour 
 
 Of man, in audience with the Deity, 
 
 Who worships the great God, that instant joins 
 
 The first in heav'n, and sets his foot on hell. 
 
 Lorenzo ! when wast thou at church before ? 
 Thou think'st the service long : but is it just ? 
 Tho' just, unwelcome ; thou hadst rather tread 
 Unhallow'd ground ; the muse, to win thine ear, 
 Must take an air less solemn : she complies. 
 Good conscience ! at the sound the world retires ? 
 Verse disaffects it, and Lorenzo smiles ; 
 
324 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Yet has she her seraglio full of charms ; 
 
 And such as age shall heighten, not impair. 
 
 Art thou dejected ? Is thy mind o'ercast ? 
 
 Amid her fair ones, thou the fairest choose, 
 
 To chase thy gloom. — " Go, fix some weighty truth ; 
 
 Chain down some passion ; do some gen'rous good ; 
 
 Teach ignorance to see, or grief to smile ; 
 
 Correct thy friend ; befriend thy greatest foe ; 
 
 Or, with warm heart, and confidence divine. 
 
 Spring up, and lay strong hold on Him who made 
 
 thee."— 
 Thy gloom is scatter'd, sprightly spirits flow ; 
 Tho' wither'd is thy vine, and harp unstrung. 
 Dost call the bowl, the viol, and the dance, 
 Loud mirth, mad laughter ? wretched comforters ! 
 Physicians ! more than half of thy disease. 
 Laughter, tho' never censur'd yet as sin 
 (Pardon a thought that only seems severe), 
 Is half immoral : is it much indulged ? 
 By venting spleen, or dissipating thought. 
 It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool ; 
 And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 325 
 
 'Tis pride or emptiness, applies the straw, 
 
 That tickles little minds to mirth effuse ; 
 
 Of grief as impotent, portentous sign ! 
 
 The house of laughter makes a house of woe. 
 
 A man triumphant is a monstrous sight ; 
 
 A man dejected is a sight as mean. 
 
 What cause for triumph, where such ills abound ? 
 
 What for dejection, where presides a power, 
 
 Who call'd us into being to be blest ? 
 
 So grieve, as conscious grief may rise to joy ; 
 
 So joy, as conscious joy to grief may fall. 
 
 Most true, a wise man never will be sad ; 
 
 But neither will sonorous, bubbling mirth, 
 
 A shallow stream of happiness betray : 
 
 Too happy to be sportive, he 's serene. 
 
 Yet, wouldst thou laugh (but at thy own expense), 
 This counsel strange should I presume to give — 
 " Retire and read thy Bible, to be gay." 
 There truths abound of sov'reign aid to peace ; 
 Ah ! do not prize them less, because inspired. 
 As thou, and thine, art apt and proud to do. 
 If not inspir'd, that pregnant page had stood, 
 
326 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Time's treasure ! and the wonder of the wise ! 
 Thou think'st, perhaps, thy soul alone at stake ; 
 Alas ! — should men mistake thee for a fool ; — 
 What man of taste for genius, wisdom, truth, 
 Tho' tender of thy fame, could interpose ? 
 Believe me, sense here acts a double part, 
 And the true critic is a Christian too. 
 
 But these, thou think'st, are gloomy paths to joy. 
 True joy in sunshine ne'er was found at first ; 
 They, first, themselves offend, who greatly please ; 
 And travel only gives us sound repose. 
 Heav'n sells all pleasure ; effort is the price ; 
 The joys of conquest are the joys of man ; 
 And glory the victorious laurel spreads 
 O'er pleasure's pure, perpetual, placid stream. 
 
 There is a time when toil must be preferr'd, 
 Or joy, by mistimed fondness, is undone. 
 A man of pleasure is a man of pains. 
 Thou wilt not take the trouble to be blest. 
 False joys, indeed, are born from want of thought ; 
 From thought's full bent, and energy, the true ; 
 And that demands a mind in equal poise. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 327 
 
 Remote from gloomy grief and glaring joy. 
 
 Much joy not only speaks small happiness, 
 
 But happiness, that shortly must expire. 
 
 Can joy, unbottom'd in reflection, stand ? 
 
 And, in a tempest, can reflection live ? 
 
 Can joy, like thine, secure itself an hour ? 
 
 Can joy, like thine, meet accident unshocked ? 
 
 Or ope the door to honest poverty ? 
 
 Or talk with threat'ning death, and not turn pale ? 
 
 In such a world, and such a nature, these 
 
 Are needful fundamentals of delight : 
 
 These fundamentals, give delight indeed ; 
 
 Delight, pure, delicate, and durable ; 
 
 Delisfht, unshaken, masculine, divine : 
 
 A constant, and a sound, but serious joy. 
 
 Is joy the daughter of severity? 
 It is : — Yet far my doctrine from severe. 
 *' Rejoice forever :" It becomes a man ; 
 Exalts, and sets him nearer to the gods. 
 "Rejoice forever," nature cries, "Rejoice;" 
 And drinks to man, in her nectareous cup, 
 Mix'd up of dehcates for ev'ry sense ; 
 
328 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 To the great Founder of the bounteous feast. 
 
 Drinks glory, gratitude, eternal praise ; 
 
 And he that will not pledge her, is a churl. 
 
 Ill firmly to support, good fully taste, 
 
 Is the whole science of felicity : 
 
 Yet sparing pledge : her bowl is not the best 
 
 Mankind can boast. — " A rational repast ; 
 
 Exertion, vigilance, a mind in arms, 
 
 A military discipline of thought, 
 
 To foil temptation in the doubtful field ; 
 
 And ever- waking ardor for the right." 
 
 'Tis these, first give, then guard, a cheerful heart. 
 
 Nought that is right, think little ; well aware. 
 
 What reason bids, God bids ; by his command 
 
 How aggrandiz'd the smallest thing we do ! 
 
 Thus, nothing is insipid to the wise ; 
 
 To thee, insipid all, but what is mad ; 
 
 Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt. 
 
 " Mad ! (thou reply'st, with indignation fir'd) 
 
 Of ancient sages proud to tread the steps, 
 
 I follow nature." — Follow nature still. 
 
 But look it be thine own : Is conscience, then. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 329 
 
 No part of nature ? Is she not supreme ? 
 Thou regicide ! raise her from the dead ! 
 Then, follow nature ; and resemble God. 
 
 When, spite of conscience, pleasure is pursued 
 Man's nature is unnaturally pleas'd : 
 And what 's unnatural, is painful too 
 At intervals, and must disgust ev'n thee ! 
 The fact thou know'st ; but not, perhaps, the cause. 
 Virtue's foundations with the world's were laid ; 
 Heav'n mix'd her with our make, and twisted close 
 Her sacred int'rests with the strings of life. 
 Who breaks her awful mandate, shocks himself, 
 His better self: And is it greater pain. 
 Our soul should murmur, or our dust repine? 
 And one, in their eternal war, must bleed. 
 
 If one must suffer, which should least be spar'd ? 
 The pains of mind surpass the pains of sense : 
 Ask, then, the gout, what torment is in guilt. 
 The joys of sense to mental joys are mean : 
 Sense on the present only feeds ; the soul 
 On past, and future, forages for joy. 
 'Tis hers, by retrospect, thro' time to range ; 
 
330 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 And forward time's great sequel to survey. 
 Could human courts take vena^eance on the mind. 
 Axes might rust, and racks, and gibbets, fall : 
 Guard, then, thy mind, and leave the rest to fate. 
 
 Lorenzo ! wilt thou never be a man ? 
 The man is dead, who for the body lives, 
 Lur'd, by the beating of his pulse, to list 
 With ev'ry lust, that wars against his peace ; 
 And sets him quite at variance with himself. 
 Thyself, first, know ; then love : A self there is 
 Of virtue fond, that kindles at her charms. 
 A self there is, as fond of ev'ry vice, 
 While ev'ry virtue wounds it to the heart ; 
 Humility degrades it, justice robs. 
 Blest bounty beggars it, fair truth betrays, 
 And godlike magnanimity destroys. 
 This self, when rival to the former, scorn ; 
 When not in competition, kindly treat, 
 Defend it, feed it : — But when virtue bids. 
 Toss it, or to the fowls, or to the flames. 
 And why ? 'Tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed ; 
 Comply, or own self-love extinct, or blind. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 331 
 
 For what is vice ? Self-love in a mistake ; 
 A poor blind merchant buying joys too dear. 
 And virtue, what ? 'Tis self-love in her wits, 
 Quite skilful in the market of delight. 
 Self-love's good sense is love of that dread Power, 
 From whom herself, and all she can enjoy. 
 Other self-love is but disguis'd self-hate ; 
 More mortal than the malice of our foes ; 
 A self-hate, now, scarce felt ; then felt full sore, 
 When being, curs'd ; extinction, loud implor'd ; 
 And ev'rything preferr'd to what we are. 
 
 Yet this self-love Lorenzo makes his choice 
 And, in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy. 
 How is his want of happiness betray 'd. 
 By disaffection to the present hour ! 
 Imagination wanders far afield : 
 The future pleases : Why ? The present pains. — 
 " But that 's a secret." — Yes, which all men know; 
 And know from thee, discover'd unawares. 
 Thy ceaseless agitation, restless roll 
 From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause ; 
 What is it ? — 'Tis the cradle of the soul. 
 
332 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 From instinct sent, to rock her in disease. 
 Which her physician, reason, will not cure. 
 A poor expedient ! yet thy best ; and while 
 It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too. 
 
 Such are Lorenzo's wretched remedies ! 
 The weak have remedies ; the wise have joys. 
 Superior wisdom is superior bliss. 
 And what sure mark distinguishes the wise ? 
 Consistent wisdom ever wills the same ; 
 Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing. 
 Sick of herself, is folly's character ; 
 As wisdom's is a modest self-applause. 
 A change of evils is thy good supreme ; 
 Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest. 
 Man's greatest strength is shown in standing still. 
 The first sure symptom of a mind in health. 
 Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home. 
 False pleasure from abroad her joys imports ; 
 Rich from within, and self-sustain'd, the true. 
 The true is fix'd, and solid as a rock; 
 Slipp'ry the false, and tossing, as the wave. 
 This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain ; 
 
NIGHT VIII. 333 
 
 That, like the fabled, self-enamor'd boy. 
 Home-contemplation her supreme delight ; 
 She dreads an interruption from without, 
 Smit with her o^yn condition ; and the more 
 Intense she gazes, still it charms the more. 
 
 No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth 
 There breathes not a more happy than himself : 
 Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on all ; 
 And love o'erflowing makes an angel here. 
 Such angels all, entitled to repose 
 On Him who governs fate : Tho' tempest frowns, 
 Tho' nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven ! 
 To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean ! 
 "With inward eyes, and silent as the grave. 
 They stand collecting ev'ry beam of thought. 
 Till their hearts kindle with divine delight ; 
 For all their thoua^hts, like angels, seen of old 
 In Israel's dream, come from, and go to heaven : 
 Hence, are they studious of sequester'd scenes ; 
 While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee. 
 
 Were all men happy, revellings would cease, 
 That opiate for inquietude within. 
 
334 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Lorenzo ! never man was truly blest, 
 
 But it compos'd, and gave him such a cast. 
 
 As folly might mistake for want of joy. 
 
 A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud ; 
 
 A modest aspect, and a smile at heart. 
 
 for a joy from thy Philander's spring ! 
 
 A spring perennial, rising in the breast, 
 
 And permanent, as pure ! no turbid stream 
 
 Of rapt'rous exaltation swelling high ; 
 
 Which, like land-floods, impetuous pour awhile, 
 
 Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire. 
 
 What does the man, Avho transient joy prefers ? 
 
 What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream ? 
 
 Vain are all sudden sallies of delight ; 
 Convulsions of a weak distemper'd joy. 
 Joy 's a fix'd state ; a tenor, not a start. 
 Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss : 
 That is the gem : sell all, and purchase that. 
 Why go a begging to contingencies, 
 Not gain'd with ease, nor safely lov'd, if gain'd ? 
 At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause ; 
 Suspect it ; what thou canst ensure, enjoy ; 
 
NIGHT VIII. 335 
 
 And nought but what thou giv'st thyself, is sure. 
 Reason perpetuates joy that reason gives. 
 And makes it as immortal as herself: 
 To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth. 
 
 Worth, conscious worth ! should absolutely reign ; 
 And other joys ask leave for their approach ; 
 Nor, unexamin'd, ever leave obtain. 
 Thou art all anarchy ; a mob of joys 
 Wage war, and perish in intestine broils ; 
 Not the least promise of internal peace ! 
 No bosom-comfort ! or unborrow'd bliss ! 
 Thy thoughts are vagabonds ; all outward-bound, 
 Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure ; 
 If gain'd, dear-bought ; and better miss'd than gain'd. 
 Much pain must expiate, what much pain procured. 
 Fancy, and sense, from an infected shore, 
 Thy cargo bring ; and pestilence the prize, 
 Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst ! 
 By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more !) 
 Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tir'd. 
 
 Imagination is the Paphian shop, 
 Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame, 
 
S'S(S THE COMPLAINT 
 
 Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess, 
 
 And hot as hell (which kindled the black tires). 
 
 With wanton art, those fatal arrows form. 
 
 Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame. 
 
 Wouldst thou receive them, other thoughts there are. 
 
 On angel-wing, descending from above. 
 
 Which these, with art divine, would counterwork. 
 
 And form celestial armor for thy peace. 
 
 In this is seen imagination's guilt ; 
 But who can count her follies ? She betrays thee, 
 To think in grandeur there is something great. 
 For works of curious art, and ancient fame, 
 Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain'd ; 
 And foreign climes must cater for thy taste. 
 Hence, what disaster ! — Tho' the price was paid, 
 That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome, 
 Whose foot (ye gods !) tho' cloven, must be kiss'd, 
 Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian shore ; 
 (Such is the fate of honest Protestants !) 
 And poor magnificence is starv'd to death. 
 Hence just resentment, indignation, ire ! — 
 Be pacified ; if outward things are great, 
 
NIGHT VIII. 887 
 
 'T is magnanimity great things to scorn ; 
 Pompous expenses, and parades august, 
 And courts ; that insalubrious soil to peace. 
 True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye ; 
 True happiness resides in things unseen. 
 No smiles of fortune ever bless'd the bad, 
 Nor can her frowns rob innocence of joys ; 
 That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor : 
 So tell his holiness, and be reveng'd. 
 
 Pleasure, we both agree, is man's chief good ; 
 Our only contest, what deserves the name. 
 Give pleasure's name to nought, but what has pass'd 
 Th' authentic seal of reason (which, like Yorke, 
 Demurs on what it passes), and defies 
 The tooth of time ; when past, a pleasure still ; 
 Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age. 
 And doubly to be priz'd, as it promotes 
 Our future, while it forms our present, joy. 
 Some joys the future overcast ; and some 
 Throw all their beams that way, and gild the tomb. 
 Some Joys endear eternity ; some give 
 Abhorr'd annihilation dreadful charms. 
 
 15 
 
338 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Are rival joys contending for thy choice ? 
 Consult thy whole existence, and be safe ; 
 That oracle will put all doubt to flight. 
 Short is the lesson, tho' my lecture long, 
 Be good — and let heav'n answer for the rest. 
 
 Yet, with a sigh o'er all mankind, I grant, 
 In this our day of proof, our land of hope, 
 The good man has his clouds that intervene ; 
 Clouds, that obscure his sublunary day, 
 But never conquer : ev'n the best must own. 
 Patience, and resignation, are the pillars 
 Of human peace on earth. The pillars, these ; 
 But those of Seth not more remote from thee. 
 Till this heroic lesson thou hast learn'd ; 
 To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain. 
 Fir'd at the prospect of unclouded bliss, 
 Heav'n in i-eversion, like the sun, as yet 
 Beneath th' horizon, cheers us in this world ; 
 It sheds, on souls susceptible of light. 
 The glorious dawn of our eternal day. 
 
 " This (says Lorenzo) is a fair harangue : 
 But can harangues blow back strong nature's stream 
 
NIGHT VIII. 339 
 
 Or stem the tide Heav'n pushes thro' our veins, 
 Which sweeps away man's impotent resolves,- 
 And lays his labor level with the world ?" 
 
 Themselves men make their comment on mankind • 
 And think nought is, but what they find at home : 
 Thus, weakness to chimera turns the truth. 
 Nothing romantic has the muse prescrib'd. 
 Above,* Lorenzo saw the man of earth, 
 The mortal man ; and wretched was the sight. 
 To balance that, to comfort, and exalt, 
 'Now see the man immortal : him, I mean. 
 Who lives as such ; whose heart, full-bent on Heaven, 
 Leans all that way; his bias to the stars. 
 The w^orld's dark shades, in contrast set, shall raise 
 His lustre more ; tho' bright, without a foil : 
 Observe his awful portrait, and admire ; 
 ISTor stop at wonder ; imitate, and live. 
 
 Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw, 
 What nothing less than angel can exceed, 
 A man on earth devoted to the skies, 
 Like ships in seas, while in, above, the world. 
 * In a former Night. 
 
340 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 With aspect mild, and elevated eye, 
 Behold him seated on a mount serene, 
 Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm ; 
 All the black cares, and tumults, of this life, 
 Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, 
 Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 
 Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave, 
 A mingled mob ! a wand'ring herd ! he sees 
 Bewilder'd in the vale * in all unlike ! 
 His full reverse in all ! What higher praise ? 
 What stronger demonstration of the right ? 
 
 The present all their care ; the future, his. 
 When public welfare calls, or private want, 
 They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals. 
 Their virtues varnish nature ; his, exalt. 
 Mankind's esteem they court ; and he, his own. 
 Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities ; 
 His, the compos'd possession of the true. 
 Alike throughout is his consistent peace. 
 All of one color, and an even thread ; 
 While party- color'd shreds of happiness, 
 With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
 
NIGHT VIII. 841 
 
 A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blows 
 The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 
 
 He sees with other eyes than theirs : Where they 
 Behold a sun, he spies a Deity ; 
 What makes them only smile, makes him adore. 
 Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; 
 An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain. 
 They things terrestrial worship, as divine ; 
 His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust 
 That dims his sight, and shortens his survey, 
 Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. 
 Titles and honors (if they prove his fnte) 
 He lays aside to find his di^•nity ; 
 No dignity they find in aught besides. 
 They triumph in externals (which conceal 
 Man's real glory), proud of an eclipse. 
 Himself too much he prizes to be proud. 
 And nothing thinks so great in man, as man. 
 Too dear he holds his int'rest, to neglect 
 Another's welfare, or his right invade ; 
 Their int'rest, like a lion, lives on prey. 
 They kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; 
 
342 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven. 
 Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe ; 
 Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace. 
 A cover'd heart their character defends ; 
 A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. 
 With nakedness his innocence agrees ; 
 While their broad foliage testifies their fall. 
 Their no-joys end, where his full feast begins ; 
 His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. 
 To triumph in existence, his alone ; 
 And his alone, triumphantly to think 
 His true existence is not yet begun. 
 His glorious course was, yesterday, complete ; 
 Death, then, was welcome ; yet hfe still is sweet. 
 But nothing charms Lorenzo, like the firm, 
 
 Undaunted breast And whose is that liigh praise? 
 
 They yield to pleasure, tho' they danger brave. 
 And show no fortitude, but in the field ; 
 If there they show it, 'tis for glory shown ; 
 Nor will that cordial always man their hearts. 
 A cordial his sustains, that cannot fail ; 
 By pleasure unsubdu'd, unbroke by pain, 
 
NIGHT VIII. 343 
 
 He shares in that Omnipotence he trusts. 
 
 All-bearing, All-attempting, till he falls ; 
 
 And when he falls, writes vici on his shield. 
 
 From magnanimity, all fear above ; 
 
 From nobler recompense, above applause ; 
 
 Which owes to man's short out-look all its charms. 
 
 Backward to credit what he never felt, 
 Lorenzo cries, — "Where shines this miracle ? 
 From what root rises this immortal man ?" 
 A root that grows not in Lorenzo's ground ; 
 The root dissect, nor wonder at the flower. 
 
 He follows nature (not like thee*) ; and shows us 
 An uninverted system of a man. 
 His appetite wears reason's golden chain. 
 And finds, in due restraint, its luxury. 
 His passion, like an eagle well reclaim'd. 
 Is taught to fly at nought, but infinite. 
 Patient his hope, unanxious is his care, 
 His caution fearless, and his grief (if grief 
 The gods ordain) a stranger to despair. 
 And why ? — Because afi"ection, more than meet, 
 * See Page 328, Line 21. 
 
344 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 His wisdom leaves not disengag'd from heaven. 
 
 Those secondary goods that smile on earth, 
 
 He, loving, in proportion, loves in peace. 
 
 They most the world enjoy, who least admire. 
 
 His understanding 'scapes the common cloud 
 
 Of fumes, arising from a boiling breast. 
 
 His head is clear, because his heart is cool. 
 
 By worldly competitions uninflam'd. 
 
 The mod'rate movements of his soul admit 
 
 Distinct ideas, and matur'd debate. 
 
 An eye impartial, and an even scale ; 
 
 Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice. 
 
 Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise ; 
 
 On its own dunghill, wiser than the world. 
 
 What, then, the world ? It must be doubly weak ; 
 
 Strange truth ! as soon would they believe the creed. 
 
 Yet thus it is ; nor otherwise can be ; 
 So far from aught romantic, what I sing. 
 Bliss has no beinff, virtue has no strenq-th. 
 But from the prospect of immortal life. 
 Who think earth all, or (what weighs just the same) 
 Who care no farther, must prize what it yields ; 
 
NIGHT VIII. 345 
 
 Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades. 
 
 Who thinks earth nothing, can't its charms admire ; 
 
 He can't a foe, tho' most mahgnant, hate, 
 
 Because that hate would prove his greater foe. 
 
 'Tis hard for them (yet who so loudly boast 
 
 Good will to men ?) to love their dearest friend ; 
 
 For may he not invade their good supreme. 
 
 Where the least jealousy turns love to gall ? 
 
 All shines to them, that for a season shines. 
 
 Each act, each thought, he questions, " What its weight, 
 
 Its color what, a thousand ages hence ?" — 
 
 And what it there appears, he deems it now. 
 
 Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul. 
 
 The god-like man has nothing to conceal. 
 
 His virtue, constitutionally deep, 
 
 Has habit's firmness, and affection's flame ; 
 
 Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire ; 
 
 And death, which others slays, makes him a god. 
 
 And now, Lorenzo ! bigot of this world ' 
 Wont to disdain poor bigots caught by heaven ! 
 Stand by thy scorn, and be reduc'd to nought : 
 For what art thou ? — Thou boaster ! While thy glare, 
 
 15* 
 
346 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Thy gaudy grandeur, and mere worldly worth, 
 Like a broad mist, at distance strikes us most ; 
 And, like a mist, is nothing when at hand ; 
 His merit, like a mountain, on approach, 
 Swells more, and rises nearer to the skies. 
 By promise, now, and, by possession, soon, 
 (Too soon, too much, it cannot be) his own. 
 
 From this thy just annihilation rise, 
 Lorenzo ! rise to something, by reply. 
 The world, thy client, listens, and expects ; 
 And longs to crown thee with immortal praise. 
 Canst thou be silent ? No ; for wit is thine ; 
 And wit talks most, when least she has to say, 
 And reason interrupts not her career. 
 She'll say — That mists above the mountains rise ; 
 And, with a thousand pleasantries, amuse • 
 She'll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a dust. 
 And fly conviction, in the dust she rais'd. 
 
 Wit, hoAV delicious to man's dainty taste ! — 
 'Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense ; 
 But, as its substitute, a dire disease. 
 Pernicious talent ! flatter'd by the world, 
 
NIGHT VITI. 347 
 
 By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare. 
 Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo ! Wit abounds ; 
 Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires 
 The lucky flash ; and madness rarely fails. 
 Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs. 
 Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown. 
 For thy renown, 'twere well, was this the worst ; 
 Chance often hits it ; and, to pique thee more, 
 See dulness, blund'ring on vivacities, 
 Shakes her sage head at the calamity. 
 Which has expos'd, and let her down to thee. 
 But wisdom, awful wisdom ! which inspects, 
 Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers. 
 Seizes the right, and holds it to the last ; 
 How rare ! in senates, synods, sought in vain ; 
 Or if there found, 'tis sacred to the few ; 
 While a lewd prostitute to multitudes. 
 Frequent, as fatal, wit : in civil hfe, 
 Wit makes an enterprizer ; sense, a man. 
 Wit hates authority ; commotion loves, 
 And thinks herself the lio;htnino^ of the storm. 
 In states 'tis dano-erous ; in reliction, death : 
 
348 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Shall wit turn Christian, when the dull believe ? 
 
 Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume ; 
 
 The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. 
 
 Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound ; 
 
 When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam ; 
 
 Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still. 
 
 Wit, widow'd of good sense, is worse than nought ; 
 
 It hoists more sail to run against a rock. 
 
 Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool ; 
 
 Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit. 
 
 How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun. 
 Where sirens sit to sing thee to thy fate ! 
 A joy, in which our reason bears no part. 
 Is but a sorrow tickhng, ere it stings. 
 Let not the cooings of the world allure thee ; 
 Which of her lovers ever found her true ? 
 Happy ! of this bad world who little know ; — 
 And yet, we much must know her, to be safe. 
 To know the world, not love her, is thy point ; 
 She gives but little, nor that little long. 
 There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse ; 
 A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy, 
 
NIGHT VIII. 349 
 
 Our thouo^htless ao;itation's idle child, 
 
 That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires, 
 
 Leaving the soul more vapid than before. 
 
 An animal ovation ! such as holds 
 
 No commerce with our reason, but subsists 
 
 On juices, thro' the well-ton'd tubes, well strahi*d 
 
 A nice machine ! scarce ever tun'd aright ; 
 
 And when it jars — thy sirens sing no more. 
 
 Thy dance is done ; the demi-god is thrown 
 
 (Short apotheosis !) beneath the man. 
 
 In coward gloom immers'd, or fell despair. 
 
 Art thou yet dull enough despair to dread, 
 And startle at destruction ? If thou art. 
 Accept a buckler, take it to the field ; 
 (A field of battle is this mortal life !) 
 When danger threatens, lay it on thy heart ; 
 A single sentence proof against the world. 
 " Soul, body, fortune ! ev'ry good pertains 
 To one of these ; but prize not all alike ; 
 The goods of fortune to thy body's health. 
 Body to soul, and soul submit to God.*' 
 
850 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Wouldst thou build lasting happiness ? Do this ; 
 Th' inverted pyramid can never stand. 
 
 Is this truth doubtful ? It outshines the sun ; 
 Nay, the sun shines not, but to show us this. 
 The single lesson of mankind on earth. 
 And yet — yet, what ? No news ! mankind is mad ; 
 Such mighty numbers list against the right, 
 (And what can't numbers, when bewitch'd, achieve ?) 
 They talk theniselves to something like belief. 
 That all earth's joys are theirs : as Athens' fool 
 Grinn'd from the port, on ev'ry sail his own. 
 
 They grin ; but wherefore ? And how long the 
 laugh ? 
 Half ignorance, their mirth ; and half, a lie ; 
 To cheat the world, and cheat themselves they smile. 
 Hard either task ! The most abandon'd own, 
 That others, if abandon'd, are undone : 
 Then, for themselves, the moment reason wakes, 
 (And providence denies it long repose) 
 how laborious is their gayety ! 
 They scarce can swallow their ebullient spleen, 
 Scarce muster patience to support the farce. 
 
NIGHT VIII. 351 
 
 And pump sad laughter, till the curtain falls. 
 Scarce, did I say ? Some cannot sit it out ; 
 Oft their own daring hands the curtain draw. 
 And show us what their joy by their despair. 
 
 The clotted hair ! gor'd breast ! blaspheming eye ! 
 Its impious fury still alive in death ! — 
 Shut, shut the shocking scene. — But heav'n denies 
 A cover to such guilt ; and so should man. 
 Look round, Lorenzo ! see the reeking blade ; 
 The envenom'd phial, and the fatal ball ; 
 The strangling cord, and suffocating stream ; 
 The loathsome rottenness, and foul decays 
 From raging riot (slower suicides) ; 
 And pride in these, more execrable still ! — 
 How horrid all to thought ! — But horrors, these, 
 That vouch the truth ; and aid my feeble song. 
 
 From vice, sense, fancy, no man can be blest : 
 Bliss is too great, to lodge within an hour : 
 When an immortal being aims at bliss, 
 Duration is essential to the name. 
 for a joy from reason ! joy from that, 
 Which makes man, man ; and exercis'd aright, 
 
352 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 Will make him more : a bounteous joy ! that gives. 
 
 And promises ; that weaves, with art divine, 
 
 The richest prospect into present peace ; 
 
 A joy ambitious ! joy in common held 
 
 With thrones ethereal, and their greater far : 
 
 A joy high-privileg'd from chance, time, death ! 
 
 A joy, which death shall double ! judgment, crown ! 
 
 Crown'd higher, and still higher, at each stage, 
 
 Thro' blest eternity's long day ; yet still. 
 
 Not more remote from sorrow, than from him, 
 
 Whose lavish hand, whose love stupendous, pours, 
 
 So much of Deity on guilty dust. 
 
 There, my Lucia ! may I meet thee there. 
 
 Where not thy presence can improve my bliss ! 
 
 Affects not this the sages of the world ? 
 Can nought affect them, but what fools them too ? 
 Eternity, depending on an hour. 
 Makes serious thought man's wisdom, joy, and praise. 
 Nor need you blush (tho' sometimes your designs 
 May shun the light) at your designs on heaven ; 
 Sole point ! where over- bashful is your blame. 
 Are you not wise ? — You know you are : yet hear 
 
NIGHT VIII. 353 
 
 One truth, amid your num'rous schemes, mislaid, 
 
 Or overlook'd, or thrown aside, if seen ; 
 
 *' Our schemes to plan by this world, or the next. 
 
 Is the sole diflf'rence between wise, and fool." 
 
 All worthy men will weigh you in this scale ; 
 
 What wonder, then, if they pronounce you light ? 
 
 Is their esteem alone not worth your care ? 
 
 Accept my simple scheme of common sense ; 
 
 Thus, save your fame, and make two worlds your own. 
 
 The world replies not ; — but the world persists ; 
 And puts the cause off to the longest day. 
 Planning evasions for the day of doom. 
 So far, at that re-hearing, from redress. 
 They then turn witnesses against themselves. 
 Hear that, Lorenzo ! nor be wise to-morrow. 
 Haste, haste, a man by nature, is in haste ; 
 For who shall answer for another hour ? 
 'Tis highly prudent to make one sure Friend ; 
 And that thou canst not do, this side the skies. 
 
 Ye sons of earth ! (nor willing to be more !) 
 Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat free, 
 Thus, in an age so gay, the muse plain truths 
 
354 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 (Truths, which, at church, you might have heard in 
 
 prose) 
 Has ventur'd into hght ; well-pleased the verse 
 Should be forgot, if you the truths retain ; 
 And crown her with your welfare, not your praise. 
 But praise she need not fear : I see my fate ; 
 And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf. 
 Since many an ample volume, mighty tome. 
 Must die ; and die unwept ; thou minute. 
 Devoted Page ; go forth among thy foes ; 
 Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth. 
 And die a double death : mankind, incens'd. 
 Denies thee long to live : nor shalt thou rest. 
 When thou art dead ; in Stygian shades arraign'd 
 By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne ; 
 And bold blasphemer of his friend, — The World ; 
 The World, whose legions cost him slender pay. 
 And volunteers, around his banner swarm • 
 Prudent, as Prussia, in her zeal for Gaul. 
 
 " Are all, then, fools ?" Lorenzo cries — Yes, all. 
 But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee) ; 
 " The mother of true wisdom is the will ;" 
 
NIGHT VIII, 355 
 
 The noblest intellect, a fool without it. 
 
 World-wisdom much has done, and more may do, 
 
 In arts and sciences, in wars, and peace ; 
 
 But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee, 
 
 And make thee twice a beggar at thy death. 
 
 This is the most indulgence can afford ; — 
 
 " Thy wisdom all can do, but — make thee wise.'* 
 
 Nor think this censure is severe on thee ; 
 
 Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce. 
 
NIGHT IX. 
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 
 Fatis Contraria Fata rependens. — Vina. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, 
 
 ONE OF HIS majesty's PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE. 
 
 A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS A 
 
 NIGHT ADDRESS TO THE DIETY. 
 
 As when a traveller, a long day past 
 
 In painful search of what he cannot find, 
 
 At night's approach, content with the next cot. 
 
 There ruminates, awhile, his labor lost ; 
 
 Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords. 
 
 And chants his sonnet to deceive the time, 
 
 Till the due season calls him to repose : 
 
 Thus I, long-travell'd in the ways of men, 
 
 And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze. 
 
NIGHT IX. 357 
 
 Where disappointment smiles at hope's career ; 
 
 Warn'd by the languor of life's ev'ning ray, 
 
 At length, have hous'd me in an humble shed ; 
 
 Where, future wand'ring banish'd from my thought, 
 
 And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest ; 
 
 I chase the moments with a serious song. 
 
 Song soothes our pains ; and age has pains to soothe. 
 
 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 ; 
 Canst thou, nio-ht ! induloje one labor more ? 
 One labor more indulge : then sleep, my strain ! 
 Till, haply, wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre. 
 Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow, cease ; 
 To bear a part in everlasting lays ; 
 Tho' far, far higher set, in aim, I trust, 
 Symphonious to this humble prelude here. 
 
 Has not the muse asserted pleasures pure, 
 Like those above ; exploding other joys ? 
 Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo ! Fairly weigh ; 
 And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still ? 
 I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold. 
 
358 THE CONSOLATION 
 
 But if, beneath the favor of mistake, 
 
 Thy smile 's sincere ; not more sincere can be 
 
 Lorenzo's smile, than my compassion for him. 
 
 The sick in body call for aid ; the sick 
 
 In mind are covetous of more disease ; 
 
 And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well. 
 
 To know ourselves diseas'd, is half our cure. 
 
 When nature's blush by custom is wip'd off. 
 
 And conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, 
 
 Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes ; 
 
 The curse of curses is, our curse to love ; 
 
 To triumph in the blackness of our guilt, 
 
 (As Indians glory in the deepest jet) ; 
 
 And throw aside our senses, with our peace. 
 
 But, grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy ; 
 Grant joy and glory, quite unsuUied, shone ; 
 Yet, still, it ill deserves Lorenzo's heart. 
 No joy, no glory, glitters in thy sight. 
 But, thro' the thin partition of an hour, 
 I see its sables wove by destiny. 
 And that in sorrow buried ; this, in shame ; 
 While howling furies ring the doleful knell ; 
 
GHT IX. 359 
 
 And conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst hear 
 Her whisper, echoes their eternal peal. 
 
 Where, the prime actors of the last year's scene ; 
 Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume ? 
 How m-any sleep, who kept the world awake 
 With lustre, and with noise ! Has death proclaim'd 
 A truce, and hung his sated lance on high ? 
 'Tis brandish 'd still ; nor shall the present year 
 Be more tenacious of her human leaf, 
 Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall. 
 
 But needless monuments to wake the thought ; 
 Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality ; 
 Tho' in a style more florid, full as plain, 
 As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs. 
 What are our noblest ornaments, but deaths 
 Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint, or marble. 
 The well-stain'd canvas, or the featur'd stone ? 
 Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene ; 
 Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead. 
 
 " Profess'd diversions ! cannot these escape ?" — 
 Far from it : these present us with a shroud ; 
 And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave. 
 
360 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 As some bold plunderers, for buried wealth, 
 We ransack tombs for pastime ; from the dust 
 Call up the sleeping hero ; bid him tread 
 The scene for our amusement : how like gods 
 We sit ; and, wrapt in immortality, 
 Shed gen'rous tears on wretches born to die ; 
 Their fate deploring, to forget our own ! 
 
 What, all the pomps, and triumphs of our lives, 
 But legacies in blossom ? Our lean soil, 
 Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities. 
 From friends interr'd beneath ; a rich manure ! 
 Like other worms, we banquet on the dead ; 
 Like other worms, shall we crawl on, nor know 
 Our present frailties, or approaching fate ? 
 
 Lorenzo ! sucli the glories of the world ! 
 What is the world itself? thy world? — A grave. 
 Where is the dust that has not been alive ? 
 The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors ; 
 From human mould we reap our daily bread. 
 The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, 
 And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. 
 O'er devastation we blind revels keep ; 
 
NIGHT IX. 361 
 
 Whole buried towns support the dancer's heel. 
 The moist of human frame the sun exhales ; 
 Winds scatter, thro' the mighty void, the dry ; 
 Earth repossesses part of what she gave. 
 And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire ; 
 Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils ; 
 As nature, wide, our ruins spread ; man's death 
 Inhabits all things, but the thought of man. 
 
 Nor man alone ; his breathing bust expires. 
 His tomb is mortal ; empires die : where, now, 
 The Roman ? Greek ? They stalk, an empty name ! 
 Yet few regard them in this useful light ; 
 Tho' half our learning is their epitaph. 
 When down thy vale, unlock'd by midnight thought. 
 That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, 
 death ! I stretch my view ; what visions rise ! 
 What triumphs ! toils imperial ! arts divine ! 
 In wither'd laurels glide before my sight ? 
 What lengths of far-fam'd ages, billow'd high 
 With human agitation, roll along 
 In unsubstantial images of air ! 
 The melancholy ghosts of dead renown. 
 
 16 
 
362 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 i 
 
 Whisp'ring faint echoes of the world's applause, 
 
 With penitential aspect, as they pass, 
 
 All point at earth, and hiss at human pride. 
 
 The wisdom of the wise, and prancings of the great. 
 
 But, Lorenzo ! far the rest above 
 Of ghastly nature, and enormous size, 
 One form assaults my sight, and chills my blood, 
 And shakes my frame. Of one departed world 
 T see the mighty shadow ; oozy wreath 
 And dismal sea- weed crown her ; o'er her urn 
 Reclin'd, she weeps her desolated realms, 
 And bloated sons ; and, weeping, prophesies 
 Another's dissolution, soon, in flames. 
 But, like Cassandra, prophesies in vain ; 
 In vain, to many ; not, I trust, to thee. 
 
 For, know'st thou not, or art thou loth to know, 
 The great decree, the counsel of the skies ? 
 Deluge and conflagration, dreadful powers ! 
 Prime ministers of vengeance ! chain'd in caves 
 Distinct, apart the gaint furies roar ; 
 Apart ; or such their horrid rage for ruin, 
 In mutual conflict would they rise, and wage 
 
NIGHT IX. 363 
 
 Eternal war, till one was quite devour'd. 
 But not for this, ordain'd their boundless rage ; 
 When Heav'n's inferior instruments of wrath, 
 War, famine, pestilence, are found too weak 
 To scourge a world for her enormous crimes, 
 These are let loose, alternate : down they rush. 
 Swift and tempestuous, from th' eternal throne, 
 With irresistible commission arm'd. 
 The world, in vain corrected, to destroy, 
 And ease creation of the shocking scene. 
 
 Seest thou, Lorenzo ! what depends on man ? 
 The fate of nature ; as for man, her birth. 
 Earth's actors change earth's transitory scenes. 
 And make creation groan with human guilt. 
 How must it groan, in a new deluge whelm'd, 
 But not of waters ! At the destin'd hour. 
 By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, 
 See, all the formidable sons of fire. 
 Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play 
 Their various engines ; all at once disgorge 
 Their blazing magazines ; and take, by storm, 
 This poor terrestrial citadel of man. 
 
364 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Amazing period ! when each mountain-height 
 Outburns Vesuvius; rocks eternal pour 
 Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd; 
 Stars rush ; and final ruin fiercely drives 
 Her ploughshare o'er creation ! — while aloft, 
 More than astonishment ! if more can be ! 
 Far other firmament than e'er was seen, 
 Than e'er was thought by man ! far other stars ! 
 Stars animate, that govern these of fire ; 
 Far other sun ! — a sun, how unlike 
 The babe at Bethle'm ! how unlike the man 
 That groan'd on Calvary ! — Yet he it is ; 
 That man of sorrows ! O how chang'd ! What pomp ! 
 In grandeur terrible, all heav'n descends ! 
 And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train. 
 A swift archangel, with his golden wing, 
 As blots and clouds, that darken and disgrace 
 The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns aside. 
 And nov/, all dross remov'd, Heav'n's own pure day, 
 Full on the confines of our aether, flames. 
 While (dreadful contrast !) far, how far beneath! 
 Hell bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, 
 
NIGHT IX. 365 
 
 And storms sulphureous ; her voracious jaws 
 Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey. 
 
 Lorenzo ! welcome to this scene ; the last 
 In nature's course ; the first in wisdom's thought. 
 This strikes, if aught can strike thee ; this awakes 
 The most supine ; this snatches man from death. 
 Rouse, rouse, Lorenzo, then, and follow me. 
 Where truth, the most momentous man can hear, 
 Loud calls my soul, and ardor wings her flight, 
 I find my inspiration in my theme ; 
 The grandeur of my subject is my muse. 
 
 At midnight, when mankind is wrapt in peace. 
 And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams : 
 To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour. 
 At midnight, 'tis presum'd, this pomp will burst "'' 
 From tenfold darkness ; sudden, as the spark 
 From smitten steel ; from nitrous grain, the blaze. 
 Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more ! 
 The day is broke, which never more shall close ! 
 Above, around, beneath, amazement all ! 
 Terror and glory join'd in their extremes . 
 Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire ! 
 
366 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 All nature struggling in the pangs of death ! 
 
 Dost thou not hear her ? dost thou not deplore 
 
 Her strong convulsions, and her final groan ? 
 
 Where are we now ? Ah me ! the ground is gone. 
 
 On which we stood, Lorenzo ! While thou mayst. 
 
 Provide more firm support, or sink forever ! 
 
 Where ? how ? from whence ? Vain hope ! it is too 
 
 late! 
 Where, where, for shelter, shall the guilty fly. 
 When consternation turns the good man pale ? 
 
 Great day ! for which all other days were made ; 
 For which earth rose from chaos ; man from earth ; 
 And an eternity, the date of gods. 
 Descended on poor earth-created man ! 
 Great day of dread, decision, and despair ! 
 At thought of thee, each sublunary wish 
 Lets go its eager grasp, and drops the world ; 
 And catches at each reed of hope in heaven. 
 At thought of thee ! — And art thou absent then ? 
 Lorenzo ! no ; 'tis here ; — it is begun ; — 
 Already is begun the grand assize, 
 In thee, in all : deputed conscience scales 
 
NIGHT IX. 367 
 
 The dread tribunal, and forestalls our doom ; 
 Forestalls ; and, by forestalling, proves it sure. 
 Why on himself should man void judgment pass ? 
 Is idle nature laughing at her sons ? 
 Who conscience sent, her sentence will support, 
 And God above assert that God in man. 
 
 Thrice happy they ! that enter now the court 
 Heav'n opens in their bosoms : but, how rare. 
 Ah me ! that magnanimity, how rare ! 
 What hero, like the man who stands himself; 
 Who dares to meet his naked heart alone ; 
 Who hears, intrepid, the full charge it brings, 
 Resolv'd to silence future murmurs there ? 
 The coward flies ; and, flying, is undone. 
 (Art thou a coward ? No) : the coward flies ; 
 Thinks, but thinks slightly ; asks, but fears to know ; 
 Asks, " What is truth ?" with Pilate ; and retires ; 
 Dissolves the court, and mingles with the throng ; 
 Asylum sad ! from reason, hope, and Heav'n ! 
 
 Shall all, but man, look out with ardent eye, 
 For that great day, which was ordain'd for man ? 
 day of consummation ! mark supreme 
 
368 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 (If men are wise) of human thought ! nor least. 
 
 Or in the sight of angels, or their King ! 
 
 Ansrels, whose radiant circles, heio-ht o'er heisjht. 
 
 Order o'er order, rising, blaze o'er blaze. 
 
 As in a theatre, surround this scene. 
 
 Intent on man, and anxious for his fate. 
 
 Angels look out for thee, for thee, their Lord, 
 
 To vindicate his glory ; and for thee, 
 
 Creation universal calls aloud, 
 
 To disinvolve the moral world, and give 
 
 To nature's renovation brighter charms. 
 
 Shall man alone, whose fate, whose final fate. 
 Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thought ? 
 I think of nothing else ; I see ! I feel it ! 
 All nature, like an earthquake, trembling round ! 
 All deities, like summer's swarms, on wing ! 
 All basking in the full meridian blaze ! 
 I see the Judge enthron'd ! the flaming guard ! 
 The volume open'd ! open'd every heart ! 
 A sunbeam pointing out each secret thought ! 
 No patron ! intercessor none ! now past 
 The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour ! 
 
NIGHT IX . 369 
 
 For guilt no plea ! to pain, no pause ! no bound ! 
 Inexorable, all ! and all, extreme ! 
 
 Nor man alone ; the foe of God and man. 
 From his dark den, blaspheming, drags his chain. 
 And rears his brazen front, with thunder scarr'd; 
 Receives his sentence, and begins his hell. 
 All vengeance past, now, seems abundant grace : 
 Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll 
 His baleful eyes ! he curses whom he dreads ; 
 And deems it the first moment of his fall. 
 
 'Tis present to my thought ! — And, yet, where is it ? 
 Angels can't tell me ; angels cannot guess 
 The period ; from created beings lock'd 
 In darkness. But the process, and the place, 
 Are less obscure ; for these may man inquire. 
 Say, thou great close of human hopes and fears ! 
 Great key of hearts ! great finisher of fates ! 
 Great end ! and great beginning ! say, Where art thou ? 
 Art thou in time, or in eternity ? 
 Nor in eternity, nor time, I find thee. 
 These, as two monarchs, on their borders meet, 
 (Monarchs of all elaps'd, or unarriv'd ! ) 
 
 16' 
 
3*70 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 As in debate, how best their powers alUed 
 May swell the grandeur, or discharge the wrath, 
 Of Him, whom both their monarchies obey. 
 
 Time, this vast fabric for him built (and doom'd 
 With him to fall) now bursting o'er his head ; 
 His lamp, the sun, extinguish'd ; from beneath 
 The frown of hideous darkness, calls his sons 
 From their long slumber ; from earth's heaving womb 
 To second birth ; contemporary throng ! 
 Rous'd at one call, upstarting from one bed, 
 Press'd in one crowd, appall'd with one amaze, 
 He turns them o'er. Eternity ! to thee. 
 Then (as a king depos'd disdains to live) 
 He falls on his own scythe ; nor falls alone ; 
 His greatest foe falls with him ; Time, and he 
 Who murder'd all Time's offspring, Death, expire. 
 
 Time was ! Eternity now reigns alone ! 
 Awful Eternity ! offended queen ! 
 And her resentment to mankind, how just ! 
 With kind intent soliciting access. 
 How often has she knock'd at human hearts ! 
 Rich to repay their hospitality. 
 
NIGHT IX. 3*71 
 
 How often call'd ! and with the voice of God ! 
 Yet bore repulse, excluded as a cheat ! 
 A dream ! while foulest foes found welcome there ! 
 A dream, a cheat, now all things but her smile. 
 
 For, lo ! her twice ten thousand gates thrown wide, 
 As thrice from Indus to the frozen pole. 
 With banners, streaming as the comet's blaze, 
 And clarions, louder than the deep in storms. 
 Sonorous, as immortal breaih can blow. 
 Pour forth their myriads, potentates, and powers, 
 Of light, of darkness ; in a middle field. 
 Wide, as creation ! populous, as wide ! 
 A neutral region ! there to mark th' event 
 Of that great drama, whose preceding scenes 
 Detain'd them close spectators, thro' a length 
 Of ages, rip'ning to this grand result ; 
 Ages, as yet unnumber'd but by God ; 
 Who now, pronouncing sentence, vindicates 
 The rights of virtue, and his own renown. 
 
 Eternity, the various sentence past, 
 Assigns the sever'd throng distinct abodes, 
 Sulphureous, or ambrosial : What ensues ? 
 
Sl2 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 The deed predominant ! the deed of deeds ! 
 Which makes a hell of hell, a heav'n of heav'n. 
 The goddess, with determin'd aspect, turns 
 Her adamantine key's enormous size 
 Thro' destiny's inextricable wards, 
 Deep driving ev'ry bolt, on both their fates. 
 Then, from the crystal battlements of heaven, 
 Down, down, she hurls it thro' the dark profound, 
 Ten thousand thousand fathom ; there to rust. 
 And ne'er unlock her resolution more. 
 The deep resounds, and hell, thro' all her glooms. 
 Returns, in groans, the melancholy roar. 
 how unlike the chorus of the skies ! 
 how unlike those shouts of joy, that shake 
 The whole ethereal ! How the concave rings 
 Nor strange ! when deities their voice exalt ; 
 And louder far, than when creation rose. 
 To see creation's godlike aim, and end. 
 So well accompHsh'd ! so divinely clos'd ! 
 To see the mighty Dramatist's last act 
 (As meet) in glory rising o'er the rest. 
 No fancied god, a God indeed, descends. 
 
NIGHT IX. 373 
 
 To solve all knots ; to strike the moral home ; 
 To throw full day on darkest scenes of time ; 
 To clear, commend, exalt, and crown the whole. 
 Hence, in one peal of loud, eternal praise. 
 The charm'd spectators thunder their applause ; 
 And the vast void beyond, applause resounds. 
 
 What then am I ? 
 
 Amidst applauding worlds. 
 And worlds celestial, is there found on earth, 
 A peevish, dissonant, rebellious string, 
 Which jars in the grand chorus, and complains ? 
 Censure on thee, Lorenzo ! T suspend, 
 And turn it on myself ; how greatly due ! 
 All, all is right, by God ordain'd, or done ; 
 And who, but God, resum'd the friends he gave ? 
 And have I been complaining, then, so long ? 
 Complaining of his favors ; pain, and death ? 
 Who, without pain's advice, would e'er be good ? 
 Who, without death, but would be good in vain? 
 Pain is to save from pain ; all punishment. 
 To make for peace ; and death to save from death ; 
 And second death, to guard immortal life ; 
 
3Y4 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 To rouse the careless, the presumptuous awe, 
 And turn the tide of souls another way ; 
 By the same tenderness divine ordain'd. 
 That planted Eden, and high-bloom'd for man, 
 A fairer Eden, endless, in the skies. 
 
 Heav'n gives us friends to bless th6 present scene 
 Resumes them, to prepare us foi the next. 
 All evils natural are moral goods ; 
 All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. 
 None are unhappy ; all have cause to smile. 
 But such as to themselves that cause deny. 
 Our faults are at the bottom of our pains ; 
 Error, in act or judgment, is the source 
 Of endless sighs : We sin, or we mistake. 
 And nature tax, when false opinion stings. 
 Let impious grief be banish'd, joy indulg'd ; 
 But chiefly then, when grief puts in her claim, 
 Joy from the joyous, frequently betrays, 
 Oft lives in vanity, and dies in woe. 
 Joy, amidst ills, corroborates, exalts ; 
 'Tis joy, and conquest; joy, and virtue too. 
 A noble fortitude in ills delights 
 
NIGHT IX. 
 
 375 
 
 Heav'n, earth, ourselves ; 'tis duty, glory, peace. 
 
 Affliction is the good man's shining scene ; 
 
 Prosperity conceals his brightest ray ; 
 
 As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man. 
 
 Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm, 
 
 And virtue in calamities, admire. 
 
 The crown of manhood is a winter-joy ; 
 
 An evergreen, that stands the northern blast. 
 
 And blossoms in the rigor of our fate. 
 
 'Tis a prime part of happiness, to know 
 How much unhappiness must prove our lot ; 
 A part which few possess ! I '11 pay life's tax, 
 Without one rebel murmur, from this hour, 
 Nor think it misery to be a man ; 
 Who thinks it is, shall never be a god. 
 Some ills we wish for, when we wish to live. 
 
 What spoke proud passion ?* — " With my being 
 lost!" 
 Presumptuous ! blasphemous ! absurd ! and false ! 
 The triumph of my soul is, — that I am ; 
 And therefore tliat I may be — What ? Lorenzo ! 
 * Referring to the First Night, 
 
3Y6 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Look inward, and look deep ; and deeper stili ; • 
 
 Unfathomably deep our treasure runs 
 
 In golden veins, thro' all eternity ! 
 
 Ages, and ages, and succeeding still 
 
 New ages, where this phantom of an hour. 
 
 Which courts, each night, dull slumbers for repair. 
 
 Shall wake, and wonder, and exult, and praise, 
 
 And fly thro' infinite, and all unlock ; 
 
 And (if deserv'd) by heav'n's redundant love, 
 
 Made half-adorable itself, adore ; 
 
 And find, in adoration, endless joy ! 
 
 Where thou, not master of a moment here, 
 
 Frail as the flow'r, and fleeting as the gale, 
 
 Mayst boast a whole eternity, enrich'd 
 
 With all a kind Omnipotence can pour. 
 
 Since Adam fell, no mortal, uninspir'd, 
 
 Has ever yet conceived, or ever shall. 
 
 How kind is God, how great (if good) is man. 
 
 No man too largely from heav'n's love can hope. 
 
 If what is hop'd he labors to secure. 
 
 Ills? There are none : All-Gracious! none from Thee ; 
 From man full many ! num'rous is the race 
 
NIGHT IX. 377 
 
 Of blackest ills, and those immortal too, 
 
 Begot by madness on fair liberty ; 
 
 Heav'n's daughter, hell-debauch'd ! her hand alone 
 
 Unlocks destruction to the sons of men, 
 
 Fast barr'd by thine ; high-wall'd with adamant. 
 
 Guarded with terrors, reaching to this world, 
 
 And cover'd with the thunders of thy law ; 
 
 Whose threats are mercies, whose injunctions, guides, 
 
 Assisting, not restraining, reason's choice ; 
 
 Whose sanctions, unavoidable results 
 
 From nature's course, indulgently reveal'd ; 
 
 If unreveal'd, more dangerous, nor less sure. 
 
 Thus, an indulgent Father warns his sons, 
 
 " Do this ; fly that" — nor always tells the cause ; 
 
 Pleas'd to reward as duty to his will, 
 
 A conduct needful to their own repose. 
 
 Great God of wonders ! (if, thy love survey 'd. 
 Aught else the name of wonderful retains) 
 What rocks are these, on which to build our trust ? 
 Thy ways admit no blemish ; none I find ; 
 Or this alone — " that none is to be found." 
 Not one, to soften censure's hardy crime ; 
 
378 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Not one, to palliate peevish grief's complaint. 
 Who, like a demon, murm'ring from the dust, 
 Dares into judgment call her Judge. — Supreme ! 
 For all I bless thee ; most, for the severe ; 
 Her* death — my own at hand — the fiery gulf. 
 That flaming bound of wrath Omnipotent ! 
 It thunders ; — but it thunders to preserve ; 
 It strengthens what it strikes ; its wholesome dread 
 Averts the dreaded pain ; its hideous groans 
 Join heav'n's sweet hallelujahs in thy praise. 
 Great source of good alone : how kind in all ! 
 In vengeance, kind ! pain, deaths Gehenna, save. 
 
 Thus, in Thy world material, mighty Mind ! 
 Not that alone which solaces, and shines, 
 The rough and gloomy challenges our praise. 
 The winter is as needful as the spring ; 
 The thunder, as the sun ; a stagnate mass 
 Of vapors breeds a pestilential air ; 
 Nor more propitious the Favonian breeze 
 To nature's health, than purifying storms ; 
 The dread volcano ministers to good. 
 * Lucia. 
 
NIGHT IX. 379 
 
 Its smother'd flames might midermine the world. 
 Loud ^tnas fulminate in love to man ; 
 Comets good omens are, when duly scann'd ; 
 And, in their use, eclipses learn to shine. 
 
 Man is responsible for ills receiv'd ; 
 Those we call wretched are a chosen band, 
 Compell'd to refuge in the right, for peace. 
 Amid my list of blessings infinite. 
 Stand this the foremost, " that my heart has bled." 
 'Tis heav'n's last effort of good-will to man ; 
 When pain can't bless, heav'n quits us in despair. 
 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 heav'n 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 ; 
 
380 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 The consolation cancels the complaint, 
 And makes a convert of my guilty song 
 
 As when o'erlabor'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 vale, 
 The fields, woods, meads, and rivers he has past ; 
 And, satiate of his journey, thinks of home 
 Endear'd by distance, nor affects more toil ; 
 Thus I, though small, indeed, is that ascent 
 The muse has gain'd, review the paths she trod ; 
 Various, extensive, beaten but by few ; 
 And, conscious of her prudence in repose, 
 Pause ; and with pleasure meditate an end. 
 Though still remote ; so fruitful is my theme. 
 Thro' many a field of moral, and divine. 
 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 deceas'd full heartily she wept ; 
 Of love divine the wonders she display'd ; 
 Prov'd man immortal ; show'd the source of joy ; 
 
NIGHT IX . 381 
 
 The grand tribunal rais'd ; 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. 
 
 What then remains ? — Much ! much ! a mighty debt 
 To be discharged : these thoughts, night ! are thine ; 
 Fi'om thee they came, like lovers' secret sighs. 
 While others slept. So, Cynthia (poets feign) 
 In shadows veil'd, soft shding from her sphere. 
 Her shepherd cheer'd ; of her enamor'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 ? 
 
 Where end ? Or how steal music from the spheres, 
 To sooth their goddess ? 
 
 majestic night ! 
 Nature's great ancestor ! day's elder born ! 
 And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
 By mortals, and immortals, seen with awe ! 
 
382 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, 
 
 An azure zone, thy waist clouds, in heav'n's loom 
 
 Wrought thro' varieties of shape and shade. 
 
 In ample folds of drapery divine. 
 
 Thy flowing mantle form, and, heav'n throughout, 
 
 Voluminously pour thy pompous train. 
 
 Thy gloomy grandeurs (nature's most august. 
 
 Inspiring aspect !) claim a grateful verse ; 
 
 And, like a fable curtain starr'd with gold, 
 
 Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 
 
 And what, O man ! so worthy to be sung ? 
 What more prepares us for the songs of heaven ? 
 Creation of archangels is the theme ! 
 What, to be sung, so needful ? What so well 
 Celestial joys prepares us to sustain ? 
 The soul of man, His face designed to see. 
 Who gave these wonders to be seen by man, 
 Has here a previous scene of objects great. 
 On which to dwell ; to stretch to that expanse 
 Of thought, to rise to that exalted height 
 Of admiration, to contract that awe. 
 And give her whole capacities that strength, 
 
NIGHT IX. 383 
 
 Which best may qualify for final joy. 
 
 The more our spirits are enlarg'd on earth, 
 
 The deeper draught shall they receive of heaven. 
 
 Heav'n's King, whose face unveil'd consummates bliss ; 
 Redundant bliss ! which fills that mighty void. 
 The whole creation leaves in human hearts ! 
 Thou, who didst touch the lip of Jesse's son, 
 Wrapt in sweet contemplation of these fires, 
 And set his harp in concert with the spheres ! 
 While of thy works material the supreme 
 I dare attempt, assist my daring song. 
 Loose me from earth's inclosure, from the sun's 
 Contracted circle set my heart at large ; 
 Eliminate my spirit, give it range 
 Through provinces of thought yet unexplor'd ; 
 Teach me, by this stupendous scaffolding, 
 Creation's golden steps, to climb to Thee. 
 Teach me with art great nature to control. 
 And spread a lustre o'er the shades of night. 
 Feel I thy kind assent ? And shall the sun 
 Be seen at midnight, rising in my song ? 
 
 Lorenzo ! come, and warm thee : thou, whose heart. 
 
384 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Whose little heart is moor'd within a nook 
 Of this obscure terrestrial, anchor weigh. 
 Another ocean calls, a nobler port ; 
 I am thy pilot, I thy prosp'rous gale. 
 Gainful thy voyage through yon azure main ; 
 Main, without tempest, pirate, rock, or shore ; 
 And whence thou mayst import eternal wealth ; 
 And leave to beggar'd minds the pearl and gold. 
 Thy travels dost thou boast o'er foreign realms ? 
 Thou stranger to the world ! thy tour begin ; 
 Thy tour through nature's universal orb. 
 Nature delineates her whole chart at large. 
 On soaring souls, that sail among the spheres ; 
 And man how purblind, if unknown the whole ! 
 Who circles spacious earth, then travels here. 
 Shall own, he never was from home before ! 
 Come, my Prometheus,* from thy pointed rock 
 Of false ambition if unchain'd, we '11 mount ; 
 We '11, innocently, steal celestial fire. 
 And kindle our devotion at the stars ; 
 A theft, that shall not chain, but set thee free. 
 * Night the Eighth. 
 
NIGHT IX. 385 
 
 Above our atmosphere's intestine wars, 
 Rain's fountain-head, the magazine of hail. 
 Above the northern nests of feather'd snows, 
 The brew of thunders, and the flaming forge 
 That forms the crooked Hglitning ; 'bove the caves 
 Where infant tempests wait their growing wings. 
 And tune their tender voices to that roar. 
 Which, soon perhaps, shall shake a guilty world ; 
 Above misconstrued omens of the sky, 
 Far-travell'd comets' calculated blaze, 
 Elance thy thought, and think of more than man. 
 Thy soul, till now, contracted, wither'd, shrunk. 
 Blighted by blasts of earth's unwholesome air, 
 Will blossom here ; spread all her faculties 
 To these bright ardors ; ev'ry power unfold. 
 And rise into sublimities of thought ; 
 Stars teach, as well as shine. At nature's birth. 
 Thus their commission ran — " Be kind to man." 
 Where art thou, poor benighted traveller ! 
 The stars will light thee ; tho' the moon should fail. 
 Where art thou, more benighted ! more astray ! 
 
 1*7 
 
386 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 In ways immoral ? The stars call thee back ; 
 And, if obey'd their counsel, set thee right. 
 
 This prospect vast, what is it ? — Weigh'd aright, 
 'Tis nature's system of divinity, 
 And ev'ry student of the night inspires. 
 'Tis elder scripture, writ by God's own hand ; 
 Scripture authentic ! uncorrupt by man. 
 Lorenzo ! with my radius (the rich gift 
 Of thought nocturnal !) I '11 point out to thee 
 Its various lessons ; some that may surprise 
 An un-adept in mysteries of night ; 
 Little, perhaps, expected in her school, 
 Nor thought to grow on planet, or on star. 
 Bulls, lions, scorpions, monsters here we feign ; 
 Ourselves more monstrous, not to see what here 
 Exists indeed ; — a lecture to mankind. 
 
 What read we here ? — Th' existence of a God ? — 
 Yes ; and of other beings, man above ; 
 Natives of aether ! sons of higher climes ! 
 And, what may move Lorenzo's wonder more. 
 Eternity is written in the skies. 
 And whose eternity ? — Lorenzo ! thine ; 
 
387 
 
 Mankind's eternity. Nor faith alone, 
 
 Virtue grows here ; here springs the sov'reign cure 
 
 Of almost ev'ry vice ; but chiefly thine ; 
 
 Wrath, pride, ambition, and impure desire. 
 
 Lorenzo ! thou canst wake at midnight too, 
 Tho' not on morals bent : ambition, pleasure ! 
 Those tyrants I for thee so lately fought* 
 Afford their harass' d slaves but slender rest. 
 Thou, to whom midnight is immoral noon. 
 And the sun's noontide blaze prime dawn of day ; 
 Not by thy climate, but capricious crime, 
 Commencing one of our antipodes ! 
 In thy nocturnal rove, one moment halt, 
 'Twixt stage and stage, of riot, and cabal ; 
 And lift thme eye (if bold an eye to lift. 
 If bold to meet the face of injur'd Heaven,) 
 To yonder stars : for other ends they shine. 
 Than to light revellers from shame to shame, 
 And, thus, be made accomplices in guilt. 
 
 Why from yon arch, that infinite of space. 
 With infinite of lucid orbs replete, 
 
 * Night the Eighth. 
 
388 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Which set the living firmament on fire, 
 
 At the first glance, in such an overwhelm 
 
 Of wonderful, on man's astonish'd sight. 
 
 Rushes Omnipotence ? — To curb our pride ; 
 
 Our reason rouse, and lead it to that Power, 
 
 Whose love lets down these silver chains of light ; 
 
 To draw up man's ambition to himself, 
 
 And bind our chaste affections to his throne. 
 
 Thus the three virtues, least alive on earth, 
 
 And welcomed on heav'n's coast with most applause, 
 
 An humble, pure, and heav'nly-minded heart. 
 
 Are here inspir'd : — ^And canst thou gaze too long ? 
 
 Nor stands thy wrath depriv'd of its reproof, 
 Or unupbraided by this radiant choir. 
 The planets of each system represent 
 Kind neighbors ; mutual amity prevails ; 
 Sweet interchange of rays, receiv'd, return'd ; 
 Enlight'ning, and enlighten'd ! All, at once. 
 Attracting, and attracted ! Patriot-like, 
 None sins against the welfare of the whole ; 
 But their reciprocal, unselfish aid. 
 Affords an emblem of millennial love. 
 
NIGHT IX. 389 
 
 Nothing in nature, much less conscious being. 
 Was e'er created solely for itself : 
 Thus man his sovereign duty learns in this 
 Material picture of benevolence. 
 
 And know, of all our supercilious race. 
 Thou most inflammable ! thou wasp of men ! 
 Man's angry heart, inspected, would be found 
 As rightly set, as are the starry spheres ; 
 'Tis nature's structure, broke by stubborn will. 
 Breeds all that uncelestial discord there. 
 Wilt thou not feel the bias nature gave ? 
 Canst thou descend from converse with the skies. 
 And seize thy brother's throat ? — For what — a clod. 
 An inch of earth ? The planets cry, " Forbear." 
 They chase our double darkness ; nature's gloom. 
 And (kinder still !) our intellectual night. 
 
 And see, day's amiable sister sends 
 Her invitation, in the softest rays 
 Of mitigated lustre ; courts thy sight, 
 Which suffers from her tyrant-brother's blaze. 
 Night grants thee the full freedom of the skies, 
 Nor rudely reprimands thy lifted eye ; 
 
390 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 With gain, and joy, she bribes thee to be wise. 
 Night opes the noblest scenes, and sheds an awe, 
 Which gives those venerable scenes full weight. 
 And deep reception, in th' intender'd heart ; 
 While light peeps thro' the darkness, like a spy ; 
 And darkness shows its grandeur by the light. 
 Nor is the profit greater than the joy, 
 If human hearts at glorious objects glow, 
 And admiration can inspire delight. 
 
 What speak I more, than I, this moment, feel ? 
 With pleasing stupor first the soul is struck 
 (Stupor ordain'd to make her truly wise !) 
 Then into transport starting from her trance, 
 With love, and admiration, how she glows ! 
 This gorgeous apparatus ! this display ! 
 This ostentation of creative power ! 
 This theatre! — what eye can take it in? 
 By what divine enchantment was it raised, 
 For minds of the first magnitude to launch 
 In endless speculation, and adore ? 
 One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine ; 
 And light us deep into the Deity, 
 
NIGHT IX. 391 
 
 How boundless in magnificence and might ? 
 
 what a confluence of ethereal fires, 
 
 From urns unnumber'd, down the steep of heaven, 
 
 Streams to a point, and centres in my sight ! 
 
 Nor tarries there ; I feel it at my heart. 
 
 My heart, at once, it humbles, and exalts ; 
 
 Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies. 
 
 Who sees it, unexalted, and unaw'd ? 
 
 Who sees it, and can stop at what is seen ? 
 
 Material ojBFspring of Omnipotence ! 
 
 Inanimate, all-animating birth ! 
 
 W^ork worthy him who made it ? worthy praise ! 
 
 All praise ! praise more than human ! nor denied 
 
 Thy praise divine ! — But tho' man, drown'd in sleep, 
 
 Withholds his homage, not alone I wake ; 
 
 Bright legions swarm unseen, and sing, unheard 
 
 By mortal ear, the glorious architect. 
 
 In this his universal temple, hung 
 
 With lustres, with innumerable lights. 
 
 That shed religion on the soul ; at once, 
 
 The temple, and the preacher ! how loud 
 
 It calls devotion ! genuine growth of night ! 
 
392 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Devotion ! daughter of astronomy ! 
 An undevout astronomer is mad. 
 True ; all things speak a God ; but in the small, 
 Men trace out him ; in great, he seizes man. 
 Seizes, and elevates, and wraps, and fills 
 With new inquiries, 'mid associates new. 
 Tell me, ye stars ! ye planets ! tell me, all 
 Ye starr'd, and planeted, inhabitants ! what is it ? 
 What are these sons of wonder ? say, proud arch ! 
 (Within whose azure palaces they dwell) 
 Built with divine ambition ! in disdain 
 Of limit built ! built in the taste of heaven ! 
 Vast concave ! ample dome ! wast thou design'd 
 A meet apartment for the Deity ? — 
 Not so ; that thought alone thy state impairs, 
 Thy lofty sinks, and shallows thy profound. 
 And straightens thy diffusive ; dwarfs the whole, 
 And makes an universe an orrery. 
 
 But when I drop mine eye, and look on man. 
 Thy right regain'd, thy grandeur is restored, 
 nature ! wide flies off th' expanding round. 
 As when whole magazines, at once, are fir'd 
 
NIGHT IX . 393 
 
 The smitten air is hollow'd by the blow ; 
 The vast displosion dissipates the clouds ; 
 Shock'd aether's billows dash the distant skies ; 
 Thus (but far more) th' expanding round flies oflF, 
 And leaves a mighty void, a spacious womb. 
 Might teem with new creation ; reinflam'd 
 Thy luminaries triumph, and assume 
 Divinity themselves. Nor was it strange, 
 Matter high-wrought to such surprising pomp. 
 Such godlike glory, stole the style of gods. 
 From ages dark, obtuse, and steep'd in sense ; 
 For, sure, to sense, they truly are divine. 
 And half-absolv'd idolatry from guilt ; 
 Nay, turn'd it into virtue. Such it was 
 In those, who put forth all they had of man 
 Unlost, to lift their thought, nor mounted higher ; 
 But, weak of wing, on planets percK'd; and thought 
 What was their highest, mur^- be their ador'd. 
 
 But they how weak, who could no higher mount ? 
 And are there, then, Lorenzo ! those, to whom 
 Unseen, and unexistent, are the same ? 
 And if incomprehensible is join'd, 
 
 17' 
 
394 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Who dare pronounce it madness, to believe ? 
 
 Why has the mighty Builder thrown aside 
 
 All measure in his work ; stretch'd out his line 
 
 So far, and spread amazement o'er the whole ? 
 
 Then (as he took delight in wide extremes), 
 
 Deep in the bosom of his universe, 
 
 Dropp'd down that reasoning mite, that insect, man, 
 
 To crawl, and gaze, and wonder at the scene ? — 
 
 That man might ne'er presume to plead amazement 
 
 For disbelief of wonders in himself. 
 
 Shall God be less miraculous, than what 
 
 His hand has form'd ? shall mysteries descend 
 
 From unmysterious ? things more elevate 
 
 Be more familiar ? uncreated lie 
 
 More obvious than created, to the grasp 
 
 Of human thought ? the more of wonderful 
 
 Is heard in him, the more we should assent. 
 
 Could we conceive him, God he could not be ; 
 
 Or he not God, or we could not be men. 
 
 A God alone can comprehend a God ; 
 
 Man's distance how immense ! On such a theme. 
 
 Know this, Lorenzo ! (seem it ne'er so strange) 
 
NIGHT IX. 395 
 
 Nothing can satisfy, but what confounds ; 
 Nothing, but what astonishes, is true. 
 The scene thou seest attests the truth I sing, 
 And ev'ry star sheds hght upon thy creed. 
 These stars, this furniture, this cost of heaven. 
 If but reported, thou hadst ne'er behev'd ; 
 But thine eye tells thee, the romance is true. 
 The grand of nature is th' Almighty's oath. 
 In reason's court, to silence unbelief. 
 
 How my mind, op'ning at this scene, imbibes 
 The moral emanations of the skies, 
 While nought, perhaps, Lorenzo less admires ! 
 Has the great Sov'reign sent ten thousand worlds 
 To tell us, he resides above them all. 
 In glory's unapproachable recess ? 
 And dare earth's bold inhabitants deny 
 The sumptuous, the magnific embassy 
 A moment's audience ? turn we, nor will hear 
 From whom they come, or what they would impart 
 For man's emolument ; sole cause that stoops 
 Their grandeur to man's eye ? Lorenzo ! rouse ; 
 Let thought, awaken'd, take the lightning's wing. 
 
396 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 And glance from east to west, from pole to pole. 
 
 Who sees, but is confounded, or convinc'd ? 
 
 Renounces reason, or a God adores ? 
 
 Mankind was sent into the world to see ! 
 
 Sight gives the science needful to their peace ; 
 
 That obvious science asks small learning's aid. 
 
 Wouldst thou on metaphysic pinions soar ? 
 
 Or wound thy patience amid logic thorns ? 
 
 Or travel history's enormous round ? 
 
 Nature no such hard task enjoins : she gave 
 
 A make to man directive of his thought ; 
 
 A make set upright, pointing to the stars. 
 
 As who should say, " Read thy chief lesson there." 
 
 Too late to read this manuscript of heav'n, 
 
 When, hke a parchment-scroll, shrunk up by flames, 
 
 It folds Lorenzo's lesson from his sight. 
 
 Lesson how radiant ! not the God alone, 
 I see his ministers ; I see, diffus'd 
 In various orders, essences sublime. 
 Of radiant offices, of various plume, 
 In heav'nly liveries, distinctly, clad, 
 Azure, green, purple, pearl, or downy gold. 
 
NIGHT IX. 397 
 
 Or all commix'd ; they stand, with wings outspread, 
 
 List'ning to catch the Master's least command, 
 
 And fly thro' nature ere the moment ends ; 
 
 Numbers innumerable ! — Well conceiv'd 
 
 By pagan, and by Christian ! O'er each sphere 
 
 Presides an angel, to direct its course, 
 
 And feed, or fan, its flames ; or to discharge 
 
 Other high trust unknown. For who can see 
 
 Such pomp of matter, and imagine, mind. 
 
 For which alone inanimate was made. 
 
 More sparingly dispens'd ? That nobler son. 
 
 Far liker the great Sire ! — 'Tis thus the skies 
 
 Infoim us of superiors numberless. 
 
 As much, in excellence, above mankind, 
 
 As above earth, in magnitude, the spheres. 
 
 These, as a cloud of witnesses, hans^ o'er us : 
 
 In a throng'd theatre are all our deeds ; 
 
 Perhaps, a thousand demigods descend 
 
 On every beam we see, to walk with men. 
 
 Awful reflection ! Strongr restraint from ill ! 
 
 Yet, here, our virtue finds still stronger aid 
 From these ethereal glories sense surveys. 
 
] 398 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 -I 
 
 
 
 Something like magic strikes from tliis blue vault ; 
 
 With just attention is it view'd ? We feel 
 
 A sudden succor, uniraplor'd, unthought ; 
 
 Nature herself does half the work of man. 
 
 Seas, rivers, mountains, forests, deserts, rocks. 
 
 The promontory's height, the depth profound, 
 
 Of subterranean, excavated grots, 
 
 Black-brow'd, and vaulted high, and yawning wide 
 
 From nature's structure, or the scoop of time ; 
 
 If ample of dimension, vast of size, 
 
 Ev'n these an aggrandizing impulse give ; 
 
 Of solemn thought enthusiastic heights 
 
 Ev'n these infuse. — But what of vast in these ? 
 
 Nothing : — or we must own the skies forgot. 
 
 Much less in art. — Vain art ! Thou pigmy power ! 
 
 How dost thou swell, and strut, with human pride, 
 
 To show thy littleness ! What childish toys. 
 
 Thy wat'ry columns squirted to the clouds ! 
 
 Thy basin'd rivers, and imprison'd seas ! 
 
 Thy mountains moulded into forms of men ! 
 
 Thy hundred- gated capitals ! or those 
 
 Wl:f.r3 three days' travel left us much to ride ; 
 
NIGHT IX. 399 
 
 Gazing on miracles by mortals wrought, 
 
 c-.rMits inumphal, theatres immense, 
 
 :'>r a;:^dmg gardens pendent in mid-air ! 
 
 Or temp.es proud to meet their gods half way ! 
 
 Yes': these affect us in no common kind. 
 
 'Vhai then the force of such superior scenes ? 
 
 Enter a temple, it will strike an awe : 
 
 What awe from this the Deity has built ? 
 
 A good man seen, tho' silent, counsel gives : 
 
 The touch'd spectator wishes to be wise : 
 
 In a bright mirror his own hands have made. 
 
 Here we see something like the face of God. 
 
 Seems it not then enough, to say, Lorenzo ! 
 
 To man abandon'd, " Hast thou seen the skies '?'' 
 
 And yet, so thwarted nature's kind design 
 By darmg man, he makes her sacred awe 
 (That guard from ill) his shelter, his temptation 
 To more than common guilt, and quite inverts 
 Ce.estia. art's intent. The trembling stars 
 Bee cnmes gigantic, stalking thro' the gloom 
 VV"':.: front erect, that hide their head by day» 
 i^T:^ siaKing night still darker by their deeds. 
 
400 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Slumb'ring in covert, till the shades descend, 
 
 Rapine, and murder, link'd, now prowl for prey. 
 
 The miser earths his treasure ; and the thief. 
 
 Watching the mole, half beggars him ere morn, 
 
 Now plots, and foul conspiracies, awake ; 
 
 And, muffling up their horrors from the moon, 
 
 Havoc and devastation they prepare, 
 
 And kingdoms tott'ring in the field of blood. 
 
 Now sons of riot in mid-revel rage. 
 
 What shall I do ? — suppress it ? or proclaim ? — 
 
 Why sleeps the thunder ? Now, Lorenzo ! now. 
 
 His best friend's couch the rank adulterer 
 
 Ascends secure ; and laughs at gods and men. 
 
 Prepost'rous madmen, void of fear or shame, 
 
 Lay their crimes bare to these chaste eyes of heaven ; 
 
 Yet shrink, and shudder at a mortal's sight. 
 
 Were moon and stars, for villains only made ? 
 
 To guide, yet screen them, with tenebrious light ?• 
 
 No ; they were made to fashion the subhme 
 
 Of human hearts, and wiser make the wise. 
 
 Those ends were answer'd once ; when mortals hv'd 
 Of stronger wing, of Aquiline ascent 
 
NIGHT IX. 401 
 
 In theory sublime. how unlike « 
 
 Those vermin of the night, this moment sung. 
 Who crawl on earth, and on her venom feed ! 
 Those ancient sages, human stars ! They met 
 Their brothers of the skies, at midnight hour : 
 Their counsel ask'd ; and, what they ask'd, obey'd. 
 The Stagyrite, and Plato, he who drank 
 The poison bowl, and he of Tusculum, 
 With him of Corduba, (immortal names !) 
 In these unbounded, and Elysian, walks. 
 An area, fit for gods, and godlike men. 
 They took their nightly round, thro' radiant paths 
 By seraphs trod ; instructed, chiefly, thus. 
 To tread in their bright footsteps here below ; 
 To walk in worth still brighter than the skies. 
 There, they contracted their contempt of earth ; 
 Of hopes eternal kindled, there, the fire ; 
 There, as in near approach, they glow'd, and grew 
 (Great visitants !) more intimate with God, 
 More worth to men, more joyous to themselves. 
 Thro* various virtues, they, with ardor, ran 
 The zodiac of their learn'd, illustrious lives. 
 
402 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 In Christian hearts, for a pagan zeal ! 
 A needful, but opprobrious pray'r ! As much 
 Our ardor less, as greater is our light. 
 How monstrous this in morals ! Scarce more strange 
 Would this phenomenon in nature strike, 
 A sun that froze us, or a star that warm'd. 
 
 What taught these heroes of the moral world ? 
 To these thou giv'st thy praise, give credit too. 
 These doctors ne'er were pension'd to deceive thee ; 
 And pagan tutors are thy taste. — They taught. 
 That, narrow views betray to misery : 
 That, wise it is to comprehend the whole : 
 That, virtue rose from nature, ponder'd well, 
 The single base of virtue built to heaven : 
 That, God, and nature, our attention claim : 
 That, nature is the glass reflecting God, 
 As, by the sea, reflected is the sun, 
 Too glorious to be gazed on in his sphere : 
 That, mind immortal, loves immortal aims : 
 That, boundless mind aff'ects a boundless space : 
 That, vast surveys, and the sublime of things, 
 The soul asbimilate, and make her erreat : 
 
NIGHT IX. 403 
 
 That, therefore, heav'n her glories, as a fund 
 
 Of inspiration, thus spreads out to man. 
 
 Such are their doctrines ; such the night inspir'd 
 
 And what more true ? What truth of greater weight ? 
 The soul of man was made to walk the skies ; 
 Delightful outlet of her prison here ! 
 There, disincumber'd from her chains, the ties 
 Of toys terrestrial, she can rove at large ; 
 There, freely can respire, dilate, extend. 
 In full proportion let loose all her powers ; 
 And, undeluded, grasp at something great. 
 Nor, as a stranger, does she wander there ; 
 But, wonderful herself, thro' wonder strays ; 
 Contemplating their grandeur, finds her own ; 
 Dives deep in their economy divine. 
 Sits high in judgment on their various laws. 
 And, like a master, judges not amiss. 
 Hence, greatly pleas'd, and justly proud, the soul 
 Grows conscious of her birth celestial ; breathes 
 More Ufo, more vigor, in her native air ; 
 And feels herself at home among the stars ; 
 And, feeling, emulates her country's praise. 
 
404 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 What call we, then, the firmament, Lorenzo ? — 
 As earth the body, since, the skies sustain 
 The soul with food, that gives immortal life. 
 Call it, the noble pasture of the mind ; 
 Which there expatiates, strengthens, and exults. 
 And riots thro' the luxuries of thought. 
 Call it, the garden of the Deity, 
 Blossom'd with stars, redundant in the growth 
 Of fruit ambrosial ; moral fruit to man. 
 Call it, the breast-plate of the true high-priest, 
 Ardent with gems oracular, that give. 
 In points of highest moment, right response ; 
 And ill-neglected, if we prize our peace. 
 
 Thus, have we found a true astrology ; 
 Thus have we found a new, and noble sense. 
 In which alone stars govern human fates. 
 that the stars (as some have feign'd) let fall 
 Bloodshed, and havoc, on embattled realms. 
 And rescu'd monarchs from so black a guilt ! 
 Bourbon ! this wish ho\v gen'rous in a foe ! 
 Wouldst thou be great, wouldst thou become a god, 
 And stick thy deathless name among the stars, 
 
NIGHT IX. 405 
 
 For mighty conquests on a needle's point ? 
 Instead of forging chains for foreigners, 
 Bastile thy tutor : grandeur all thy aim ? 
 As yet thou know'st not what it is : how great. 
 How glorious, then, appears the mind of man. 
 When in it all the stars, and planets, roll ! 
 And what it seems, it is : great objects make 
 Great minds, enlarging as their views enlarge ; 
 Those still more godhke, as these more divine. 
 And more divine than these, thou canst not see. 
 Dazzled, o'erpower'd with the delicious draught 
 Of miscellaneous splendors, how I reel 
 From thought to thought inebriate without end ! 
 An Eden, this ! a Paradise unlost ! 
 I meet the Deity in ev'ry view, 
 And tremble at my nakedness before Him ! 
 that I could but reach the tree of life ! 
 For here it grows unguarded from our taste ; 
 No flaming sword denies our entrance here ; 
 Would man but gather, he might live forever. 
 
 Lorenzo ! much of moral hast thou seen. 
 Of curious arts art thou more fond ? Then mark 
 
40C THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 The mathematic glories of the skies, 
 
 In number, weight, and measure, all ordain'd. 
 
 Lorenzo's boasted builders, chance, and fate. 
 
 Are left to finish his aerial towers ; 
 
 Wisdom, and choice, their well-known characters 
 
 Here deep impress ; and claim it for their own. 
 
 Tho' splendid all, no splendor void of use ; 
 
 Use rivals beauty ; art contends with power ; 
 
 No wanton waste, amid effuse expense ; 
 
 The great Economist adjusting all 
 
 To prudent pomp, magnificently wise. 
 
 How rich the prospect ! and forever new ! 
 
 And newest to the man that views it most ; 
 
 For newer still in infinite succeeds. 
 
 Then, these aerial racers, how swift ! 
 
 How the shaft loiters from the strongest string ! 
 
 Spirit alone can distance the career. 
 
 Orb above orb ascending without end ! 
 
 Circle in circle, without end, inclos'd ! 
 
 Wheel within wheel ; Ezekiel ! like to thine ! 
 
 Like thine, it seems a vision, or a dream ; 
 
 Tho' seen, we labor to beheve it true ! 
 
NIGHT IX. 407 
 
 What involution ! What extent ! What swarms 
 Of worlds, that laugh at earth ! immensely great, 
 Immensely distant from each other's spheres ! 
 What, then, the wondrous space through which they 
 
 roll? 
 At once it quite ingulphs all human thought ; 
 'Tis comprehension's absolute defeat, 
 
 Nor think thou seest a wild disorder here ; 
 Thro' this illustrious chaos to the sight, 
 Arrangement neat, and chastest order, reign. 
 The path prescrib'd, inviolably kept. 
 Upbraids the lawless sallies of mankind. 
 Worlds, ever thwarting, never interfere ; 
 What knots are tied ! How soon are they dissolv'd, 
 And set the seeming married planets free ! 
 They rove forever, without error rove ; 
 Confusion unconfus'd ! nor less admire 
 This tumult untumultuous ; all on wing ! 
 In motion, all ! yet what profound repose ! 
 What fervid action, yet no noise ! as aw'd 
 To silence, by the presence of their Lord ; 
 Or hush'd by His command, in love to man. 
 
408 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 And bid let fall soft beams on human rest, 
 Restless themselves. On yon cserulean pkin, 
 In exultation to their God, and thine, 
 They dance, they sing eternal jubilee. 
 Eternal celebration of His praise. 
 But, since their song arrives not at our ear. 
 Their dance perplex'd exhibits to the sight 
 Fair hieroglyphic of His peerless power. 
 Mark how the labyrinthian turns they take, 
 The circles intricate, and mystic maze, 
 Weave the grand cypher of Omnipotence ; 
 To gods, how great ! how legible to man ! 
 
 Leaves so much wonder greater wonder still ? 
 Where are the pillars that support the skies ? 
 What more than Atlantean shoulder props 
 Th' incumbent load ? What magic, what strange art. 
 In fluid air these pond'rous orbs sustains ? 
 Who would not think them hung in golden chains ? — 
 And so they are ; in the high will of Heaven, 
 Which fixes all ; makes adamant of air. 
 Or air of adamant ; makes all of nought. 
 Or nouo-ht of all ; if such the dread decree. 
 
NIGHT IX. 409 
 
 Imagine from their deep foundations torn 
 The most gigantic sons of earth, the broad 
 And tow 'ring Alps, all tost into the sea ; 
 And, light as down, or volatile as air ; 
 Their bulks enormous dancing on the waves, 
 In time, and measure, exquisite ; while all 
 The winds, in emulation of the spheres. 
 Tune their sonorous instruments aloft ; 
 The concert swell, and animate the ball. 
 Would this appear amazing ? What, then, worlds, 
 In a far thinner element sustain'd. 
 And acting the same part, with greater skill. 
 More rapid movement, and for nobler ends ? 
 
 More obvious ends to pass, are not these stars 
 The seats majestic, proud imperial thrones. 
 On which angelic deleorates of heaven. 
 At certain periods, as the sov'reign nods. 
 Discharge high trusts of vengeance, or of love ; 
 To clothe, in outward grandeur, grand design. 
 And acts most solemn still more solemnize ? 
 
 Ye citizens of air ! what ardent thanks, 
 I What full effusion of the grateful heart. 
 
410 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Is due from man indulg'd in such a sight ! 
 
 A sight so noble ! and a sight so kind ! 
 
 It drops new truths at ev'ry new survey ! 
 
 Feels not Lorenzo something stir within, 
 
 That sweeps away all period ? As these spheres 
 
 Measure duration, they no less inspire 
 
 The godlike hope of ages without end. 
 
 The boundless space, thro' which these rovers take 
 
 Their restless roam, suggests the sister thought 
 
 Of boundless time. Thus, by kind nature's skill, 
 
 To man unlabor'd, that important guest. 
 
 Eternity, finds entrance at the sight ; 
 
 And an eternity, for man ordain'd. 
 
 Or these his destin'd midnight counsellors, 
 
 The stars, had never whisper'd it to man. 
 
 Nature informs, but ne'er insults, her sons. 
 
 Could she then kindle the most ardent wish 
 
 To disappoint it ? — That is blasphemy. 
 
 Thus of thy creed a second article, 
 
 Momentous, as tli' existence of a God, 
 
 Is found (as I conceive) where rarely sought ; 
 
 And thou mayst read thy soul immortal, here. 
 
NIGHT IX. 411 
 
 Here, then, Lorenzo ! on these glories dwell ; 
 Nor want the gilt, illuminated roof, 
 That calls the wretched gay to dark delights. 
 Assemblies ? — This is one divinely bright ; 
 Here, unendanger'd in health, wealth, or fame, 
 Range thro' the fairest, and the sultan scorn. 
 He, wise as thou, no crescent holds so fair. 
 As that, which on his turban awes a world ; 
 And thinks the moon is proud to copy Him. 
 Look on her, and gain more than worlds can give, 
 A mind superior to the charms of power. 
 Thou muffled in delusions of this life ! 
 Can yonder moon turn ocean in his bed. 
 From side to side, in constant ebb, and flow, * 
 And purify from stench his wat'ry realms ? 
 And fails her moral influence ? Wants she power 
 To turn Lorenzo's stubborn tide of thought 
 From stagnating on earth's infected shore. 
 And purge from nuisance his corrupted heart ? 
 Fails her attraction when it draws to heaven ? 
 Nay, and to what thou valu'st more, earth's joy ? 
 Minds elevate, and panting for unseen, 
 
412 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 And defecate from sense, alone obtain 
 
 Full relish of existence undeflower'd, 
 
 The life of life, the zest of worldly bliss. 
 
 All else on earth amounts — to what ? To this 
 
 " Bad to be suffer'd : Blessings to be left :" 
 
 Earth's richest inventory boasts no more. 
 
 Of higher scenes be, then, the call obey'd. 
 let me gaze ! — of gazing there 's no end. 
 let me think ! thought too is wilder'd here ; 
 In midway flight imagination tires ; 
 Yet soon reprunes her wing to soar anew, 
 Her point unable to forbear, or gain ; 
 So great the pleasure, so profound the plan ! 
 A banquet, this, where men, and angels, meet, 
 Eat the same manna, mingle earth, and heaven. 
 How distant some of these nocturnal suns ! 
 So distant (says the sage), 'twere not absurd 
 To doubt, if beams, set out at nature's birth. 
 Are yet arriv'd at this so foreign world ; 
 *Tho' nothing half so rapid as their flight. 
 An eye of awe and wonder let me roll. 
 And roll forever ; who can satiate sight 
 
NIGHT IX. 413 
 
 In such a scene ? in such an ocean wide 
 
 Of deep astonishment ? where depth, height, breadth, 
 
 Are lost in their extremes ; and where to count 
 
 The thick-sown glories in this field of fire. 
 
 Perhaps a seraph's computation fails. 
 
 Now, go, ambition ! boast thy boundless might 
 
 In conquest, o'er the tenth part of a grain. 
 
 And yet Lorenzo calls for miracles, 
 To give his tott'ring faith a sohd base. 
 Why call for less than is already thine ? 
 Thou art no novice in theology : 
 What is a miracle ? — 'Tis a reproach, 
 'Tis an implicit satire, on mankind ; 
 And while it satisfies, it censures too. 
 To common sense, great nature's course proclaims 
 A deity ; when mankind falls asleep, 
 A miracle is sent, as an alarm. 
 To wake the world, and prove Him o'er again. 
 By recent argument, but not more strong. 
 Say, which imports more plentitude of power, 
 Or Nature's laws to fix, or to repeal ? 
 To make a sun, or stop his mid career ? 
 
414 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 To countermand liis orders, and send back 
 
 The flaming courier to the frighted east, 
 
 Warm'd, and astonish'd, at his ev'ning ray ? 
 
 Or bid the moon, as with her journey tir'd, 
 
 In Ajalon's soft, flow'ry vale repose ? 
 
 Great things are these ; still greater, to create. 
 
 From Adam's bow'r look down thro' the whole train 
 
 Of miracles ; — restless is their power ? 
 
 They do not, can not, more amaze the mind, 
 
 Than this, call'd unmiraculous survey. 
 
 If duly weigh'd, if rationally seen, 
 
 If seen with human eyes. The brute, indeed, 
 
 Sees nought but spangles here ; the fool, no more. 
 
 Say'st thou, " The course of nature governs all" ? 
 
 The course of nature is the art of God. 
 
 The miracles thou call'st for, this attest ; 
 
 For say, could nature nature's course control ? 
 But, miracles apart, who sees Him not. 
 
 Nature's Controller, Author, Guide, and End ? 
 
 Who turns his eye on nature's midnight face, 
 
 But must inquire — " What hand behind the scene. 
 
 What arm almighty, put these wheeling globes 
 
NIGHT IX. 415 
 
 In motion, and wound up the vast machine ? 
 
 Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs ? 
 
 Who bowl'd them flaming thro' the dark profound, 
 
 Num'rous as ghtt'ring gems of morning dew, 
 
 Or sparks from populous cities in a blaze. 
 
 And set the bosom of old night on fire ? 
 
 Peopled her desert, and made horror smile ?" 
 
 Or, if the mihtary style delights thee, 
 
 (For stars have fought their battles, leagued with man) 
 
 " Who marshals this bright host ? Enrolls their names ? 
 
 Appoints their posts, their marches, and returns, 
 
 Punctual, at stated periods ? Who disbands 
 
 These vet'ran troops, their final duty done, 
 
 If e'er disbanded ?" — He, whose potent word. 
 
 Like the loud trumpet, levy'd first their powers 
 
 In night's inglorious empire, where they slept 
 
 In beds of darkness ; arm'd them with fierce flames, 
 
 Arrang'd, and disciplin'd, and cloth'd in gold ; 
 
 And call'd them out of Chaos to the field. 
 
 Where now they war with vice and unbelief. 
 
 let us join this army ! Joining these, 
 
 Will give us heart intrepid, at that hour. 
 
416 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 When brighter flames shall cut a darker niglit ; 
 When these strong demonstrations of a God 
 Shall hide their heads, or tumble from their spheres, 
 And one eternal curtain cover all ! 
 
 Struck at that thought, as new awak'd, I lift 
 A more enlighten'd eye, and read the stars 
 To man still more propitious ; and their aid 
 (Tho' guiltless of idolatry) implore ; 
 Nor longer rob them of their noblest name. 
 ye dividers of my time ! Ye bright 
 Accomptants of my days, and months, and years, 
 In your fair calendar distinctly mark'd ! 
 Since that authentic, radiant register, 
 Tho' man inspects it not, stands good against him ; 
 Since you, and years, roll on, tho' man stands still ; 
 Teach me my days to number, and apply 
 My trembling heart to wisdom ; now beyond 
 All shadows of excuse for fooling on. 
 Age smooths our path to prudence : sweeps aside 
 The snares, keen appetite, and passion, spread 
 To catch stray souls ; and, woe to that grey head, 
 Whose folly would undo, what age has done ! 
 
NIGHT IX. 417 
 
 Aid, then, aid, all ye stars ! — much rather, Thou, 
 Great Artist ! Thou, whose finger set aright 
 This exquisite machine, with all its wheels, 
 Tho' intervolv'd, exact ; and pointing out 
 Life's rapid, and irrevocable flight, 
 With such an index fair, as none can miss, 
 Who lifts an eye, nor sleeps till it is clos'd. 
 Open mine eye, dread Deity ! to read 
 The tacit doctrine of thy works ; to see 
 Things as they are, unalter'd thro' the glass 
 Of worldly wishes. Time, eternity ! 
 ('Tis these, mismeasur'd, ruin all mankind) 
 Set them before me ; let me lay them both 
 In equal scale, and learn their various weight. 
 Let time appear a moment, as it is ; 
 And let eternity's full orb, at once, 
 Turn on my soul, and strike it into Heaven. 
 When shall I see far more than charms me now ? 
 Gaze on creation's model in thy breast 
 Unveil'd, nor wonder at the transcript more ? 
 When, this vile, foreign dust, which smothers all 
 That travel earth's deep vale, shall I shake oflf? 
 
 18* 
 
418 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 When shall my soul her incarnation quit, 
 And, re-adopted to thy blest embrace, 
 Obtain her apotheosis in Thee ? 
 
 Dost think, Lorenzo ! this is wand'ring wide ? 
 No, 'tis directly striking at the mark ; 
 To wake thy dead devotion was my point ;* 
 And how I bless night's consecrating shades. 
 Which to a temple turn a universe ; 
 Fill us with great ideas, full of Heaven, 
 And antidote the pestilential earth! 
 In ev'ry storm, that either frowns, or falls, 
 What an asylum has the soul in prayer ! 
 And what a fane is this, in which to pray ! 
 And what a God must dwell in such a fane ! 
 what a genius must inform the skies ! 
 And is Lorenzo's salamander-heart 
 Cold, and untouch'd, amid these sacred fires ? 
 ye nocturnal sparks ! ye glowing embers. 
 On Heav'n's broad hearth ! Who burn, or burn no 
 
 more. 
 Who blaze, or die, as great Jehovah's breath 
 * Page 384. 
 
NIGHT IX 419 
 
 Or blows you, or forbears ; assist my song ; 
 Pour your whole influence ; exorcise his heart, 
 So long possest ; and bring him back to man. 
 
 And is Lorenzo a demurrer still ? 
 Pride in thy parts provokes thee to contest 
 Truth, which, contested, put thy parts to shame. 
 Nor shame they more Lorenzo's head, than heart ; 
 A faithless heart, how despicably small ! 
 Too strait, aught great, or gen'rous, to receive ! 
 Fill'd with an atom ! fill'd, and foul'd, with self ! 
 And self mistaken ! self, that lasts an hour ! 
 Instincts and passions, of the nobler kind. 
 Lie suffocated there ; or they alone. 
 Reason apart, would wake high hope ; and open, 
 To ravish'd thought, that intellectual sphere. 
 Where Order, Wisdom, Goodness, Providence, 
 Their endless miracles of love display. 
 And promise all the truly great desire. 
 The mind that would be happy, must be great ; 
 Great in its wishes ; great, in its surveys. 
 Extended views a narrow mind extend ; 
 Push out its corrugate, expansive make. 
 
420 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Which, ere-long, more than planets shall embrace. 
 A man of compass makes a man of worth ; 
 Divine contemplate, and become divine. 
 
 As man was made for glory, and for bliss. 
 All littleness is an approach to woe ; 
 Open thy bosom, set thy wishes wide, 
 And let in manhood ; let in happiness ; 
 Admit the boundless theatre of thought 
 From nothing, up to God ; which makes a man. 
 Take God from nature, nothing great is left 
 Man's mind is in a pit, and nothing sees ; 
 Man's heart is in a jakes, and loves the mire. 
 Emerge from thy profound ; erect thine eye ; 
 See thy distress ! How close art thou besieg'd 
 Besieg'd by nature, the proud sceptic's foe ! 
 Inclos'd by these innumerable worlds. 
 Sparkling conviction on the darkest mind. 
 As in a golden net of Providence, 
 How art thou caught, sure captive of belief ! 
 From this thy blest captivity, what art. 
 What blasphemy to reason, sets thee free ! 
 Tliis scene is Heav'n's indulgent violence : 
 
NIGHT IX. 421 
 
 Canst thou bear up against this tide of glory ? 
 What is earth bosom'd in these ambient orbs, 
 But, faith in God impos'd, and press'd on man ? 
 Dar'st thou still litigate thy desp'rate cause, 
 Spite of these num'rous, awful, witnesses, 
 And doubt the deposition of the skies ? 
 how laborious is thy way to ruin ! 
 
 Laborious ? 'Tis impracticable quite ; 
 To sink beyond a doubt, in this debate. 
 With all his weight of wisdom, and of will, 
 And crime flagitious, I defy a fool. 
 Some wish they did ; but no man disbelieves. 
 God is a spirit : spirit cannot strike 
 These gross, material organs ; God by man 
 As much is seen, as man a God can see, 
 In these astonishing exploits of power. 
 What order, beauty, motion, distance, size ! 
 Concertion of design, how exquisite ! 
 How complicate, in their divine police ! 
 A;^t means ! great ends ! consent to gen'ral good !- 
 Each attribute of these material gods. 
 So long (and that with specious pleas) ador'd. 
 
422 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 A sep'rate conquest gains o'er rebel thought ; 
 And leads in triumph the whole mind of man. 
 
 Lorenzo ! this may seem harangue to thee ; 
 Such all is apt to seem, that thwarts our will. 
 And dost thou, then, demand a simple proof 
 Of this great master-moral of the skies, 
 Unskill'd, or disinclin'd, to read it there ? 
 Since 'tis the basis, and all drops without it. 
 Take it, in one compact, unbroken chain. 
 Such proof insists on an attentive ear ; 
 'Twill not make one amid a mob of thoughts. 
 And, for thy notice, struggle with the world. 
 
 Retire ; the world shut out ; thy thoughts call 
 
 home ; — 
 Imagination's airy wing repress ; — 
 Lock up thy senses ; — let no passion stir ; — 
 Wake all to reason ; — let her reign alone ; — 
 Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth 
 Of nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, 
 As I have done ; and shall inquire no more. 
 In nature's channel, thus the questions run. 
 
 " What am I ? and from whence ? — I nothing know, 
 
NIGHT IX. 423 
 
 But that I am ; and, since I am, conclude 
 
 Something eternal. Had there ere been nought, 
 
 Nouofht still had been : eternal there must be. — 
 
 But what eternal ? — Why not human race ? 
 
 And Adam's ancestors without an end ? — 
 
 That 's hard to be conceiv'd ; since ev'ry hnk 
 
 Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail ; 
 
 Can ev'ry part depend, and not the whole ? 
 
 Yet grant it true ; new difficulties rise ; 
 
 I 'm still quite out at sea ; nor see the shore. 
 
 Whence earth, and these bright orbs ? — ^Eternal too ? — 
 
 Grant matter was eternal ; still these orbs 
 
 Would want some other father ; — much design 
 
 Is seen in all their motions, all their makes ; 
 
 Design implies intelligence, and art : 
 
 That can't be from themselves — or man. That art 
 
 Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow ? 
 
 And nothing greater, yet allow'd, than man. — 
 
 Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, 
 
 Shot thro' vast masses of enormous weight ? 
 
 Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume 
 
 Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly ? 
 
424 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Has matter innate motion ? Then each atom. 
 
 Asserting its indisputable right 
 
 To dance, would form a universe of dust : 
 
 Has matter none ? Then whence these glorious forms. 
 
 And boundless flights, from shapeless, and repos'd ? 
 
 Has matter more than motion ? has it thought, 
 
 Judgment, and genius ? is it deeply learn'd 
 
 In mathematics ? has it fram'd such laws. 
 
 Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? — 
 
 If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, 
 
 Who think a clod inferior to a man ! 
 
 If art, to form ; and counsel, to conduct : 
 
 And that with greater far, than human skill, 
 
 Resides not in each block : — a Godhead reigns. — 
 
 Grant, then, invisible, eternal mind ; 
 
 That granted, all is solv'd. — But, granting that, 
 
 Draw I not o'er me a still darker cloud ? 
 
 Grant I not that which I can ne'er conceive ? 
 
 A being without origin, or end ! — 
 
 Hail, human liberty ! There is no God — 
 
 Yet, why ? On either scheme that knot subsists ; 
 
 Subsist it must, in God, or human race ; 
 
I GUT IX. 425 
 
 If in the last, how many knots beside, 
 Indissoluble all ? — Why choose it there. 
 Where, chosen, still subsist ten thousand more ? 
 Reject it, where, that chosen, all the rest 
 Dispers'd, leave reason's whole horizon clear ? 
 This is not reason's dictate : reason says. 
 Close with the side where one grain turns the scale ; 
 What vast preponderance is here ! Can reason 
 With louder voice exclaim — believe a God ? 
 And reason heard, is the sole mark of man. 
 What things impossible must man think true, 
 On any other system ! And how strange 
 To disbelieve, through mere credulity !" 
 
 If, in this chain, Lorenzo finds no flaw. 
 Let it forever bind him to belief. 
 And where the link, in which a flaw he finds ? — 
 And, if a God there is, that God how great !" 
 How great that pow'r whose providential care 
 Thro' these bright orbs' dark centres darts a ray ! 
 Of nature universal threads the whole ! 
 And hangs creation, like a precious gem, 
 Tho' little, on the footstool of His throne ! 
 
426 THE CONSOLATION 
 
 That little gem, how large ! A weight let fall 
 From a fixt star, in ages can it reach 
 This distant earth ? Say, then, Lorenzo ! where, 
 Where, ends this mighty building ? where, begin 
 The suburbs of creation ? where, the wall 
 Whose battlements look o'er into the vale 
 Of non-existence ? — nothing's strange abode ! 
 Say, at what point of space Jehovah dropp'd 
 His slacken'd line, and laid his balance by ; 
 Weigh'd worlds, and measured infinite, no more ? 
 Where, rears His terminating pillar high 
 Its extra-mundane head ? and says, to gods, 
 In characters illustrious as the Sun, 
 
 I stand, the plan's proud period ; I pronounce 
 The work accoraplish'd ; the creation clos'd : 
 Shout, all ye gods ; nor shout, ye gods, alone ; 
 Of all that lives, or, if devoid of life, 
 That rests, or rolls, ye heights, and depths, resound ! 
 Resound ! resound ! ye depths, and heights, resound ! 
 Hard are those questions ? — answer harder still. 
 Is this the sole exploit, the single birth. 
 The sohtary son, of pow'r divine ? 
 
NIGHT IX. 427 
 
 Or has th' Almighty Father, with a breath, 
 Impregnated the womb of distant space ? 
 Has He not bid, in various provinces, 
 Brother creations the dark bowels burst 
 Of night primaeval ; barren, now, no more ? 
 And He the central sun, transpiercing all 
 Those giant-generations, which disport, 
 And dance, as motes, in his meridian ray ; 
 That ray withdrawn, benighted, or absorb'd, 
 In that abyss of horror, whence they sprung ; 
 While chaos triumphs, repossest of all 
 Rival creation ravish'd from his throne ? 
 Chaos ! of nature both the womb, and grave ! 
 
 Think'st thou, my scheme, Lorenzo, spread too wide ? 
 Is this extravagant ? — No ; this is just ; 
 Just, in conjecture, tho' 'twere false in fact. 
 If 'tis an error, 'tis an error sprung 
 From noble root, high thought of the Most High. 
 But wherefore error ? Who can prove it such ? — 
 He that can set Omnipotence a bound. 
 Can man conceive beyond what God can do ? 
 Nothing, but quite impossible, is hard. 
 
428 THE CONSOLATION 
 
 He summons into being, with like ease, 
 
 A whole creation, and a single grain. 
 
 Speaks He the word ? a thousand worlds are born ! — 
 
 A thousand worlds ? There 's space for millions more ; 
 
 And in what space can his great fiat fail ? 
 
 Condemn me not, cold critic ! but indulge 
 
 The warm imagination. Why condemn ? 
 
 Why not indulge such thoughts, as swell our hearts 
 
 With fuller admiration of that power, 
 
 Who gives our hearts with such high thoughts to swell? 
 
 Why not indulge in His augmented praise ? 
 
 Darts not His glory a still brighter ray, 
 
 The less is left to chaos, and the realms 
 
 Of hideous night, where fancy strays aghast ! 
 
 And, tho' most talkative, makes no report ? 
 
 Still seems my thought enormous ? Think again : — 
 Experience 'self shall aid thy lame belief. 
 Glasses (that revelation to the sight !) 
 Have they not led us deep in the disclose 
 Of fine-spun nature, exquisitely small ; 
 And tho' demonstrated, still ill conceived ? 
 If, then, on the reverse, the mind would mount 
 
NIGHT IX. 429 
 
 In magnitude, what mind can mount too far. 
 To keep the balance, and creation poise 1 
 Defect alone can err on such a theme ; 
 What is too great, if we the cause survey ? 
 Stupendous Architect ! thou, thou art all ! 
 My soul flies up and down in thoughts of thee, 
 And finds herself but at the centre still ! 
 I AM, thy name ! existence, all thine own ! 
 Creation 's nothing ; flatter'd much, if styl'd 
 " The thin, the fleeting atmosphere of God." 
 
 for the voice — of what ? of whom ? — What yoice 
 Can answer to my wants, in such ascent. 
 As dares to deem one universe too small ? 
 Tell me, Lorenzo ! (for now fancy glows, 
 Fir'd in the vortex of Almighty power) 
 Is not this home creation, in the map 
 Of universal nature, as a speck. 
 Like fair Britannia in our Httle ball ; 
 Exceeding fair, and glorious, for its size. 
 But, elsewhere, far outmeasur'd, far outshone ? 
 In fancy (for the fact beyond us lies) 
 Canst thou not figure it, an isle, almost 
 
430 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Too small for notice, in the vast of being ; 
 Severed by mighty seas of unbuilt space. 
 From other realms ; from ample continents ; 
 Of higher life, where nobler natives dwell ; 
 Less Northern, less remote from Deity, 
 Glowing beneath the line of the Supreme ; 
 Where souls in excellence make haste, put forth 
 Luxuriant growths ; nor the late autumn wait 
 Of human worth, but ripen soon to gods ? 
 
 Yet why drown fancy in such depths as these ? 
 Return, presumptuous rover ! and confess 
 The bounds of man ; nor blame them, as too small. 
 Enjoy we not full scope in what is seen ? 
 Full ample the dominions of the sun ! 
 Full glorious to behold ! How far, how wide. 
 The matchless monarch, from his flaming throne. 
 Lavish of lustre, throws his beams about him, 
 Farther, and faster, than a thought can fly. 
 And feeds his planets with eternal fires ! 
 This Heliopolis, by greater far. 
 Than the proud tyrant of the Nile, was built ; 
 And He alone, who built it, can destroy. 
 
NIGHT IX. 431 
 
 Beyond this city, why strays human thought ? 
 One wonderful, enough for man to know ! 
 One infinite, enough for man to range ! 
 One firmament, enough for man to read ! 
 what voluminous instruction here ! 
 What page of wisdom is deny'd him ? None ; 
 If learning his chief lessonfmakes him wise. 
 Nor is instruction here our only gain ; 
 There dwells a noble pathos in the skies, 
 Which warms our passions, proselytes our hearts. 
 How eloquently shines the glowing pole ! 
 With what authority it gives its charge. 
 Demonstrating great truths in style sublime. 
 Tho' silent, loud ! heard earth around ; above 
 The planets heard ; and not unheard in hell ; 
 Hell has her wonder, tho' too proud to praise. 
 Is earth, then, more infernal ? has she those, 
 Who neither praise (Lorenzo !) nor admire ? 
 
 Lorenzo's admiration, pre-engag'd, 
 Ne'er ask'd the moon one question ; never ne)d 
 Least correspondence with a single star ; 
 Ne'er rear'd an altar to the queen of Heaven 
 
432 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Walking in brightness ; or her train ador'd. 
 
 Their sublunary rivals have long since 
 
 Engross'd his whole devotion ; stars malign, 
 
 Which made their fond astronomer run mad ; 
 
 Darken his intellect, corrupt his heart ; 
 
 Cause him to sacrifice his fame and peace 
 
 To momentary madness, caM'd dehght. 
 
 Idolater, more gross than ever kiss'd 
 
 The lifted hand to Luna, or pour'd out 
 
 The blood to Jove ! — Thou, to whom belongs 
 
 All sacrifice ! thou great Jove unfeign'd ! 
 
 Divine Instructor ! thy first volume, this 
 
 For man's perusal ; all in capitals ! 
 
 In moon, and stars (Heav'n's golden alphabet !) 
 
 Emblaz'd to seize the sight ; who runs, may read ; 
 
 Who reads, can understand. 'Tis unconfin'd 
 
 To Christian land, or Jewry ; fairly writ. 
 
 In language universal, to mankind : 
 
 A language, lofty to the learn'd ; yet plain,. 
 
 To those that feed the flock, or guide the plough. 
 
 Or, from its husk, strike out the bounding grain. 
 
 A language worthy the Great Mind, that speaks ! 
 
NIGHT IX. 433 
 
 Preface, and comment, to the sacred page ! 
 Which oft refers its reader to the skies, 
 As pre-supposing his first lesson there. 
 And scripture-self a fragment, that unread. 
 Stupendous book of wisdom, to the wise ! 
 Stupendous book ! and open'd, night ! by thee. 
 
 By thee much open'd, I confess, Night ! 
 Yet more I wish ; but how shall I prevail ? 
 Say, gentle night ! whose modest, maiden beams 
 Give us a new creation, and present 
 The world's great picture soften'd to the sight ; 
 Nay, kinder far, far more indulgent still, 
 Say, thou, whose mild dominion's silver key 
 Unlocks our hemisphere, and sets to view 
 Worlds beyond number ; worlds conceal'd by day 
 Behind the proud, and envious star of noon ! 
 Canst thou not draw a deeper scene ? — and show 
 The mighty potentate, to whom belong 
 These rich regalia pompously display'd 
 To kmdle that high hope ? like him of Uz, 
 I gaze around ; I search on ev'ry side — 
 for a glimpse of Him my soul adores ! 
 
 19 
 
434 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 As tlie chas'd hart, amid the desert waste, 
 
 Pants for the Hving stream ; for Him who made her, 
 
 So pants the thirsty soul, amid the blank 
 
 Of sublunary joys. Say, goddess ! where ? 
 
 Where blazes His bright court? Where burns His 
 
 Throne ? 
 Thou know'st ; for thou art near him ; by thee, round 
 His grand pavilion, sacred fame reports 
 The sable curtains drawn. If not, can none 
 Of thy fair daughter-train, so swift of wing, 
 Who travel far, discover where he dwells ? 
 A star his dwelling pointed out below. 
 Ye Pleiades ! Arcturus ! Mazeroth ! 
 And thou, Orion ! of still keener eye ! 
 Say, ye, who guide the wilder'd in the waves. 
 And bring them out of tempest into port ! 
 On which hand must I bend my course to find Him ? 
 These courtiers keep the secret of their King ; 
 I wake whole nights, in vain, to steal it from them. 
 I wake, and, waking, climb night's radiant scale. 
 From sphere to sphere ; the steps by nature set 
 For man's ascent; at once to tempt, and aid; 
 
NIGHT IX. 435 
 
 To tempt his eye, and aid his tow'ring thought ; 
 Till it arrives at the great goal of all. 
 
 In ardent contemplation's rapid car, 
 From earth as from my barrier, I set out. 
 How swift I mount ! diminish'd earth recedes : 
 I pass the moon ; and, from her further side. 
 Pierce heav'n's blue curtain ; strike into remote ; 
 Where, with his lifted tube, the subtil sage 
 His artificial, airy journey takes, 
 And to celestial lengthens human sight. 
 I pause at ev'ry planet on my road. 
 And ask for Him, who gives their orbs to roll. 
 Their foreheads fair to shine. From Saturn's ring, 
 In which, of earths an army might be lost, 
 With the bold comet, take my bolder flight, 
 Amid those sov'reign glories of the skies. 
 Of independent, native lustre, proud ; 
 The souls of systems ! and the lords of life. 
 Thro' their wide empires ! — what behold I now ? 
 A wilderness of wonders burning round ; 
 Where larger suns inhabit higher spheres ; 
 Perhaps the villas of descending gods ! 
 
436 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Nor halt I here ; my toil is but begun ; 
 
 'Tis but the threshold of the Deity ; 
 
 Or, far beneath it, I am grovelling still. 
 
 Nor is it strange : I built on a mistake ; 
 
 The grandeur of his works, whence folly sought 
 
 For aid, to reason sets his glory higher ; 
 
 Who built thus high for worms (mere worms to Him) ; 
 
 O where, Lorenzo ! must the Builder dwell ? 
 
 Pause, then ! and, for a moment, here respire — 
 If human thought can keep its station here. 
 Where am I ? — where is earth ? — nay, where art thou, 
 sun ? — Is the sun turn'd recluse ? — and are 
 His boasted expeditions short to mine ? — 
 To mine, how short ! On nature's Alps I stand. 
 And see a thousand firmaments beneath ! 
 A thousand systems ! as a thousand grains ! 
 So much a stranger, and so late arriv'd. 
 How can man's curious spirit not inquire, 
 What are the natives of this world sublime, 
 Of this so foreign, unterrestrial sphere. 
 Where mortal, untranslated, never stray'd ? 
 *' ye, as distant from my little home. 
 
NIGHT IX. 437 
 
 As swiftest sunbeams in an age can fly ! 
 
 Far from my native element I roam, 
 
 In quest of new, and wonderful, to man. 
 
 What province this, of His immense domain. 
 
 Whom all obeys ? or mortals here, or gods ? 
 
 Ye bord'rers on the coasts of bliss ! what are you ? 
 
 A colony from heav'n ? or, only rais'd. 
 
 By frequent visit from heav'n's neighboring realms. 
 
 To secondary gods, and half divine ? — 
 
 Whate'er your nature, this is past dispute. 
 
 Far other life you live, far other tongue 
 
 You talk, far other thought, perhaps, you think. 
 
 Than man. How various are the works of God ! 
 
 But say, what thought ? Is reason here enthron'd. 
 
 And absolute ? Or sense in arms against her ? 
 
 Have you two lights ? Or need you no reveal'd ? 
 
 Enjoy your happy realms their golden age ? 
 
 And had your Eden an abstemious Eve ? 
 
 Our Eve's fair daugliters prove their pedigree. 
 
 And ask their Adams — ' Who would not be wise ?' 
 
 Or, if your mother fell, are you redeem'd ? 
 
 And if redeem'd — is your Redeemer scorn'd ? 
 
438 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Is this your final residence ? if not, 
 
 Change your own scene, translated ? or by death ? 
 
 And if by death ; what death ? — ^Know you disease ? 
 
 Or horrid war ? — ^With war, this fatal hour, 
 
 Europa groans (so call we a small field, 
 
 Where kings run mad). In our world, death deputes 
 
 Intemperance to do the work of age ; 
 
 And, hanging up the quiver nature gave him, 
 
 As slow of execution, for dispatch 
 
 Sends forth imperial butchers ; bids them slay 
 
 Their sheep (the silly sheep they fleec'd before.) 
 
 And toss him twice ten thousand at a meal. 
 
 Sit all your executioners on thrones ? 
 
 With you, can rage for plunder make a god ? 
 
 And bloodshed wash out ev'ry other stain ? — 
 
 But you, perhaps, can 't bleed : from matter gross 
 
 Your spirits clean, are delicately clad 
 
 In fine-spun ether ; privileg'd to soar. 
 
 Unloaded, uninfected ; how unlike 
 
 The lot of man ! how few of human race 
 
 By their own mud unmurder'd ! how we wage 
 
 Self- war eternal ! — Is your painful day 
 
NIGHT IX. 439 
 
 Of hardy conflict o'er ? or, are you still 
 
 Raw candidates at school ? and have you those 
 
 Who disaflfect reversions, as with us ? — 
 
 But what are we ? you never heard of man. 
 
 Or earth ; the bedlam of the universe ! 
 
 Where reason (undiseas'd with you) runs mad, 
 
 And nurses folly's children as her own ; 
 
 Fond of the foulest. In the sacred mount 
 
 Of holiness, where reason is pronounc'd 
 
 Infallible ; and thunders, like a god ; 
 
 Ev'n there, by saints, the demons are outdone ; 
 
 What these think wrong, our saints refine to right ; 
 
 And kindly teach dull hell her own black arts ; 
 
 Satan, instructed, o'er their morals smiles.— 
 
 But this, how strange to you, who know not man ! 
 
 Has the least rumor of our race arriv'd ? 
 
 Call'd here Elijah, in his flaming car ? 
 
 Pass'd by you the good Enoch, on his road 
 
 To those fair fields, whence Lucifer was hurl'd ; 
 
 Who brush'd, perhaps, your sphere, in his descent, 
 
 Stain'd your pure crystal ether, or let fall 
 
 A short eclipse from his portentous shade ? 
 
440 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 ! that the fiend had lodg'd on some broad orb 
 Athwart his way ; nor reach'd his present home, 
 Then blacken'd earth with footsteps foul'd in hell, 
 Nor wash'd in ocean, as from Rome he past 
 To Britain's isle ; too, too, conspicuous there !" 
 
 But this is all digression : where is He, 
 That o'er Heav'n's battlements the felon hurl'd 
 To groans, and chains, and darkness ? where is He, 
 Who sees creation's summit in a vale ? 
 He, whom, while man is man, he can't but seek ; 
 And if he finds commences more than man ? 
 for a telescope His throne to reach ! 
 Tell me, ye learn'd on earth ! or blest above ! 
 Ye searching, ye Newtonian angels ! tell, 
 Where, your great Master's orb ? his planets, where ? 
 Those conscious statellites, those morning-stars, 
 First -bom of Deity ! from central love. 
 By veneration most profound, thrown off; 
 By sweet attraction, no less strongly drawn, 
 Aw'd, and yet raptur'd ; raptur'd, yet serene ; 
 Past thought, illustrious, but with borrow'd beams ; 
 In still approaching circles, still remote, 
 
NIGHT IX. 441 
 
 Revolving round the sun's eternal sire ? 
 Or sent in lines direct, on embassies 
 To nations — in what latitude ? — Beyond 
 Terrestrial thought's horizon ! — And on what 
 High errands sent ? — Here human effort ends ; 
 And leaves me still a stranger to His throne. 
 
 Full well it might ! I quite mistook my road, 
 Born in age more curious, than devout ; 
 More fond to fix the place of heav'n, or hell, 
 Than studious this to shun, or that secure. 
 'Tis not the curious, but the pious path. 
 That leads me to my point : Lorenzo ! know. 
 Without or star, or angel, for their guide, 
 Who worship God, shall find Him. Humble love. 
 And not proud reason, keeps the door of heav'n ; 
 Love finds admission, where proud science fails, 
 Man's science is the culture of his heart ; 
 And not to lose his plumbet in the depths 
 Of nature, or the more profound of God. 
 Either to know, is an attempt that sets 
 The wisest on a level with the fool. 
 To fathom nature, (ill-attempted here !) 
 
 19^ 
 
442 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Past doubt, is deep philosophy above ; 
 Higher degrees in bliss archangels take, 
 As deeper leam'd ; the deepest, learning still. 
 For, what a thunder of -Omnipotence 
 (So might I dare to speak) is seen in all ! 
 In man ! in earth ! in more amazing skies ! 
 Teaching this lesson, pride is loth to learn — 
 " Not deeply to discern, not much to know, 
 Mankind was born to wonder, and adore." 
 
 And there is cause for higher wonder still. 
 Than that which struck us from our past surveys ? 
 Yes ; and for deeper adoration too. 
 From my late airy travel unconfin'd. 
 Have I learned nothing ? — Yes, Lorenzo ! This : 
 Each of these stars is a religious house ; 
 I saw their altars smoke, their incense rise. 
 And heard hosannas ring through every sphere, 
 A seminary fraught wih future gods. 
 Nature all o'er is consecrated ground. 
 Teeming with growths immortal, and divine. 
 The great Proprietor's all-bounteous hand 
 Leaves nothing waste ; but sows these fiery fields 
 
NIGHT IX. 443 
 
 1 
 
 With seeds of reason, which to virtues rise 
 Beneath his genial ray ; and, if escap'd 
 The pestilential blasts of stubborn will, 
 When grown mature, are gather'd for the skies. 
 And is devotion thought too much on earth, 
 When beings, so superior, homage boast, 
 And triumph in prostrations to the throne ? 
 
 But wherefore more of planets, or of stars ? 
 Ethereal journeys, and, discovered there, 
 Ten thousand worlds, ten thousand ways devout ? 
 All nature sending incense to the throne. 
 Except the bold Lorenzos of our sphere ? 
 Op'ning the solemn sources of my soul. 
 Since I have pour'd, like feign'd Eridanus, 
 My flowing numbers o'er the flaming skies, 
 Nor see, of fancy, or of fact, what more, 
 ' Invites the muse — here turn we, and review 
 Our past nocturnal landscape wide : — then, say. 
 Say, then, Lorenzo ! with what burst of heart, 
 The whole, at once, revolving in his thought, 
 Must man exclaim, adoring, and aghast ? 
 " what a root ! what a branch is here ! 
 
444 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 what a Father ! what a family ! 
 
 Worlds ! systems ! and creations ! — and creations, 
 
 In one agglomerated cluster, hung, 
 
 Great Vine !* on thee ; on thee the cluster hangs ; 
 
 The filial cluster ! infinitely spread 
 
 In glowing globes, with various being fraught ; 
 
 And drinks (nectareous draught!) immortal life. 
 
 Or, shall I say (for who can say enough ?) 
 
 A constellation of ten thousand gems, 
 
 (And, ! of what dimension ! of what weight !) 
 
 Set in one signet, flames on the right hand 
 
 Of Majesty divine ! the blazing seal, 
 
 That deeply stamps on all created mind. 
 
 Indelible, His sovereign attributes. 
 
 Omnipotence, and love ; that, passing bound ; 
 
 And this, surpassing that. Nor stop we here 
 
 For want of pow'r in God, but thought in man. 
 
 Even this acknowledg'd, leaves us still in debt ; 
 
 If greater aught, that greater all is thine. 
 
 Dread Sire ! — accept this miniature of thee ; , 
 
 * John XV. 1. 
 
NIGHT IX. 445 
 
 And pardon an attempt from mortal thought, 
 
 In which archangels might have failed, unblamed." 
 
 How such ideas of th' Almighty's pow'r. 
 And such ideas of th' Almighty's plan,, 
 (Ideas not absurd) distend the thought 
 Of feeble mortals ! nor of them alone ! 
 The fulness of the Deity breaks forth 
 In inconceivable to men, and gods. 
 Think, then ; think ; nor ever drop the thought ; 
 How low must man descend, when gods adore ! — 
 Have I not, then, accomplish'd my proud boast ? 
 Did I not tell thee,* " we would mount, Lorenzo ? 
 And kindle our devotion at the stars ?" 
 
 And have I fail'd ? and did I flatter thee ? 
 And art all adamant ? and dost confute 
 All urg'd, with one irrefragable smile ? 
 Lorenzo ! mirth how miserable here ! 
 Swear by the stars, by Him who made them, swear, 
 Thy heart, henceforth, shall be as pure as they : 
 Then thou, like them, shalt shine ; like them, shalt rise 
 From low to lofty ; from obscure to bright ; 
 
 * Page 384. 
 
446 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 By due gradation, Nature's sacred law. 
 
 The stars, from whence ? — ask Chaos — he can teli. 
 
 These bright temptations to idolatry, 
 
 From darkness, and confusion, took their birth ; 
 
 Sons of deformity ! From fluid dregs 
 
 Tartarean, first they rose to masses rude ; 
 
 And then to spheres opaque ; then dimly shone ; 
 
 Then brighten'd ; then blaz'd out in perfect day. 
 
 Nature delights in progress ; in advance 
 
 From worse to better : but, when minds ascend, 
 
 Progress, in part, depends upon themselves. 
 
 Heav'n aids exertion ; greater makes the great ; 
 
 The voluntary little lessens more. 
 
 be a man ! and thou shalt be a god ! 
 
 And half self-made ! — ambition how divine ! 
 
 thou, ambitious of disgrace alone ! 
 Still undevout ? unkindled ?— Tho' high taught, 
 School'd by the skies ; and pupil of the stars ; 
 Rank coward to the fashionable world ! 
 Art thou asham'd to bend thy knee to heaven ? 
 Curst fume of pride, exhaled from deepest hell ! 
 Pride in religion is man's highest praise. 
 
N I a F T IX. 447 
 
 Bent on destruction ! and in love with death ! 
 Not ;J1 these luminaries quench'd at once, 
 Were half so sad as one benighted mind ! 
 Which gropes for happiness, and meets despair. 
 How, like a widow in her weeds, the night, 
 Amid her glimm'ring tapers, silent sits ! 
 How sorrowful, how desolate, she weeps 
 Perpetual dews, and saddens nature's scene ! 
 A scene more sad sin makes the darken'd soul ; 
 All comfort kills, nor leaves one spark alive. 
 Tho' blind of heart, still open is thine eye : 
 f Why such magnificence in all thou seest ? 
 Of matter's grandeur, know, one end is this. 
 To tell the rational, who gazes on it — 
 " Tho' that immensely great, still greater he. 
 Whose breast, capacious, can embrace, and lodge, 
 Unburden'd, nature's universal scheme ; 
 Can grasp creation with a single thought ; 
 Creation grasp ; and not exclude its Sire" — 
 To tell him farther — " It behoves him much 
 To guard th' important, yet-depending fate 
 Of being, brighter than a thousand suns ; 
 
448 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 One single ray of thought outshines them all."— 
 And if man hears obedient, soon he'll soar 
 Superior heights, and on his purple wing. 
 His purple wing bedrop'd with eyes of gold, 
 Rising, where thought is now denied to rise. 
 Look down triumphant on these dazzling spheres. 
 
 Why then persist ? — no mortal ever liv'd 
 But, dying, he pronounc'd (when words are true !) 
 The whole that charms thee, absolutely vain ; 
 Vain and far worse ! — Think thou, with dying men ; 
 condescend to think as angels think ! 
 O tolerate a chance for happiness ! 
 Our nature such, ill choice ensures ill fate ; 
 And hell had been, tho' there had been no God. 
 Dost thou not know, my new astronomer ! 
 Earth, turning from the sun, brings night to man ? 
 Man, turning from his God, brings endless night ; 
 Where thou canst read no morals, find no friend, 
 Amend no manners, and expect no peace. 
 How deep the darkness ! and the groan, how loud ! 
 And far, how far, from lambent are the flames ! 
 Such is Lorenzo's purchase ! such his praise ! 
 
NIGHT IX. 449 
 
 The proud, the politic, Lorenzo's praise ! 
 Tho' in his ear, and level'd at his heart, 
 I 've half read o'er the volume of the skies. 
 
 For think not thou hast heard all this from me ; 
 My song but echoes what great Nature speaks ; 
 What has she spoken ? Thus the goddess spoke, 
 Thus speaks forever : — " Place at nature's head, 
 A sov'reign, which o'er all things rolls his eye, 
 Extends his wing, promulgates his commands. 
 But, above all, diffuses endless good ; 
 To whom, for sure redress, the wrong'd may fly ; 
 The vile, for mercy ; and the pain'd, for peace ; 
 By whom the various tenants of these spheres. 
 Diversified in fortunes, place, and powers, 
 Rais'd in enjoyment, as in worth they rise. 
 Arrive at length (if worthy such approach) 
 At that blest fountain-head, from which they stream 
 Where conflict past redoubles present joy ; 
 And present joy looks forward on increase ; 
 And that on more ; no period ! ev'rr ip 
 A double boon ! a promise, and a bliss." 
 How easy sits this scheme on human hearts ! 
 
450 THE CONBOLATION. 
 
 It suits their make ; it soothes their vast desires ; 
 
 Passion is pleas'd ; and reason asks no more ; 
 
 'Tis rational ! 'tis great ! — But what is thine ? 
 
 It darkens ! shocks ! excruciates ! and confounds ! 
 
 Leaves us quite naked, both of help, and hope. 
 
 Sinking from bad to worse ; few years, the sport 
 
 Of fortune ; then, the morsel of despair. 
 
 Say, then, Lorenzo ! (for thou know'st it well) 
 
 What 's vice ? — Mere want of compass in our thought. 
 
 Religion, what ? — The proof of common-sense ; 
 
 How art thou hooted, where the least prevails ! 
 
 Is it my fault, if these truths call thee fool ? 
 
 And thou shalt never be miscall'd by me. 
 
 Can neither shame, nor terror, stand thy friend ? 
 
 And art thou still an insect in the mire ? 
 
 How, like thy guardian angel, have I flown ; 
 
 Snatch'd thee from earth ; escorted thee thro' all 
 
 Th' ethereal armies ; walk'd thee, like a god, 
 
 Thro' splendors of first magnitude, arrang'd 
 
 On either hand ; clouds thrown beneath thy feet ; 
 
 Close-cruis'd on the bright Paradise of God ; 
 
 And almost introduced thee to the Throne ! 
 
NIGHT IX. 451 
 
 And art thou still carousing, for delight, 
 Rank poison ; first, fermenting to mere froth, 
 And then subsiding into final gall ? 
 To beings of sublime, immortal make. 
 How shocking is all joy, whose end is sure ! 
 Such joy more shocking still, the more it charms ! 
 And dost thou choose what ends, ere well begun ? 
 And infamous, as short ? And dost thou choose 
 (Thou, to whose palate glory is so sweet) 
 To wade into perdition, thro' contempt, 
 Not of poor bigots only, but thy own ? 
 For I have peep'd into thy cover'd heart, 
 And seen it blush beneath a boastful brow ; 
 For, by strong guilt's most violent assault. 
 Conscience is but disabled, not destroy'd. 
 
 thou most awful being and most vain ! 
 Thy will, how frail ! how glorious is thy power ! 
 Tho' dread Eternity has sown her seeds 
 Of bhss, and woe, in thy despotic breast ; 
 Tho' Heav'n, and hell, depend upon thy choice ; 
 A butterfly comes 'cross, and both are fled. 
 Is this a picture of a rational ? 
 
452 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 This horrid image, shall it be most just ? 
 Lorenzo ! No it cannot, — shall not be, 
 If there is force in reason ; or, in sounds 
 Chanted beneath the glimpses of the moon, 
 A magic, at this planetary hour. 
 When slumber locks the general lip, and dreams 
 Thro' senseless mazes, hunt souls uninspired. 
 Attend — the sacred mysteries begin — 
 My solemn night-born adjuration hear ; 
 Hear, and I '11 raise thy spirit from the dust ; 
 While the stars gaze on this enchantment new ; 
 Enchantment, not infernal, but divine ! 
 
 " By silence, death's peculiar attribute ; 
 By darkness, guilt's inevitable doom ; 
 By darkness, and by silence, sisters dread ! 
 That draw the curtain round night's ebon throne, 
 And raise ideas, solemn as the scene ; 
 By night, and all of awful, night presents 
 To thought, or sense (of awful much, to both. 
 The goddess brings !) by these her trembling fires, 
 Like Vesta's, ever burning ; and, like her's, 
 Sacred to thoughts immaculate, and pure ! 
 
NIGHT IX. 453 
 
 By these bright orators, that prove, and praise. 
 
 And press thee to revere, the Deity, 
 
 Perhaps, too, aid thee, when revered awhile. 
 
 To reach his throne ; as stages of the soul, 
 
 Thro' which, at different periods, she shall pass. 
 
 Refining gradual, for her final height. 
 
 And purging off some dross at every sphere ! 
 
 By this dark pall thrown o'er the silent world ! 
 
 By the world's kings, and kingdoms most renowned. 
 
 From short ambition's zenith set forever ; 
 
 Sad presage to vain boasters now in bloom ! 
 
 By the long list of swift mortality, 
 
 From Adam downward to this ev'ning's knell, 
 
 Which midnight waves in fancy's startled ey-e ; 
 
 And shocks her with a hundred centuries 
 
 Round death's black banner throng'd, in human 
 
 thought ! 
 By thousands now resigning their last breath. 
 And calling thee — wert thou so wise to hear ! 
 By tombs o'er tombs arising ; human earth ; 
 Ejected to make room for — human earth ; 
 The monarch's terror ! and the sexton's trade ! 
 
454 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 By pompous obsequies, that shun the day, 
 The torch funereal, and the nodding plume. 
 Which makes poor man's humiliation proud , 
 Boast of our ruin ! triumph of our dust ! 
 By the damp vault that weeps o'er royal bones ; 
 And the pale lamp, that shows the ghastly dead, 
 More ghastly, thro' the thick incumbent gloom ! 
 By visits (if there are) from darker scenes. 
 The gliding spectre, and the groaning grove ! 
 By groans, and graves, and miseries that groan 
 For the grave's shelter ! by desponding men, 
 Senseless to pains of death, from pangs of guilt ! 
 By guilt's last audit ! by yon moon in blood. 
 The rocking firmament, the falling stars, 
 And thunder's last discharge, great nature's knell ! 
 By second chaos; and eternal night" — 
 Be wise — nor let Philander blame my charm ; 
 But own not ill- discharged my double debt. 
 Love to the living ; duty to the dead. 
 
 For know, I 'm but executor ; he left 
 This moral legacy ; I make it o'er 
 By his command ; Philander hear in me ; 
 
NIGHT IX. 455 
 
 And heav'n in both. If deaf to tliese, oh ! hear 
 
 Florello's tender voice ; his weal depends 
 
 On thy resolve ; it trembles at thy choice ; 
 
 For his sake love thyself : example strikes 
 
 All human hearts ; a bad example more ; 
 
 More still, a father's ; that ensures his ruin. 
 
 As parent of his being, wouldst thou prove 
 
 Th' unnatural parent of his miseries. 
 
 And make him curse the being which thou gav'st ? 
 
 Is this the blessing of so fond a father ? 
 
 If careless of Lorenzo ! spare, oh ! spare, 
 
 Florello's father, and Philander's friend ; 
 
 Florello's father ruin'd, ruins him ; 
 
 And from Philander's friend the world expects 
 
 A conduct, no dishonor to the dead. 
 
 Let passion do, what nobler motive should ; 
 
 Let love, and emulation, rise in aid 
 
 To reason — and persuade thee to be — blest. 
 
 This seems not a request to be denied ; 
 Yet (such th' infatuation of mankind !) 
 'Tis the most hopeless, man can make to man. 
 Shall I, then, rise in argument, and warmth ; 
 
456 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 And urge Philander's postlmmous advice, 
 
 From topics yet unbroach'd ? — 
 
 But oh ! I faint ! my spirits fail ! — nor strange ; 
 
 So long on wing, and in no middle clime ; 
 
 To which my great Creator's glory call'd : 
 
 And calls, but, now, in vain. Sleep's dewy wand, 
 
 Has strok'd my drooping lids, and promises 
 
 My long arrear of rest ; the downy god 
 
 (Wont to return with our returning peace) 
 
 Will pay, ere long, and bless me with repose. 
 
 Haste, haste, sweet stranger ! from the peasant's cot, 
 
 The ship-boy's hammock, or the soldier's straw. 
 
 Whence sorrow never chased thee ; with thee bring 
 
 Not hideous visions, as of late ; but draughts 
 
 Delicious of well-tasted, cordial rest ; 
 
 Man's rich restorative ; his balmy bath, 
 
 That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play, 
 
 The various movements of this nice machine. 
 
 Which asks such frequent periods of repair. 
 
 When tir'd with vain rotations of the day ; 
 
 Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn ; 
 
 Fresh we spin on, till sickness clogs our wheels, 
 
NIGHT IX. 457 
 
 Or death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends. 
 When will it end with me ? 
 
 — " Thou only know'st, 
 Thou, whose broad eye the future and the past, 
 Joins to the present, making one of three 
 To mortal thought ! Thou know'st, and thou alone, 
 All-knowing ! — all-unknown ! — and yet well known ! 
 Near, tho' remote ! and, tho' unfathom'd, felt ! 
 And, tho' invisible, forever seen ! 
 And seen in all ! the great, and the minute : 
 Each globe above, with its gigantic race. 
 Each flow'r, each leaf, with its small people swarm'd, 
 (Those puny vouchers for Omnipotence !) 
 To the first thought, tliat asks ' from whence ?' declare 
 Their common source. Thou fountain running o'er 
 In rivers of communicated joy ! 
 Who gav'st us speech for far, far humbler themes ! 
 Say, by what name shall I presume to call 
 Him I see burning in these countless suns. 
 As Moses in the bush ? Illustrious Mind ! 
 The whole creation less, far less, to thee. 
 Than that to the creation's ample round. 
 
 20 
 
458 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 How shall I name thee ? — how my laboring soul 
 Heaves underneath the thought, too big for birth ! 
 " Great System of Perfections ! mighty Cause 
 Of causes mighty ! Cause uncaus'd ! sole Root 
 Of nature, that luxuriant growth of God ! 
 First Father of effects ! that progeny 
 Of endless series ; where the golden chain's 
 Last link admits a period, who can tell ? 
 Father of all that is or heard, or hears ! 
 Father of all that is or seen, or sees ! 
 Father of all that is, or shall arise ! 
 Father of this immeasurable mass 
 Of matter multiform ; or dense, or rare ; 
 Opaque, or lucid ; rapid, or at rest ; 
 Minute, or passing bound ! in each extreme 
 Of like amaze, and mystery, to man. 
 Father of these bright millions of the night ! 
 Of which the least full godhead had proclaim'd, 
 And thrown the gazer on his knee — or, say. 
 Is appellation higher still, thy choice ? 
 Father of matter's temporary lords ' 
 Father of spirits ! nobler offspring ! sparks 
 
NIGHT IX. 459 
 
 Of high paternal glory ; rich endow'd 
 
 With various measures, and with various modes 
 
 Of instinct, reason, intuition ; beams 
 
 More pale, or bright from day divine, to break 
 
 The dark of matter organiz'd (the ware 
 
 Of all created spirit) ; beams, that rise 
 
 Each over other in superior light. 
 
 Till the last ripens into lustre strong. 
 
 Of next approach to Godhead. Father fond 
 
 (Far fonder than e'er bore that name on earth) 
 
 Of intellectual beings ! beings blest 
 
 With pow'rs to please thee ; not of passive ply 
 
 To laws they know not ; beings lodg'd in seats 
 
 Of well-adapted joys ; in diff' rent domes 
 
 Of this imperial palace for thy sons ; 
 
 Of this proud, populous, well-policied, 
 
 Tho' boundless habitation, plann'd by Thee ; 
 
 Whose several clans their several cKmates suit , 
 
 And transposition, doubtless, would destroy. 
 
 Or, oh ! indulge, immortal King ! indulge 
 
 A title, less august indeed, but more 
 
 Endearing ; ah ! how sweet in human ears ! 
 
460 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 Sweet in our ears ! and triumph in our hearts ! 
 Father of immortahty to man ! 
 A therae that lately* set my soul on fire. 
 And Thou the next ! yet equal ; Thou, by whom 
 That blessing" was convey'd ; far more ! was bought ; 
 Ineffable the price ! by whom all worlds 
 Were made ; and one, redeem'd ! illustrious Light 
 From Light illustrious ! Thou, whose regal power, 
 Finite in time, but infinite in space. 
 On more than adamantine basis fix'd. 
 O'er more, far more, than diadems, and thrones, 
 Inviolably reigns : the dread of gods ! 
 And oh ! the Friend of man ! beneath whose foot, 
 And by the mandate of whose awful nod. 
 All regions, revolutions, fortunes, fates. 
 Of high, of low, of mind, and matter, roll 
 Thro' the short channels of expiring time, 
 Or shoreless ocean of eternity. 
 Calm, or tempestuous, (as thy spirit breathes) 
 In absolute subjection ! — And, Thou 
 The glorious third ! distinct, not separate ! 
 * Night the Sixth and Seventh. 
 
 ■J'- 
 
 Q 
 
NIGHT IX. 461 
 
 Beaming from both ! with both incorporate ! 
 
 And (strange to tell !) incorporate with dust ! 
 
 By condescension, as thy glory, great, 
 
 Enshrin'd in man ! of human hearts, if pure. 
 
 Divine inhabitant ! the tie divine 
 
 Of heav'n with distant earth ! by whom, I trust, 
 
 (If not inspir'd) uncensur'd this address 
 
 To Thee, to them — to whom ? — mysterious power! 
 
 Reveal'd — yet unreveal'd ! darkness in light ! 
 
 Number in unity ! our joy ! our dread ! 
 
 The triple bolt that lays all wrong in ruin ! 
 
 That animates all right, the triple sun ! 
 
 Sun of the soul ! her never-setting sun ! 
 
 Triune, unutterable, unconceiv'd, 
 
 Absconding, yet demonstrable, great God ! 
 
 Greater than greatest ! better than the best ! 
 
 Kinder than kindest ! with soft pity's eye, 
 
 Or (stronger still to speak it) with thine own. 
 
 From thy bright home, from that high firmament, 
 
 Where thou, from all eternity, hast dwelt ; 
 
 Beyond archangels' unassisted ken ; 
 
 From far above what mortals highest call ; 
 
462 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 From elevation's pinnacle ; look down, 
 
 Through — what ? confounding interval ! thro' all, 
 
 And more, than lab'ring fancy can conceive ; 
 
 Thro' radiant ranks of essences unknown ; 
 
 Thro' hierarchies from hierarchies detach'd 
 
 Round various banners of Omnipotence, 
 
 With endless change of rapturous duties fir'd ; 
 
 Thro' wond'rous beings' interposing swarms, 
 
 All clust'ring at the call, to dwell in Thee ; 
 
 Thro' this wide waste of worlds ; this vista vast. 
 
 All sanded o'er with suns ; suns turn'd to night 
 
 Before thy feeblest beam — look down — down — down, 
 
 On a poor breathing particle in dust, 
 
 Or, lower, — an immortal in his crimes. 
 
 His crimes forgive ! forgive his virtues, too ! 
 
 Those smaller faults ; half-converts to the right. 
 
 Nor let me close these eyes, which never more 
 
 May see the sun (tho' night's descending scale 
 
 Now weighs up morn), unpitied, and unblest ! 
 
 In thy displeasure dwells eternal pain ; 
 
 Pain, our aversion ; pain, which strikes me now ; 
 
 And, since all pain is terrible to man, 
 
NIGHT IX. 463 
 
 Tho* transient, terrible ; at thy good hour, 
 Gently, ah gently, lay me in my bed. 
 My cJay-cold bed ! by nature, now, so near ; 
 By nature, near ; still nearer by disease ! 
 Till then, be this, an emblem of my grave ; 
 Let it out- preach the preacher ; ev'ry night 
 Let it outcry the boy at Philip's ear ; 
 That tongue of death ! that herald of the tomb ! 
 And whsn (the shelter of thy wing implored) 
 My senses, sooth'd, shall sink in soft repose ; 
 sink this truth still deeper in my soul, 
 Suggested by my pillow, sign'd by fate. 
 First, in fate's volume, at the page of man — 
 Man's sickly soul, tho' turn'd and toss'd forever, 
 From side to side, can rest on nought but Thee ; 
 Here, in full trust ; hereafter, in full joy. 
 On Thee, the promis'd, sure, eternal down 
 Of spirits toil'd in travel thro' this vale. 
 Nor of that pillow shall my soul despond ; 
 For — love almighty ! love almighty (sing. 
 Exult, creation !) love almighty, reigns ! 
 
464 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 That death of death ! that cordial of despair ! 
 And loud eternity's triumphant song ! 
 
 " Of whom, no more : — for, O thou Patron- God ! 
 Thou God, and Mortal ! thence more God to man ! 
 Man's theme eternal ! man's eternal theme ! 
 Thou canst not 'scape uninjur'd from our praise. 
 Uninjur'd from our praise can He escape, 
 Who, disembosom'd from the Father, bows 
 The Heav'n of Heav'ns, to kiss the distant earth, 
 Breathes out in agonies a sinless soul ! 
 Against the cross death's iron sceptre breaks ! 
 From famish'd ruin plucks her human prey ! 
 Throws wide the gates celestial to his foes ! 
 Their gratitude, for such a boundless debt. 
 Deputes their suff' ring brothers to receive ! 
 And, if deep human guilt in payment fails ; 
 As deeper guilt, prohibits our despair ! 
 Injoins it, as our duty, to rejoice ! 
 And (to close all), omnipotently kind. 
 Takes his dehghts among the sons of Men."* 
 
 * Prov, chap, viii. 
 
NIGHT IX. 465 
 
 What words are these ! — And did they come from 
 Heaven ? 
 And were they spoke to man ? to guilty man ? 
 What are all mysteries to love like this ! 
 The song of Angels, all the melodies 
 Of choral gods, are wafted in the sound ; 
 Heal and exhilarate the broken heart, 
 Tho' plung'd, before, in horrors dark as night ; 
 Rich prelibation of consummate joy ! 
 Nor wait we dissolution to be blest. 
 
 This final effort of the moral muse, 
 How justly titled !* nor for me alone ; 
 For all that read ; what spirit of support, 
 What heights of Consolation, crown my song ? 
 
 Then, farewell Night ! of darkness, now, no more : 
 Joy breaks, shines, triumphs ; 'tis eternal Day. 
 Shall that which rises out of nought complain 
 Of a few evils, paid with endless joys ? 
 
 * The Consolation. 
 
 20* 
 
466 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 My soul ! henceforth, in sweetest union join 
 The two supports of human happiness, 
 Which some, erroneous, think can never meet ; 
 True taste of hfe, and constant thought of death ; 
 The thought of death, sole victor of its dread ; 
 Hope be thy joy, and probity thy skill ; 
 Thy patron, he, whose diadem has dropp'd 
 Yon gems of Heav'n ; eternity, thy prize; 
 And leave the racers of the world their own. 
 Their feather, and their froth, for endless toils : 
 They part with all for that which is not bread ; 
 They mortify, they starve, on wealth, fame, power ; 
 And laugh to scorn the fools that aim at more. 
 How must a spirit late escap'd from earth, 
 Suppose Philander's, Lucia's, or Narcissa's, 
 The truth of things, new blazing in its eye, 
 Look back, astonish'd, on the ways of men. 
 Whose lives' whole drift is to forget their graves ! 
 And when our present privilege is past, 
 To scourge us with due sense of its abuse. 
 The same -astonishment will seize us all. 
 What then must pain us, would preserve us now. 
 
NIGHT IX. 467 
 
 Lorenzo ! 'tis not yet too late : Lorenzo ! 
 Seize wisdom, ere 'tis torment to be wise ; - 
 That is, seize wisdom, ere she seizes thee. 
 For, what, my small philosoper ! is hell ! 
 'Tis nothing but full knowledge of the truth. 
 When truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe ; 
 And calls eternity to do her right. 
 
 Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light. 
 And sacred silence whisp'ring truths divine, 
 And truths divine converting pain to peace, 
 My song the midnight raven has outwing'd. 
 And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes, 
 Beyond the flaming limits of the world, 
 Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight 
 Of fancy when our hearts remam below ? 
 Virtue abounds in flatterers, and foes ; 
 Tis pride, to praise her ; penance, to perform. 
 To more than words, to more than worth of tongue, 
 Lorenzo ! rise, at this auspicious houi' ; 
 An hour, when Heav'n 's most intimate with man ; 
 When, like a falling star, the ray divine 
 Glides swift into the bosom of the just ; 
 
468 THE CONSOLATION. 
 
 And just are all, determin'd to reclaim ; 
 Which sets that title high, within thy reach. 
 Awake, then, thy Philander calls : awake ! 
 Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps ; 
 When, like a taper, all these suns expire ; 
 When time, like him of Gaza in his wrath. 
 Plucking the pillars that support the world. 
 In nature's ample ruins lies entom'd ; 
 And midnight, universal midnight ! reigns. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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