Stack Annex PR 3782 N56 1822 / '/,;, . ,,], , /,,-/,-, ,,/ '/,,//,/ ' / .' ../ 27 THE COMPLAINT ; OR, ON LIFE, DEATH, $ IMMORTALITY. By EDWARD YOUNG, LL.D. (2Ta tafncfj is abDrt), A PARAPHRASE ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. Honfcon : PRINTED FOR WALKER 4- CO. PATERNOSTER-ROW. 1822. W. WILSON, Printer, 4, Greville-Street, London. Annex \%22- MEMOIRS OF DR. EDWARD YOUNG. THIS celebrated and excellent writer was the son of Dr. Edward Young, a learned and emi- nent divine, who was dean of Sarum, Fellow of Winchester College, and Rector of Upham, in Hampshire. Our author was born at Upham, in the year 1681, and had his education at Win- chester College, till he was chosen on the founda- tion of New College, Oxford, October 13, 1703, but removed in less than a year to Corpus Christi, where he entered himself a Gentleman Commoner. Archbishop Tennison put him into a law fellowship in 1708, in the college of All Souls. He took the degree of Bachelor in 1714, and became LL. D. in 1719. His tragedy of Busiris came out the same year; the Revenge in 1721 ; the Brothers in 1723 ; and soon after, his elegant poem of the Last Day, which engaged the greater attention for being written by a layman. The 2Q U* iv MEMOIRS OF Force of Religion, or Vanquished Love, a poem, also gave much pleasure. These works procured him the friendship of some among the nobility, and the patronage of the Duke of Wharton, by whom he was induced to stand a candidate for a seat in parliament for Cirencester, but without success. The bias of his mind was strongly turned towards divinity, which drew him away from the law before he had begun to practise. On his taking orders, he was appointed chaplain in ordinary to George IT. in April, 1728. His first work in his new character was a Vindication of Providence, published, as well as his Estimate of Human Life, in quarto. Soon after, in 1730, his college presented him to the rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, worth 300 /. per annum, besides the lordship of the manor which pertained to it. He married Lady Betty Lee, widow of Col. Lee, in 1731. She was daughter of the Earl of Litchfield. By her he had a son. Notwithstanding the high estimation in which he was held, his familiar intercourse with many of the first rank, his being a great favourite of Frederic Prince of Wales, and paying a pretty constant attendance at court, he never rose to higher preferment, if, however, we except his being made clerk of the closet to the Princess DR. EDWARD YOUNG. v Dowager of Wales in 1761, when he was four- score years of age. His fine poem of the Night Thoughts, it is well known, was occasioned by a family distress; the loss of his wife and the two children, a son and a daughter, whom she had by her first hus- band : these all died within a short time of each other in 1741. The son-in-law is characterized in this work by the name of Philander, and the young lady, who sunk into a decline through grief for the loss of her mother, by that of Nar- cissa. He removed her, in hope of her deriving benefit from a warmer climate, to Montpelier, in the south of France ; but she died soon after their arrival in that city. The circumstance of his being obliged to bury her in a field by night, not being allowed interment in a church -yard, on account of her being a Protestant, is indelibly recorded in Night III. of this divine poem. He was upwards of eighty when he wrote his Conjectures on Original Composition, in which many beauties appear, notwithstanding the age of its author; and Resignation, his last poem, contains proofs in every stanza, that it was not written with decayed faculties. He died at the parsonage-house, at Welwyn, April 12, 1765, aged eighty-four years, and was buried under vi MEMOIRS OF the altar-piece of that church, by the side of his wife. By his own desire, he was followed by all the poor of the parish, without any tolling- of the bells, or any person appearing 1 at his funeral in mourning 1 . He had caused all his manuscripts to be destroyed before his death. He left the whole of his fortune, which was pretty conside- rable, with the exception of a few legacies, to his son, Mr. Frederic Young, though he would never see him in his life-time, owing- to his displeasure at his imprudent conduct at college, for which he had been expelled. His character was that of the true Christian Divine; his heart was in his profession. It is reported, that once preaching- in his turn at St. James's, and being unable to g-ain attention, he sat down, and burst into tears. His conversation was of the same nature as his works, and shewed a solemn cast of thought to be natural to him : death, futurity, judgment, eternity, were his common topics. When at home in the country, he spent many hours in the day walking- among the graves in the church-yard. In his garden he had an alcove, painted as if with a bench to repose on ; on approaching near enough to dis- cover the deception, the following motto was seen : DR. EDWARD YOUNG. vii " Invisibilia noil decipiunt." " The unseen things do not deceive us." In his poem of the Last Day, one of his earliest works, he calls his muse " the Melancholy Maid, " whom dismal scenes delight, " Frequent at tombs, and in the realms of night." Grafton is said by Spence to have made him a present of a human skull, with a candle in it, to serve him for a lamp ; and he is reported to have used it. \et he promoted an assembly and bowling-green in his parish, and often attended them. He would indulge in occasional sallies of wit, of which his well-known epigram on Voltaire* is a specimen ; but perhaps there was more of indignation than pleasantry in it, as his satire was ever pointed against indecency and irreligion. His satires, intituled the Love of Fame, or the Universal Passion, is a great per- formance. The shafts of his wit are directed against the folly of being devoted to the fashion, and aiming to appear what we are not. We meet here with smoothness of style, pointed sen- tences, solid sentiments, and the sharpness of resistless truth. The Night-Thoughts abound in the most ex- * " Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin, " Thou seem'st a Milton with his Death and Sin.' viii MEMOIRS, &c. alted flights, the utmost stretch of human thought, which is the great excellence of Young's poetry. " In his Night-Thoughts," says a great critic, " he has exhibited a very wide display of origi- nal poetry, variegated with deep reflections and striking allusions, a wilderness of thought, in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue and of every odour." It must be allowed, however, that many of these fine thoughts are overcast with the gloom of melancholy, so as to have an effect rather to be dreaded by minds of a morbid hue : they paint, notwithstanding*, with the most lively fancy, the feelings of the heart, the vanity of human things, its fleeting honours and enjoyments, and contain the strongest arguments in support of the immortality of the soul. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. To THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ARTHUR ONSLOW, ESQ. SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. TIR'D 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 pinions flies from woe, And lights on lids imsully'd with a tear. From short (as usual) and disturb'd 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 fancy'd misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost, Tho* now restor'd, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change !) severer for severe. The day too short for my distress ; and night, B 2 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. Ev'n in the zenith of her dark domain, Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, In ray less majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound ! Nor eye nor list'ning ear an object finds ; Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause ; An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. And let her prophesy be soon fulfilled : 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 grave ; The grave, your kingdom : there this frame shall fall 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 ; O 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. Thro' this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. O lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its woe) ON LIFE, DEATH, & IMMORTALITY. : Lead it thro' 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 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 dispatch : 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 complicate, how wonderful, is man ! How passing wonder HE who made him such ! Who center'd in our make such strange extremes ! From difFrent natures, marvellously mix'd, Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ! Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain ! Midway from nothing to the Deity ! A beam ethereal, sully'd and absorpt ! Tho' sully'd and dishonour'd, still divine ! 4 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. 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, surpris'd, aghast. And wond'ring at her own. How reason reels ! O what a miracle to man is man, Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy ! what dread ! Alternately transported and alarmed ! 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 spread, What tho' 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 scal'd the cliff, or danc'd on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain ? Her ceaseless flight, tho' devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod, Active, aerial, tow'ring, unconfin'd, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Ev'n silent night proclaims my soul immortal ; Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal day. For human weal heav'n husbands all events : 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. ON LIFE, DEATH, & IMMORTALITY. 5 In infidel distress ? Are angels there ? Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire ? They live, they greatly live a life on earth Unkindled, unconcciv'd, and from an eye Of tenderness, let heav'nly pity fall On me, more justly numbered 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 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 must be till we burst the shell, Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life, The life of Gods (O 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, 6 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. Where seraphs gather immortality, On Life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. What golden joys ambrosial clust'ring glow, In His full beam, and ripen for the just, Where momentary ages are no more ! Where 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, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. Where falls this censure ? It o'erwhelms myself. How was my heart incrusted by the world ! O how self-fettered 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 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 pictur'd joys ! ON LIFE, DEATH, & IMMORTALITY. 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. O 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. Safe are you lodg'd above these rolling spheres ; The baleful influence of whose giddy dance Sheds sad vicissitude on all beneath. Here teems with revolutions ev'ry 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 ample sweep Strikes empires from the root : 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 ! THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. 1 clasp 'd the phantoms,, and I found them air. O 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. Amidst such mighty plunder, why exhaust Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean ? Why thy peculiar rancour 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 fiU'cl her horn. O Cynthia ! why so pale ? dost thou lament Thy wretched neighbour ? 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 delight. In ev'ry vary'd posture, place, and hour, How widow'd ev'ry thought of ev'ry joy ! Thought, busy thought ! too busy for my peace ! Thro' the dark postern of time long elaps'd, 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 ! I rue the riches of my former fate ; Sweet Comfort's blasted clusters I lament ; ON LIFE, DEATH, & IMMORTALITY. 9 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, plung'd 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 thro' realms their valour sav'd, 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 10 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. You rue more modish visits, 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, Thro' 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 ; Our very wishes give us not our wish. How distant oft the thing we doat on most From that for which we doat, felicity ! The smoothest course of nature has its pains, And truest friends, thro' error, wound our re*t. Without misfortune what calamities ! And what hostilities 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. 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, ON LIFE, DEATH, & IMMORTALITY. 1 1 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? In age, in infancy, from other's 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 Swoln thought a second channel ; who divide, They weaken, too, the torrent of their grief. Take then, O 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 nature 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 pleas'd ; Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain. Misfortune, like a creditor severe, 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 Syren sings. 1-' THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. Dear is thy welfare ; think me not unkind ; I Avould 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 favours formidable too : Its favours 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. Beware what earth 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 dy'd with thee, Philander ! thy last sigh Dissolved the charm ; the disenchanted earth Lost all her lustre. Where her glitt'ring tow'rs ? Her golden mountains, where > all darken'd down To naked waste ; a dreary vale of tears : The great magician's dead ! Thou poor, pale piece Of outcast earth, in darkness ! what a change From yesterday ! Thy darling hope so near, (Long-labour'd prize !) O how ambition flush'd Thy glowing cheek ! ambition truly great. ON LIFE, DEATH, & IMMORTALITY. 13 Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within, (Sly, treach'rous miner !) working- in the dark, Smil'd at thy well-concerted scheme, and beckon'd The worm to riot on that rose so red, Unfaded ere it fell j one moment's prey ! Man's foresight is conditionally wise ; Lorenzo ! wisdom into folly turns Oft the first instant its idea fair To labouring 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 prophecy 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 out eternal schemes, As we the Fatal Sisters could outspin, And, big with life's futurities, expire. Not ev'n Philander had bespoke his shroud, Nor had he cause ; a warning was deny'd : How many fall as sudden, not as safe ; 14 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. As sudden, tho' tor 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, (f That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel, 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 ! Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails ; That lodg'd 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 thro' ev'ry stage : When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxioua for ourselves, and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. ON LIFE, DEATH, & IMMORTALITY. 15 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 past the shaft no trace is found, 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, tho' longer far, would fail, And the lark listen to my midnight song. The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn ; Griefs 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 : every star Is deaf to mine, enamoured of thy lay. Yet be not vain ; there are who thine excel, And charm thro' distant ages. Wrapt in shade, Pris'ner of darkness : to the silent hours How often I repeat their rage divine, 16 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT i. To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe ! I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire. Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Maeonides ! 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 ? O had he press'd his theme, pursu'd the track Which opens out of darkness into day ! O had he mounted on his wing of fire, Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man ! How had it blest mankind, and rescu'd me ! THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. ON TIME, DEATH, $ FRIENDSHIP. To THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL or WILMINGTON. WHEN the cock crew he wept, smote by that eye Which looks on me, on all ; that pow'r, who bids This midnight centinel, 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 born 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 Where most thy need. Themes too, the genuine growth Of dear Philander's dust. He thus, tho' dead, 18 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT n. May still befriend What themes ? Time's wond'rous price, Death, friendship, and Philander's final scene ! So could I touch these themes, as might obtain Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengag'd, 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 rumour'd robberies endear our gold ? O 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, 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, O 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 ; that dies not with my strain. For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo ? Not ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 19 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 with 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 hope 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 ? (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-priz'd sports ? 20 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT n. He pleads time's num'rous blanks ; he loudly pleads The straw-like trifles on life's common stream. From whom those blanks and trifles but from thee ? No blank, no trifle, nature made, or meant. Virtue, or purpos'd 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 ; [heav'n. Guard well thy thought ; our thoughts are heard in On all important time, thro' ev'ry age, Tho' much, and warm, the wise have urg'd j the man Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. " I've lost a day" the prince who nobly cry'd, Had been an emperor without his crown ; 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 ; ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 21 Pregnant with all eternity can give ; Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth A pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd. 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 ling'ring moments into speed, And whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves. Art, brainless art 1 our furious charioteer, (For Nature's voice unstifled would recal) Drives headlong towards the precipice of death, Death most our dread ; death thus more dreadful made \ O what a riddle of absurdity 1 Leisure is pain j takes off our chariot-wheels ; How heavily we drag the load of life ; Blest leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain, It makes us wander, M'ander 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 mortgages 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 turn'd. To man's false optics (from his folly false) 22 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT n. 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 ? And all mankind, in contradiction strong, Rueful, aghast ! cry out on his career. Leave to thy foes these errors and these ills ; To Nature just, their cause and cure explore. Not short Heav'n's bounty : boundless our expense ; No niggard, Nature ; men are prodigals. We waste, not use our time : we breathe, not live. Time wasted is existence, us'd is life ; And bare existence, man, to live ordain'd, Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight. And why ? since time was giv'n for use, not Avaste, Enjoined 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 j That man might feel his error if unseen, And feeling, fly to labour for his cure ; Not, blund'ring, split 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. 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. ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 23 Hence our unnat'ral 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. Oh 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 j 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 both pain us, what can please ? That which the Deity to please ordain'd, Time us'd. The man who consecrates his hours By vig'rous effort and an honest aim, 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. Hast thou 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-destin'd hour, 24 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT u. From everlasting ages growing ripe, That memorable hour of wond'rous 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 j Not on those terms, from the great days of heav'n, From old Eternity's mysterious orb Was time cut off, 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 unequal plumes, 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, unhing'd, (Fate the loud signal sounding) 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, Thy Parian's tomb's triumphant arch beneath. ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 25 Has death his fopperies ? Then well may Life Put on her plume, and in 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 Favonious breathe still softer, or be chid ; And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song, And robes, and notions, fram'd in foreign looms 1 O ye Lorenzos of our age, who deem One moment unamus'd 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 ev'ry cast ; For change of follies and relays of joy, To drag your patient thro' the tedious length Of a short winter's day say, Sages, say ! Wit's Oracles j say, Dreamers of gay dreams ; How will you weather an eternal night, Where such expedients fail ? O treach'rous Conscience ! while she seems to sleep On rose and myrtle, lull'd with Syren song ; While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein, And give us up to license, unrecaU'd, Unmark'd ; see, from behind her secret stand, The sly informer minutes ev'ry fault, L> THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT u. 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 misapply'd ; 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 ; publish 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 night we die ; Each morn are born anew ; each day a life ! And shall we kill each day ? If trifling kills, Sure vice must butcher. O what heaps of slain Cry out for vengeance on us ! Time destroy'd Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt. Time flies, death urges, knell calls, Heav'n invites, Hell threatens : all exerts ; in effort all j ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 27 More than creation labours ! labours more. And is there in creation, what, amidst This tumult universal, wing'd dispatch, And ardent energy, supinely yawns ? Man sleeps, and man alone ; and man, whose fate, Fate irreversible, entire, extreme, Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulph 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 still, Bid him drive back his car, and re-import The period past, regive the giv'n hour. Lorenzo, more than miracles we want ; Lorenzo O for yesterdays to come ! Such is the language of the man awake ; His ardour such for what oppresses thee. And is his ardour vain, Lorenzo ? No ; That more than miracle the gods indulge. To-day is yesterday return'd ; return'd Full-power'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn, And reinstate us on the rock of peace. Let it not share its predecessor's fate, Nor, like 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 ? 28 THE COMPLAINT. NK.HT 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 hov'ring o'er him, shed Protection 5 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 backward 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 ; All god-like passion for externals quench'd ; All relish of realities expir'd ; Renounc'd 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-bury'd 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 Tho' we from earth, ethereal they that fell, [chang'd ; Such veneration due, O man, to man. Who venerate themselves the world despise. ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 29 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 stage is a small eminence, Inch-high the grave above ; that home of man, Where dwells the multitude : we gaze around ; We read their monuments ; we sigh ; and while We sigh, we sink ; and are what we deplor'd ; Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot ! Is death at distance ? No : he has been on thee ; And given sure earnest of his final blow. Those hours Avhich lately smil'd, where are they now ? Pallid to thought, and ghastly ! drown 'd, all drown'd In that great deep, which nothing disembogues ! And dying, they bequeath'd 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 weigl is ; " The more our joy, the more we know it vain ; " And by success are tutor'd to despair." Nor is it only thus, but must be so. Who knows not this, tho' grey, is still a child. 30 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT n. 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, (O 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, Portentous, as the written wall, which struck, O'er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian pale, Erewhile high-flush'd with insolence and wine ? Like that the dial speaks, and points to thee, Lorenzo ! loth to break thy banquet up : " O 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 decypher what it means. Know, like the Median, Fate is in thy walls ; Dost ask how ? whence ? Belshazzar-like, amaz'd ! Man's make encloses the sure seeds of death ; ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 31 Life feeds the murderer : ingrate ! he thrives On her own meal, and then his nurse devours. But here, Lorenzo, the delusion lies ; That solar shadow, as it measures life, It life resembles too : Life speeds away From point to point, tho' 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 : As these are useless when the sun is set ; So those, but when more glorious reason shines. 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 ; E'en age itself. Fresh hopes are early sown In furrow'd brows. So gentle 's 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 promis'd hour. On this or similar, Philander, thou, Whose mind was moral as the preacher's tongue ; 32 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT n. And strong to wield all science, worth the name ; How often we talk'd down the summer's sun, And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream ! How often thaw'd and shortened winter's eve, By conflict kind, that struck our 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 stains 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 from friendship, wisdom and delight ; Twins ty'd by Nature ; if they part they die. Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach ? Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up, want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun. Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deny'd : Speech, thought's canal ! speech, thought's criterion too ! Thought in the mine may come forth gold or dross ; When coin'd in word, we know its real worth : 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 ; ON TIME, DEATH, & FRIENDSHIP. 33 Brightens for ornament, and whets for use. What numbers, sheath 'd in erudition, lie Plung'd 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 pu-h 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 Gives graceful energy, by rivals aw'd. 'Tis converse qualifies for solitude, As exercise for salutary rest : By that untutor'd, contemplation raves, And Nature's fool by Wisdom's is outdone. \Visdom, tho' 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 of wisdom, richly gives The precious end, which makes our wisdom wi Her death invades his mournful right, and claims The grief that started from my lids for him ; Seizes the faithless, alienated tear, Or shares it ere it falls. So frequent Death, Sorrow he more than causes ; he confounds ; For human sighs his rival strokes contend, And make distress distraction. Oh, Philander ! What was thy fate ? a double fate to me ? Portent and pain ! a menace and a blow ! Like the black raven hov'ring o'er my peace, Not less a bird of omen than of prey. It call'd Narcissa long before her hour : NARCISSA. 43 It call'd her tender soul, by break of bliss, From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ; Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves In this inclement clime of human life. 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 aught 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 Extinguished in the wonders of her song ! Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd ear, Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain (O to forget her !) thrilling thro' my heart ! Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy ! this group Of bright ideas, flow'rs of Paradise, As yet unforfeit ! 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 ! 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 ? 44 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT 111. Scorn the proud man that is asham'd 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, Deny'd his wonted succour ; nor with more 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 odours, incense meet To thought so pure ; her flow'ry state of mind In joy unfallen. Ye lovely fugitives ! Coeval race with man ; for man you smile ; Why not smile at him too ? 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, NARCISSA. 45 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 deny'd to mortal taste, Whilst here, presuming on the rights of Heav'n. For transport dost thou call on ev'ry hour, Lorenzo ? at thy friend's expence be wise : Lean not on earth ; 'twill pierce thee to the heart ; A broken reed at best j but oft a spear : On its sharp point Peace bleeds, and Hope expires. Turn, hopeless thought ! turn from her : Thought Resenting rallies, and wakes ev'ry woe. [repell'd, Snatch'd ere thy prime ! and in thy bridal hour ! And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smil'd ! And when high-flavour'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 deny'd a grave. Their sighs incens'd ; sighs foreign to the will ! Their will the tiger suck'd, outrag'd the storm : For, oh ! the curs'd ungodliness of zeal ! While sinful flesh relented, spirit nurs'd In blind infallibility's embrace, The sainted spirit petrify 'd the brea.-t, 46 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT in. Deny'd the charity of dust, to spread O'er dust ! a charity their dogs enjoy. What could I do ? what succour ? 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 thro' their realms j 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 pray'r ; Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd ; Sore grudg'd the savage land her sacred dust ; Stamp'd the curs'd soil j and with humanity (Deny'd 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-labour'd form, erect, divine ! This heav'n assum'd, majestic, robe of earth He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse With azure bright, and cloth'd 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 rancour uncontrol'd, That strongest curb on insult and ill-will ; NARCISSA. 47 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 malice, 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 ; 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 favours he confers, And contumelious his humanity : What then is 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 foretels 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 blow. Is this the flight of fancy ? Would it were ! Heav'n's Sov'reign saves all beings 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, And in the nerve, most tender, in hi? friends ? 48 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT m. 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 with 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 arm'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 heighten'd by the whole. A grief like this proprietors excludes : Not friends alone such obsequies deplore ; They make mankind the mourner ; carry sighs Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way, And turn the gayest thought of gayest age Down the right channel, thro' 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 Id my thought expatiate, ami explore NARCISSA. 49 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 subdue ; " And labour 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. 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 ardours, and abate That glare of life which often blinds the wise. Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth 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 every 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 aerial 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 earth to scratch a little dust, 50 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT in. And save the world a nuisance. Smitten friends Are angels, sent on errands full of love j For us they languish, and for us they die : And shall they languish, shall they die in vain ? Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hovering shades, Which wait the revolution in our hearts ? Shall we disdain their silent, soft address, Their posthumous advice, and pious pray'r ? Senseless, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves, Tread under foot their agonies and groans j 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 thy soul in joy ! Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far, And still the tumults of thy ruffled breast. Auspicious sera ! golden days, begin ! The thought of death, shall, like a god, inspire. And why not think on 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 num'rous ills that seize on life As their own property, their lawful prey ; Ere man has measur'd half his weary stage, His luxuries have left him no reserve, No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights j On cold-serv'd repetitions he subsists, And in the tasteless present chews the past; Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down. NARCISSA. r,l Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years Have disinherited his future hours, Which starve on orts, and glean their former field. Live ever here, Lorenzo ! shocking thought ! 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 lab 'ring step To tread our former footsteps ? pace the round Eternal ? to climb life's worn, heavy 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, tho' 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 decant Another vintage ? strain a flatter year, Thro' 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 Such of our fine ones is the wish refin'd ! [bowl. So would they have it : elegant desire ! Why not invite the bellowing stalls and wilds ? But such examples might their riot awe. Thro' want of virtue, that is, want of thought, (Tho' on bright thought they father all their flight?) 52 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT in. To what are they reduc'd ! 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 Thro' 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 Scar'd at the gloomy gulph 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'lt 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 doating sense indulge. 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, On lighten'd mind? that bask in virtue's beams, NARCISSA. 53 Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves In that for which they long, for which they live. Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope, Each rising morning sees still higher rise ; Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents To worth maturing, new strengh, 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. We give to time eternity's regard, 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 I 54 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT in. Not 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 ? Vain 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 Assists me here) compare it to the moon ; Dark in herself, and indigent ; but rich In borrow'd lustre from a higher sphere. 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 j 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 r 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 j Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown. NARCISSA. 55 " Strange competition !" True, Lorenzo, strange ! So little life can cast into the scale. Life makes the soul dependent on the dust ; Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. Thro' chinks, styl'd organs, dim life peeps at light ; Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day ; All eye, all ear, the disembody'd pow'r. Death has feign'd evils nature shall not feel ; Life, ills substantial, wisdom cannot shun. Is not the mighty mind, that son of Heav'n ! By tyrant Life dethron'd, imprison'd, pain'd ? By death enlarg'd, ennobled, deify'd ? Death but entombs the body, life the soul. f( Is death then guiltless ? how he marks his way " With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine ! " Art, genius, fortune, elevated pow'r ; " 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. No bliss has life to boast, till death can give Far greater. Life's a debtor to the grave j 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 5G THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT in. 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 bow'rs, 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 ? O Death, the palm is thine. Then welcome, Death ! thy dreaded harbingers, Age and disease ; Disease, tho' 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, While Reason and Religion, better taught, Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb With wreath triumphant. Death is victory : It binds in chains the raging ills of life : Lust and Ambition, Wrath and Avarice, Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his pow'r. 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, O Gilead ! heals the wound. Birth's feeble cry, and Death's deep dismal groan, Are slender tributes low-tax'd Nature pays NARCISSA. 57 For mighty gain ; the gain of each a life ! But O ! 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 every nobler thought and fairer deed ! Death, the deliverer, who rescues man ! 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 life : Were death deny'd, poor man would live in vain : Were death deny'd, to live would not be life : Were death deny'd, e'en fools would wish to die. Death wounds to cure j 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. The king of terrors is the prince of peace. When shall I die to vanity, pain, death ? When shall I die ? when. shall I live for ever} THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. CONTAINING The only Cure for the fear of Death ; and proper Sentiments vf Heart on that inestimable Blessing. INSCRIBED TO THE HONOURABLE MR. YORK.E. A MUCH-INDEBTED muse, O 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'd, 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 ; 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, THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 59 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 were 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 ; ev'ry date cries " Come away." And what recals me ? Look the world around, And tell me what : The wisest cannot tell. Should any born of woman give his thought Full range on just dislike's unbounded field ; Of things, the vanity j 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 ; 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, 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. 60 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. With me that time is come j 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 neighbour is unknown ; Nor that the worst. Ah me ! the dire effect Of loit'ring here, of death defrauded long ; 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 remembered, I'm forgot. An object ever pressing dims the sight, And hides behind its ardour to be seen. When in his courtiers' ears I pour my plaint, They drink it as the nectar of the great, And squeeze 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-favour, yet untaken, I besiege ; Ambition's ill-judged effort to be rich. Alas ! ambition makes my little less, Embitt'ring the possess'd. Why wish for more ? Wishing, of all employments, is the worst ! Philosophy's reverse, and health's decay ! Were I as plump as stall'd Theology, Wishing would waste me to this shade again. Were I as wealthy as a South-sea dream, Wishing is an expedient to be poor. THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 61 Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool, Caught at a court, 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 pursu'd, 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 ? 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 ; 62 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. Unbit by rage canine of dying rich ; Guilt's blunder ! and the loudest laugh of Hell. O 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 enamour'd of this wretched soil ? Shall our pale wither'd hands be still stretch'd out, Trembling, at once, with eagerness and rage ? 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, 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 alive, Who long have bury'd what gives life to live, 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 rny bier, and point me to the dust. THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 63 O thou great Arbiter of life and death ! Nature's immortal, immaterial sun ! Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay The worm's inferior ; and, in rank, beneath The dust I tread on ; high to bear my brow, To drink the spirit of the golden day, And triumph in existence ; and cotildst know No motive but my bliss ; 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 O let me live to thee ! Tho' Nature's terrors thus may be represt, [spear. Still frowns grim Death j guilt points the tyrant's 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 admonitions, like shafts upward shot, More dreadful by delay, the longer ere They strike our hearts, the deeper is their wound. O think how deep, Lorenzo ! here it stings ; Who can appease its anguish ? How it burns ! 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. 64 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. On high ? what means my phrenzy ? 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 The 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 ? O 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 : Sensations new in angels bosoms rise, Suspend their song, and make a pause in bliss. O for their song to reach my lofty theme ! Inspire me, Night ! with all thy tuneful spheres, Whilst I with seraphs share seraphic themes, And shew 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 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 65 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 Pow'r ! Still more tremendous for thy wond'rous love ; That arms with awe more awful thy commands, And foul transgression dips in sevenfold night ; How our hearts tremble at thy love immense ! In love immense, inviolably just ! 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 labour such expedient from despair, And rescue both ? Both rescue ! both exalt ! O 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 : 66 / THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. 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, Undeify'd 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 heav'n, Heav'n's inexhaustible, exhausted fund, Amazing and amaz'd, pour'd forth the price, All price beyond : tho' curious to compute, Archangels fail'd to cast the mighty sum : Its value vast ungrasp'd by minds create, For ever 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 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 man might smile ! Heav'n bled, that Might never die ! [man THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 67 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 ere glance on man Unraptur'd, uninflam'd. Where roll rny 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 Of immortality. And did he rise ? Hear, O ye Nations ! hear it, O 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 fill'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 vanquished death. Shout, earth and heav'n ! 68 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. 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 Triumphant past the crystal ports of light, (Stupendous guest !) and seiz'd eternal youth, Seiz'd in her name. E'er since 'tis blasphemous To call man mortal. Man's mortality Was then transferr'd to death ; and heav'n's duration Unalienably 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 wrapt by this triumphant theme, On Christian 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, tho' cover'd o'er with guilt : For guilt, not innocence, his life he pour'd ; 'Tis guilt alone can justify his death; Nor that, unless his death can justify Relenting guilt in heav'n's indulgent sight. If, sick of folly, I relent, he writes My name in heav'n \vith that inverted spear (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 ! THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 69 " Pardon for infinite offence ! and pardon " Thro' 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 ! tho' woo'd and aw'd, " Blest and chastis'd, a flag'rant rebel still ; " A rebel 'midst the thunders of his throne ! " Nor I alone ! a rebel universe ! (i 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 1 " As if our race were held of highest rank, " And Godhead dearer, as more kind to man !" Bound, ev'ry heart ; and ev'ry bosom, burn ! O what a scale of miracles is here ! Its lowest round high-planted on the skies ; 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 for ever (if astonishment Will give thee leave) my praise, for ever 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 angels' wing First pluck'd by man) to tickle mortal ears, Thus diving in the pockets of the great ? Is praise the perquisite of ev'ry paw, Tho' black as hell, that grapples well for gold ? Oh love of gold ! thou meanest of amours ! Shall praise her odours waste on virtue's dead ; 70 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. Embalm the base, perftime the stench of guilt, Earn dirty bread by Avashing 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 Return, apostate Praise ! thou vagabond ! Thou prostitute ! to thy first love return ; Thy first, thy greatest, once unrival'd theme. There flow redundant, like Meander flow, Back to thy fountain, to that parent pow'r 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 ? O may I breathe no longer than I breathe My soul in praise to HIM who gave my soul, And all her infinite of prospect fair, Cut thro' the shades of hell, great Love ! by thee, Oh most adorable ! most unador'd ! THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 71 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 labour'd o'er, How richly wrought with attributes divine ! What wisdom shines ! what love ! This midnight pomp, This gorgeous arch, with golden worlds inlaid ! Built with divine ambition ! nought to thee ; For others this profusion. Thou, apart, Above, beyond ! O 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 straiten'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 : 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 ! pavilioned high he sits In darkness, from excessive splendour, borne, 72 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. By gods unseen, unless thro' lustre lost. His glory, to created glory bright As that to central horrors : he looks down On all that soars, and spans immensity. Tho' 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 heav'n ? Down to the centre should I send my thought, Thro' 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 thro' 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 bliss, And ask their strain ; they want it, more they want. Poor their abundance, humble their sublime, Languid their energy, their ardour 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 j 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, THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 73 Yet still gods unredeem'd (there triumphs man, 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 that 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 labour of the skies : Far more than labour it was death in heav'n. 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 ? O how 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 ! 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 Heav'n 1 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. 74 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. Who gave his life, what grace shall he deny ? O ye, who from this rock of ages leap, Apostates, plunging headlong in the deep ! What cordial joy, what consolation strong, Whatever winds arise, or billows roll, Our int'rest in the Master of the storm ! Cling there, and in wrecked Nature's ruin 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 shews wonders there : What high contents ! illustrious faculties ! But the grand comment, which displays at full Our human height, scarce severed from divine, By Heav'n compos'd, was published 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 improv'd ! What seem'd a chaos, shines a glorious world, Or, what a world, an Eden ; heighten'd all ! It is another scene, another self ! And still another, as time rolls along, THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 75 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 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 whate'er exists, Old Time, and fair creation, are forgot ! Is this extravagant ? of man we form Extravagant conception to be just : Conception unconfin'd wants wings 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 Thro' all their souls, but not an 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, Tho' yet unsung, as deem'd, perhaps, too bold ? Angels are men of a superior kind ; Angels are men in lighter habit clad. High o'er celestial mountains wing'd in flight ; And men are angels, loaded for an hour, 76 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. 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 thro' 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, O 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 soul voucher man is man Supporter sole of man above himself; E'en in this night of frailty, change, and death. 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 to 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, THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 77 His heart 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 ; There sacred violence assaults the soul ; There nothing but compulsion is forborn. Can love allure us ? or can terror awe ? He weeps ! the falling 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 thro' time ! bliss thro' 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 Knew I the name devout archangels use, [thee ? Devout archangels should the name enjoy, 7S THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. By me unrivall'd ; thousands more sublime, None half so dear as that which, tho' unspoke, Still glows at heart. O how Omnipotence Is lost in love ! thou great PHILANTHROPIST ! Father of angels ! but the friend of man ! Like Jacob, fondest of the younger born ! 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 favour 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 sacrilegious our sublimest song. 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 Heav'n !) for ever lie Intomb'd my fear of death ! and ev'ry fear The dread of ev'ry evil but thy frown. Whom see I yonder so demurely smile ? Laughter a labour, 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 Heav'n ! Think you my song too turbulent ? too warm ? Are passions, then, the pagans of the soul ? THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 7 Reason alone baptiz'd ! alone ordain'd To touch things sacred ? Oh for warmer still ! Guilt chills my zeal, and age benumbs my pow'rs : 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. O 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 ardour, and has shewn Her own for man so strongly, not disdain What smooth emollients in theology, Recumbent virtue's downy doctors preach, That prose of piety, a lukewarm praise ? Rise odours sweet from incense uninflam'd ? Devotion, when lukewarm, is undevout ; But when it glows, its heat is struck to heav'n : To human hearts her golden harps are strung ; High heav'n's orchestra chants Amen to man. Hear I, or dream I hear, their distant strain, Sweet to the soul, and tasting strong of heav'n, Soft wafted on celestial Pity's plume, Thro' the vast spaces of the universe, To cheer me in this melancholy gloom ? O when will death (now stinglcss) 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 ! 80 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. 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, 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, thro' the guardian hand Of elder brothers, to our Father's throne, Who hears our advocate, and thro' his wound.- 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 ! Ineffably pre-eminent regard ! Sacred to man, and sov'reign thro' the whole Long golden chain of miracles, which hangs From heav'n thro' all duration, and supports In one illustrious and amazing plan, Thy welfare, Nature, and thy God's renown ; That touch, with charm celestial, heals the soul Diseas'd, drives pain from guilt, lights 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 dy'd returns : THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 81 Returns, how chang'd ! \vhere 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 heav'n ; 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, Of length enormous ; takes his ample round Thro' depths of ether ; coasts unnumber'd worlds, Of more than solar glory ; doubles wide Heav'n's mighty cape ; and then re-visits 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 speaks 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, G 82 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. And lands Thought smoothly on the farther shore. Death's terror is the mountain Faith removes, That mountain-barrier between man and peace. J Tis faith disarms Destruction, and absolves From ev'ry clam'rous 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 : 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 ; live 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 ! fir'd with local zeal ! No ; Reason re-baptiz'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 honour'd, as the daughter dear. Reason the root, fair Faith is but the flow'r : The fading flow'r shall die, but Reason lives Immortal, as her father in the skies. THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 83 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 shew 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, ten-fold terror gives to death, And dips in venom his twice-mortal sting. Learn hence, what honours, what loud paeans, due To those who push our antidote aside 1 ; Those boasted friends to reason and to man, Whose fatal love stabs ev'ry joy, and leaves Death's terror hcighten'd gnawing on his heart. These pompous sons of reason idoliz'd, And vility'd at once ; of reason dead, Then deify'd as monarchs were of old ; What conduct plants proud laurels on their brow ? While love of truth thro' all their 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, call'd Argument, And then, exulting in their taper, cry, " Behold the sun !" and, Indian-like, adore. Talk they of morals ? O 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, 84 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT iv. (Nor will they 'bate of that sublime renown) As wise as Socrates, might justly stand The definition of a modern fool. A Christian is the highest style of man. And is there who the blessed cross wipes off, As a foul blot, from his dishonour'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 Christian banner fly) Know ye how w r ise your choice, how great your gain ? 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 life's highest prize her latest hour ; That hour, so late, is nimble in approach, That, like a post, comes on in full career. How swift the shuttle flies that weaves thy shroud ! Where is the fable of thy former years ? Thrown down the gulph 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 possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone ; And each swift moment fled, is death advanc'd THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 85 By strides as swift. Eternity is all ; And whose eternity ? who triumphs there ? Bathing for ever in the font of bliss ! For ever basking 1 in the Deity ! Lorenzo, who ? thy conscience shall reply. O 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, the divine decree, Truth is deposited with man's last hour 5 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, w r hen he shall judge the worlds he made ; Tho' silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound, S mother'd with errors, and oppress'd with toys, That heaven-commission'd hour no sooner calls,. But from her cavern in the soul's abyss, Like him they fable under ^Etna whelm 'd, The goddess bursts in thunder and in flame, Loudly convinces, and severely pains. Dark daemons I discharge, and hydra-stings j The keen vibration of bright truth is hell ; 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." THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. THE RELAPSE. INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. 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 deserv'd, 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 refin'd ; As if to magic numbers powr'ful charm 'Twas given to make a civet of their song Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume. Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute, And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire. 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 ; THE RELAPSE. 87 Draw different ways, and clash in their command?. 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 1 Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise. Since joys of sense can't rise to Reason's taste, In subtle Sophistry's laborious Ibrge, 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, inebriate, lay asleep, And the fool'd mind delightfully confound. Thus that which shock'd the judgment shocks no more : That which gave Pride offence no more offends. Pleasure and Pride, by nature mortal foes, 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 delicate and gay. Art, curs'd Art ! wipes off th' indebted blush From Nature's cheek, and bronzes ev'ry shame. Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt, And Infamy 3 (If not too bold) in darkness I'm embower'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 first fire, Fountain of animation ! whence descends Urania, my celestial guest ! who deigns Nightly to visit me, so mean ; and now, 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 vapour 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. Tho' proud in promise, big in previous thought, J)4 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. Experience damps our triumph. I, who late Emerging- from the shadows of the grave, Where grief detain'd 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 ether 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 stream : 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, 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 mixt manure she surfeits the rank soil, Dung'd, but not dress'd, and rich to beggary : A pomp untameable of weeds prevails : Her servant's wealth incumber'd Wisdom mourns. And what says Genius ? ' Let the dull be Avise.' Genius, too hard for right, can prove it wrong ; THE RELAPSE. 95 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 Avit. But wisdom smiles, when humbled mortals weep. When sorrow wounds the breast, as ploughs the glebe, And hearts obdurate feel her soft'ning show')-, Her seed celestial, then, glad wisdom sows ; Her golden harvest triumphs in the soil. If so, Narcissa, welcome my relapse ; I'll raise a tax on my calamity, And reap rich compensation from my pain. I'll range the plenteous intellectual field, And gather ev'ry thought of sov 'reign pow'r 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 heav'n : 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, pcradventure, of no fading flow'rs. Say, on what themes shall puzzled choice descend ? " Th' importance of contemplating the tomb ; " Why men decline it ; suicide's foul birth ; 9C THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v " 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. 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 its 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 thrust 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 j 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 ! Apt words can strike j 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, THE RELAPSE. 97 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, terrestrial, and obscene, And shews the real estimate of things, Which no man, unafflicted, ever saw ; Pulls off the vale 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 pow'rs, 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. No folly keeps its colour 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 : would'st thou know, Lorenzo, How differ worldly wisdom and divine ? Just as the waning and the waxen moon : More empty worldly wisdom ev'ry day; And ev'ry 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, H 98 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. 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 ; Insolvent worlds the purchase cannot pay. " Oh let me die his death !" all nature cries. " Then, live his life." 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 Of blind imprudence, unexpected still ? Tho' num'rous messengers are sent before, THE RELAPSE. 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 like yesterday, it cheats : We take the lying sister for the same. Life glides away, Lorenzo, like a brook, For ever 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 mingl'd with the sea. Or shall we say, (Retaining still the brook to bear us on) 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 blind, That domineering mistress of the soul ! Like him so strong by Dalilah the fair ? 100 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. Or is it fear turns startled reason back From looking down a precipice so steep ? 'Tis dreadful, and the dread is wisely plac'd By Nature., conscious of the make of man. A dreadful friend it is, a terror kind, A flaming sword to guard the tree of life. By that unaw'd, in life's most smiling hour The good man would repine ; would suffer joys, And burn impatient for his promis'd skies. The bad, on each punctilious pique of pride, Or gloom of humour, would give rage the rein, 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. O 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 absolved j THE RELAPSE. 101 Immoral climes kind Nature never made. 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, unmortgag'd for earth's little 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 enchanted cup With cool reserve light touching, should indulge On immortality 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 heav'n ; 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, Or their pall'd palates loathe the basket full, Are instantly, with wild demoniac rage, For breaking all the chains of Providence, 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. 102 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. 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 th'ey never think of death, they die. 'Tis equally man's duty, glory, gain, At once to shun and meditate his end. 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, THE RELAPSE. 103 As the tide rushing rases what is writ In yielding sands, and smooths the letterM shore. Lorenzo, hast thou ever weigh 'd a sigh ? Or study'd the philosophy of tears ? (A science yet unlectur'd 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, gust 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 shew. Some weep in perfect justice to the dead, As conscious all their love is in arrear. Some mischievously weep, not unappriz'd, Tears sometimes aid the conquest of an eye. With what address the soft Ephesians draw Their sable net-work o'er entangled hearts ! As seen thro' crystal, how their roses glow, While liquid pearl runs trickling down their cheek ! 104 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. Of her's 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, blind 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 : 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 puinp'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, THE RELAPSE. 105 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 fancy'd, at the ball, And raffles for the death's head on the ring. So wept Aurelia, till the destin'd youth Stept in with 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 dy'd to give him, orphan'd in his birth ! Not such, Narcissa, my distress for thee ; I'll make an altar of thy sacred tomb, To sacrifice to Wisdom what wast thou ? ff Young, gay, and fortunate !" Each yields a theme : I'll dwell on each, to shun thought more severe ; (Heav'n knows I labour with severer still !) I'll dwell on each., arid quite exhaust thy death. A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. And, first, thy youth : what says it to grey hairs ? Narcissa, I'm become thy pupil now, Early, bright, transient, chaste, as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to heav'n. 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 ; With graceless gravity chastising youth, 110 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. That youth chastis'd surpassing- in a fault, Father of all, forgetfulness of death ; As if, like objects pressing on the sight, Death had advanc'd too near us to be seen : Or that life'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 bury'd, and the world their grave. Tell me, some god ! my guardian angel, tell What thus infatuates ? what enchantment 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 and throngs, Around us falling, wounded oft ourselves ; Tho' bleeding with our wounds, immortal still ! We see Time's furrows on another's brow, 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. Tho' grey 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 ev'ry kind. THE RELAPSE. 107 And wherefore mad for more, when relish fails ? Object and appetite must club for joy : Shall folly labour 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 e'en now To relish what alone subsists hereafter. Divine, or none, henceforth your joys for ever. 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 ! Grey-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 our shadows, Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines. 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 will's subdue ; 108 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon, 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 off by the first blast, and lost for ever. Dost ask, Lorenzo, Why so warmly prest 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 ! That thought ply'd home, Will soon reduce the ghastly precipice O'erhanging 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, Beyond the blackest brand of censure bold, (To speak a language too well known to thee) 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 scissars cut My thread of life, to break this tougher thread THE RELAPSE. 109 Of moral death, that ties me to the world. Sting thou my slumbering reason 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 noon-tide, his ; my yesterday ; 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 ardour; 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 neighbour'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 ; 110 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v 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 ! 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, Unhedg'd, lies open in life's common field, And bids all welcome to the vital feast. You scorn what lies before you in the page Of nature and experience, moral truth ! Of indispensable, eternal fruit ! Fruit on which mortals feeding, turn to gods j And dive in science for distinghish'd names, 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 knowing all, 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 urn, Come forth at random ; or, if choice is made, The choice is quite sarcastic, and insults All bold conjecture and fond hopes of man. THE RELAPSE. Ill What countless multitudes not only leave But deeply disappoint us, by their deaths ! Tho' 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 ; Th' feeble wrap th' athletic in his shroud ; And weeping fathers build their childrens' tomb : Me thine, Narcissa ! What tho' short thy date ? Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures, That life is long which answers life's great end. That time that bears no fruit deserves no name. The man of wisdom is the man of years. In hoary youth Methusalems may die ; Oli how misdated on their flatt'ring tombs ! Narcissa's youth has lectur'd me thus far : And can her gaiety give counsel too ? That, like the Jews' fam'd oracle of gems, Sparkles instruction ; such 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 ; " Ev'n 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. 112 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. 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 offence, 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 reduc'd 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 fear'd, 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 : Tho' master of a wider empire far Than that o'er which the Roman Eagle flew, Like Nero, he's a fiddler, charioteer : THE RELAPSE. m Or drives his phaeton in female guise ; Quite unsuspected, till, the wheel beneath, His disarry'd oblation he devours. He most affects the forms least like himself, His slender self : hence burly corpulence Is his familiar wear, and sleek disguise. 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 piqu'd and jealous spy, I've, seen, or dream 'd I saw, the tyrant dress, Lay by his horrors, and put on his smiles. Say, muse, for thou remember'st, call it back, And shew Lorenzo the surprising scene ; If 'twas a dream, his genius can explain. 'Twas in a circle of the gay I stood ; Death would have enter'd ; Nature push'd him back ; Supported by a doctor of renown, His point he 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, i 114 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. 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 shafts 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 Gaiety supplies the place of Sense, Then foremost, at the banquet and the ball, Death leads the dance, or stamps the deadly dye ; Nor ever fails the midnight bowl to crown. Gaily carousing to his gay compeers, Inly he laughs to see them laugh at him, As absent far ; and when the revel burns, 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 mask 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 THE RELAPSE. 115 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 centinel, all eye, all ear, All expectation of the coming foe. 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 j 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 Gaiety forgot it was to die. Tho' fortune too (our third and final theme) As an accomplice, play'd her gaudy plumes, And ev'ry glitt'ring gewgaw, on her sight, To dazzle and debauch it from its mark. Death's dreadful advent is the mark of man, And every thought that misses it is blind. Fortune, with Youth and Gaiety, 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, As if to damp our elevated aims, And strongly preach humility to man. Oh how portentous is prosperity ! How, comet-like, it threatens while it shines ! 116 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v Few years but yield us proof of Death's ambition, To cull his victims from the fairest fold, And sheath his shafts in all the pride of life. When flooded with abundance, purpled o'er With recent honours, 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, How often have I seen him dropt at once, Our morning's envy ! and our evening's sigh ! As if her bounties were the signal giv'n, 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. And burns Lorenzo still for the sublime Of life j 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 wretched ? happiness deny'd ? 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 ; THE RELAPSE. 117 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 ecstasies 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 Gay Fortune's, thy vain hopes to reprimand. See, high in air, the sportive goddess hangs, Cnlocks her casket, spreads her glitt'ring ware, And calls the giddy winds to puff 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 sun? have leave to shine. O what a precious pack of votaries, Unkennell'd from the prisons and the stews, Pour in, all op'ning in their idol's praise i All, ardent, eye each wafture of her hand, And, wide-expanding their voracious jaws, Morsel on morsel swallow down uuchew'd, Untasted, thro' mad appetite for more j 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-zephyrs sweetly breathe, they launch, they fly 118 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. 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, Thro' fury to possess it : some succeed, But stumble, and let fall the taken prize. From some, by sudden blasts, 'tis whirl'd away, And lodg'd in bosoms that ne'er dream'd of gain. To some, it sticks so close, that when torn off, Torn is the man, and mortal is the wound. Some, o'er-enamour'd of their bags, run mad, Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread. Together some (unhappy rivals !) seize, And rend abundance into poverty ; Loud croaks the raven of the law y and smiles ; Smiles to 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. Fortune is famous for her numbers slain ; The number small which happiness can bear. Tho' various for a while 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 ? THE RELAPSE. ill) And art tliou 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 nods 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, 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. Lysanclcr, happy past the common lot, Was warn'd of danger, but too gay to fear. He woo'd the fair Aspasia : she was kind j ' In youth, form, fortune, fame, they both were bless'd : All who knew, envy'd ; 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 li'O THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT v. 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 To re-embrace, in ecstasies, 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 dy'd 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. O the soft commerce ! O the tender ties, Close twisted with the fibres of the heart ! Which, broken, break them, and drain off the oul 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. PREFACE TO THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. PREFACE ,TO THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. FEW ages have been deeper in dispute about religion than this. The dispute about religion, and the prac- tice 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 ? If he is not, all our disputes are mere amusements, or trials of skill. In this case, truth, reason, and religion, which give our discourses such pomp and solemnity, are (as will be shewn) mere empty sounds, without any meaning in them. But if man is immortal, it will behove him to be very serious about eternal conse- quences ; 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 infidelity ; how re- mote soever the particular objections advanced may seem to be from it. Sensible appearances affect most men much more than abstract reasonings; and we daily see bodies drop around us, but the soul is invisible. The power which inclination has over the judgment is greater than can be^well conceived by those who have not had an experience of it ; and of what numbers is it the PREFACE. U'3 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 heav'ns ; Enjoy the various riches nature yields ; Far nobler ; give the riches 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 wondrous world they see. Our senses, as our reason, are divine. But for the magic organ's pow'rftil charm, Earth were a rude, uncolour'd chaos still. Objects are but the occasion ; ours th' exploit : Ours is the cloth, the pencil, and the paint, Which nature's admirable picture draws, And beautifies creation's ample dome. Like Milton's Eve, when gazing on the lake, Man makes the matchless image, man admires. Say then shall man, his thoughts all sent abroad, (Superior M'onders 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 memory's firm record, Which should it perish, could this world recal 140 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vi. From the dark shadows of o'erwhelming years ! In colours fresh, originally bright, Preserve its portrait, and its report fate ! What wealth in intellect, that sovereign pow'r ! Which sense and fancy summons to the bar ; Interrogates, approves, or reprehends ; And from the mass those underlings import, From their materials sifted and refin'd, And in truth's balance accurately weigh'd, Forms art and science, government and law ; The solid basis, and the beauteous frame, The vitals and the 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, e'er chaos teem'd, plann'd human bliss. What wealth in souls that soar, dive, range around, Disdaining limit, or from place, or time j 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 thro' things impossible ! What wealth, in faculties of endless growth, 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 ! THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 141 Ask you, what pow'r 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 abundance, heap 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 rubbish from disploding engines thrown, Our magazines of hoarded trifles fly ; Fly diverse 5 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 ? Learn and lament thy self-defeated scheme : Riches enable to be richer still ; And, richer still, what 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 envy, and of Avant, Outrageous want ! both Indies cannot cure. A competence is vital to content. Much wealth is corpulence, if not disease ; 142 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vi. Sick, or incumber'd, is our happiness. A competence is all we can enjoy. O 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 every prize, As bees in flow'rs, and stings us with success. The rich man, who denies it, proudly feigns ; Nor knows the wise are privy to the lie. 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 ainaz'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. O what a patrimony this ! A being Of such inherent strength and majesty, Not worlds possest can raise it : worlds destroy'd Can't injure ; which holds on its glorious course, THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 14 When thine, O Nature ! ends ; too blest to mourn Creation's obsequies. What treasure this ; The monarch 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 for ever 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, And breathes her native air ; an air that feeds Ambitions high, and fans ethereal fires ; Quick-kindles all that is divine within us, Nor leaves one loit'ring thought beneath the stars. Has not Lorenzo's bosom caught the flame ? Immortal ! Were 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 heav'u ! 144 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vi. O vain, vain, vain ! all else ! Eternity ! A glorious, and a needful refuge, that, From vile imprisonment in abject views. 'Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply, this performs ; Lifts us above life's pains, her joys above ; Their terror those ; and these their lustre lose ; Eternity depending, covers all ; Eternity depending, all achieves ; Sets earth at distance ; casts her into shades ; Blends her distinctions ; abrogates her pow'rs ; 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 labours your belief ? If earth's whole orb by some due distanc'd eye Were seen at once, her 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 stupendous view, when souls awake, THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 145 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 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, interminable 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 ! enough 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 ? Are there, Lorenzo ? Is it possible ? Are there on earth (let me not call them men) Who lodge a soul immortal in their breasts ; Unconscious as the mountain of its ore ; Or rock, of its inestimable gem ? L 146 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vi, 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 labour 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 vital blood far dearer to the wise) Blasphemers, and rank atheists to themselves ? 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 ! THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 147 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 for ever, and for all, of weight, Of moment infinite ! but relish'd most By those who love thee most, who most adore. 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 thro', '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 grey, Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm, Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away : Then melts into the Spring : soft Spring, with breath Favonian, from warm chambers of the south Recalls the first. All, to reflourish, 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 ; That gravitates, this soars. Th' aspiring soul 148 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vi. 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 for ever 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 privileg'd 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 unredeem'd ? If Nature's revolution speaks aloud, In her gradation, hear her louder still. Look Nature thro', 'tis neat gradation all. By what minute degrees 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 glimm'ring ray ; Reason shines out in man. But how preserved The chain unbroken upward, to the realms THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 149 Of incorporeal life ? those realms of bliss Where death hath no dominion ? Grant a make Half-mortal, half-immortal ; earthy, part ; And part, ethereal ; grant the soul of man Eternal ; or in man the series ends. Wide yawns the gap ; connexion is no more ; Check'd Reason halts ; her next step wants support ; Striving to climb, 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, careless of the call, 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 ? O what indignity to deathless souls ! What treasure to the majesty of man ! Of man immortal ! Hear the lofty style : " If so decreed, th' Almighty will be done. " Let earth dissolve, yon pond'rous orbs descend, " And grind us into dust : The soul is safe ; " The man emerges j mounts above the wreck, " As tow'ring flame from Nature's ftm'ral pyre : " O'er devastation, as a gainer, smiles ; " His charter, his inviolable rights, " Well pleas'd 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, thy sev'nfold shield. 150 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vi. Other ambition than of crowns in air, And superlunary felicities, Thy bosom warm. I'll cool it, if I can ; And turn those glories that enchant against thee. What ties thee to this life, proclaims the next. If wise, the cause that wounds thee is the cure. Come, my ambitious ! let us mount together, (To mount Lorenzo never can refuse j) And from the clouds, where pride delights to dwell, Look down on earth. What seest thou ? Wond'rous Terrestrial wonders, that eclipse the skies, [things ! What lengths of labour'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 end*. Nor can th' eternal rocks his will withstand ; What levell'd mountains ! and what lifted vales ! O'er vales arid mountains sumptuous cities swell, And gild our landscape Avith 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 narrow'd deep with indignation foams. Or southward turn, to delicate and grand -, The finer arts there ripen in the sun. How the tall temples, as to meet their gods, Ascend the skies ! the proud triumphal arch Shews us half Heav'n beneath its ample bend. High thro' mid air, here, streams are taught to flow j THE INFIDLL RECLAIMED. 151 Whole rivers, there, laid by in basons, 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, " O main ! " Thus far, nor farther : new restraints obey." Earth's disembowel'd ! measur'd are the skies ! Stars are detected in their deep recess ! Creation widens ! vanquished nature yields ! Her secrets are extorted ! art prevails ! What monument of genius, spirit, pow'r ! And now, Lorenzo, raptur'd at this scene, Whose glories render Heav'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 natter 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 distrest. What then for infidels ? A deeper sigh. 'Tis moral grandeur makes the mighty man : 152 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vi. How little they, who think ought great below ! All our ambitions Death defeats, but one ; And that it crowns. Here cease we : But, ere long, More powerful proof shall take the field against thee, Stronger than Death, and smiling at the tomb. PREFACE TO PART II. OF THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. As we are at war with the power, it were well if we were 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 honour to mankind. The Soul's Immortality has been the favourite theme with the serious of all ages. Nor is it strange ; Lt is a subject by far the most in- teresting 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 oc- casional importance is superadded to the natural weight of it ; if that opinion which is advanced in the Preface 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 counte- nance, they patronize, are betrayed into their de- plorable 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, 154 PREFACE. yet it is an error into which bad men may naturally be distressed. For it is impossible to bid defiance to final ruin, without some refuge in imagination, some presumption of escape. And what presumption is there ? There are but two in nature j 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 Omni- potence is as much a divine attribute as holiness, that God cannot punish, is as absurd a supposition as the former. God certainly can punish, as long as the wicked man exists. In non-existence, therefore, is their only refuge ; and, consequently, non-existence is their strongest wish : and strong wishes have a strange influence on our opinions ; they bias the judgment in a manner almost incredible. And since on this member of their alternative there are some very small appearances in their favour, 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 immediate 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 ap- peared to me to strike directly at the main root of all our infidelity. In the following pages it is accord- ingly pursued at large ; and some arguments for im- mortality, new (at least to me) are ventured on in them. There also the writer has made an attempt to PREFACE. 155 set the gross absurdities and horrors 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, profess great admiration for the wisdom of heathen antiquity : what pity 'tis they are not sincere ! If they were sincere, how would it mortify them to consider with what contempt and abhorrence their notions would have been received by those whom they so much admire ? What degree of con- tempt 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 ('tis well known) was the most guarded, dispassionate, 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 ? The cause was for his honour ; it was a truly noble, though perhaps a too punctilious regard for immor- tality : for his friend asking him, with such an affec- tionate concern as became a friend, " Where he should deposit his remains ?" it was resented by Socrates, as implying a dishonourable supposition, that he could be so mean as to have regard for any thing, even in himself that was not immortal. This fact, well considered, would make our infidels withdraw their admiration from Socrates ; or make them endeavour, by their imitation of this illustrious 156 PREFACE. example, to share his glory : and consequently, it would incline them to peruse the following pages with candour and impartiality ; which is all I desire ; and that for their sakes ; for I am persuaded, that an unprejudiced infidel must necessarily receive some advantageous impressions from them. July 7, 1744. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. BEING THE SECOND PART OF THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. CONTAINING THE NATURE, PROOF, AND IMPORTANCE OF IMMORTALITY. HKAV'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 every way ; And kindly point us to our journey's end. Pope, who could'st 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 plaim'd it so ; Thro' various part? 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, The world's a prophecy of worlds to come ; And who, what God foretels (who speaks in things Still louder than in words) shall dare deny ? * Night the Sixth. 158 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. 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 for ever harbour'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 whole 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 ? Deep in rich pasture, will thy flocks complain ? Not so ; but to their master is deny'd 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 suffice, 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, though perhaps debauch'd THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 159 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 : 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'r*, 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 ardour for unbounded bliss ; O 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. 160 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. Reason progress! ve, instinct is complete : Swift instinct leaps ; slow reason feebly climbs. Brutes soon their zenith reach j their little all Flows in at once ; in ages they no more Could know, or do, or covet, or enjoy. Were man to live 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 her 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 enjoy ? 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 favour of the just ! 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. Witli no past toils content, still planning new, Hope turns us o'er to death alone for ease. THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 1G1 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 bury'd deep, Beyond our plans of empire and renown, Lies all that man with ardour 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 something new So rages appetite, if man can't mount, He will descend. He starves on the possest. Hence, the world's master, from ambition's spire, In Caprea plung'd ; and div'd 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 ! thou With more success, the flight of hope survey : Of restless hope, for ever on the wing. High perch'd o'er ev'ry thought that falcon sits, To fly at all that rises in her sight; And, never stooping, but to mount again Next moment, she betrays her aim's mistake, And owns her quarry lodg'd beyond 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 ? M 162 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. Virtue is true self-interest pursu'd : 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'reign good. 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'er -run. Why beats thy bosom with illustrious dreams Of self-exposure, laudable and great I Of gallant enterprize, 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, His first 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 ; THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. IfiS Bold violation of our law supreme, Black suicide ; tho' nations, which consult Their gain, at thy expense, resound applause. Since virtue's recompence is doubtful, here, If man dies wholly, well may we demand, Why is man suffered 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 ? Betray'd by traitors lodg'd 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 accomplice 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 ? 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. 164 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. When to the grave we follow the renown'd For valour, 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, 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 for ever 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 j rever'd, Where not embrac'd ; applauded ! deify'd ! Why not compassion'd too ? If spirits die, Both are calamities, inflicted both, To makes us but more wretched ; wisdom's eye Acute, for what ? To spy more miseries ; And worth, so recompens'd, new-points their stings. Or man surmounts the grave, or gain is loss, And worth exalted, humble? us the more. THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 165 Thou wilt not patronize a scheme that makes Weakness, and vice, the refuge of mankind. " Has virtue, then, nojoys ?" 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 angelic 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 preach'd, or a Voltaire believ'd. 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. 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 j While brutal are indulg'd 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 ? 166 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. In future age lies no redress ? and shuts Eternity the door on our complaint ? Is 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 these demonstrate boundless objects too. Objects, pow'rs, appetites, heav'n suits in all : Nor, nature thro', 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 ; Thro' ev'ry scene of sense superior far ! They graze the turf untill'd ; they drink the stream Unbrew'd, and ever full, and unembitter'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 ; THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 167 Their good is good entire, unmix'd, unmarr'd ; They find a paradise in ev'ry field, On boughs forbidden where no curses hang : Their ill, no more than strikes the sense ; unstrecht By previous dread, or murmur in the rear : When the worst comes, it comes unfear'd j one stroke Begins, and ends, their woe : they die but once j 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. O sole and sweet solution ! That unties The difficult, and softens the severe ; The cloud on nature's beauteous face dispels j Restores bright order ; casts the brute beneath j And re-inthrones us in supremacy Of joy, e'en here : admit immortal life, And virtue is knight-errantry no more j Each virtue brings in hand a golden dow'r, Far richer in reversion : hope exults ; And tho' much bitter in our cup is thrown, Predominates, and gives the taste of heav'n. O wherefore is the Deity so kind ? Astonishing beyond astonishment ! Heav'n our reward for heav'n enjoy'd below. Still unsubdu'd 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 ? 168 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vu. 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 that fond passion to conceal ! We blush, detected in designs on praise, Tho' for best deeds, and from the best of men : And why ? Because immortal. Art 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 ; THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 169 But our blind reason sees not where it lies ; Or seeing 1 , gives the substance for the shade. Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn 'd ; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp. Consult th' ambitious, 'tis ambition's cure. " And is this all ?" cry'd 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. And can Ambition a fourth proof supply ? It can, and stronger than the former three ; Yet quite 6'erlook'd by some reputed wise. Tho' disappointments in ambition pain, And tho' 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 quell'd, 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 ; 170 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vii, No Sultan prouder than his fetter'd slave : Slaves build their little 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 for ever heave At something great, the glitter or the gold ; The praise of mortals, or the praise of Heav'n. Not 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 j The love of praise is planted to protect And propagate the glories of the mind. What is it, but the love of praise, inspires, 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 basis, 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 j Our private reason is a flatterer ; THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 171 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 succour virtue, when our reason fails ; If virtue, kept alive by care and toil, And oft the mark of injuries on earth, When labour'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, O how mis-spent were all those stratagems, By skill divine inwoven in our frame ! Where are heav'n's holiness and mercy fled ? Laughs heav'n at once, at virtue and at man ? If not, why that discourag'd, this destroyed ? 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 j '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, Gall'd by the spur, but stranger to the course, 172 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vii. (The course where stakes of more than gold are won) Overloading, 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 inextiguishable thirst 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. See, the third witness laughs at bliss remote, And falsely promises an Eden here : Truth she shall speak for once, tho' prone to lie, A common cheat, and Pleasure is her name. To pleasure never was 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, THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 173 Burn us with blushes, and rebuke our pride ? Those heav'n-born blushes tell us man descends, Ev'n 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 for pleasure made ; 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, C( 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 inflame- " Fierce passions, so mismeasur'd to this scene, " Stretch'd out, like eagle's wing.*, beyond our nest, 174 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. " Far, far beyond the worth of all below, " Woe, from heav'n's bounties ! Woe, from what was wont " To flatter most, high intellectual poVrs ! " 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 ? No, to shun lf 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, with-holding happiness ! " From the full rivers that surround his throne, 11 Nor letting fall one drop of joy on man ; " Man gasping for one drop, that he might cease " To curse his birth, nor envy reptiles more ! " Ye sable clouds ! Ye darkest shades of night ! " Hide him, for ever hide him, from my thought, " Once all my comfort, source and soul of joy ! " Now lea gu'd with furies, and with thee *, against me. " Know his achievements ! Study his renown ! " Contemplate this amazing universe, (f 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 ? * Lorenzo. 180 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. " Thro' nature's ample range in thought to stroll, {f And start at man, the single mourner there, " Breathing high hope : chain'd down to pangs and death ? " Knowing is suffering : 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, " Angelic worth, soon shuffled in the dark " With ev'ry vice, and swept to brutal dust ? " Merit is madness ; virtue is a crime ; " A crime to reason, if it costs us pain (f 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'rites 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, 61 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. t( Sense ! take the rein ; blind passion ! drive us on ; THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 181 " And, ignorance ! befriend us on our way ; " Ye new, but truest patrons of our peace ! " Yes ; give the pulse full empire ; live the brute, " Since as the brute, we die. The sum of man, " Of god-like man ! to revel, and to rot. " But not on equal terms with other brutes : " Their revels a more poignant relish 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 vain : " '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^, why " Cast in one lot, confounded, lumpt in death ? " Ere yet in being, was mankind in guilt ? " Why thunder 'd this peculiar 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 ? " All-mortal and all -wretched ! 'Tis too much;. " Unparallel'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. 182 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. " What superfluities are reas'ning souls ! (f O 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. ec 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 ? a Wretched perferment to this round of pains ! ff Wretched capacity of frenzy, thought ! " Wretched capacity of dying, life ! " Life, thought, worth, wisdom, all (O foul revolt !) " Once friends to peace, gone over to the foe. " Death then, has chang'd its nature too : O 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 lodg'd despair ? " At stated periods, sure-returning, roll " These glorious orbs, that mortals may compute THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 183 " Their length of labours, 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 " 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 colour 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, [desire ; " Which prompts proud thought, and kindles high " 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 j " 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 ! " Next moment I may drop from thought, from sense, " The privilege of angels and of worms, " An outcast from existence ; and this spirit, 184 THE COMPLAINT. NHJHT vn, " 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, ec For ever is extinguish'd. Horror ! Death ! " Death of that death I fearless once survey'd ! f( When horror universal shall descend, " And heav'n's dark concave urn all human race, tc 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 general wreck, Swept ignominious to the common mass Of matter, never dignify' d 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 liv'd in terror, and in pangs expir'd .' All gone to rot in chaos : or, to make 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, tho' 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 ? THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 185 A nothing ? less than nothing 1 ? 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 for ever ? Ambition, pleasure, avarice, persuade thee To make that world of glory, rapture, wealth, They* lately prov'd, thy soul's supreme desire. What art thou made of? Rather, how unmade ? Great Nature's master-appetite destroy'd ! Is endless life, and happiness, despis'd ? Or both wish'd, here, where neither can be found ? Such man's perverse, eternal war with heav'n ! Dar'st thou persist ? And is there nought on earth, But a long train of transitory forms, Rising, and breaking, millions 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 is fell Lucifer, compar'd 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 Ijfe, A being blest, or worthy so to be ? Heav'n starts at an annihilating God. * In the Sixth Night. 186 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. 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 Of nature, murder'd by the blackest guilt. What deadly poison has thy nature drank ? To nature undebauch'd no shock so great ; Nature's first wish is endless happiness ; Annihilation is an after-thought, A monstrous wish, unborn till virtue dies. And, oh ! \vhat depth of horror lies inclos'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 baneful 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, reduc'd to dust ? There's nought (thou say'st) but one eternal flux Of feeble essences, tumultuous driven Thro' time's rough billows into night's abyss. 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, THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 187 All realizing, all connecting pow'r, Which, #s it call'd forth all things, can recall, And force destruction to refund her spoil ? Command the grave restore her taken prey ? 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 grac'd, 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) 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, O where, Will the swarm settle ? When the trumpet's call, As sounding brass, collects us, round heav'ns throne Conglob'd, we bask in everlasting day, (Paternal splendour !) and adhere for ever. Had not the soul this outlet to the skies, 188 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. 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 my 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 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, 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 ? Or is there nought but vengeance can be felt ? How hast thou dar'd the Deity dethrone ? How dar'd 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, THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 1B9 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 j 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 despis'd it for its age. Truth is immortal as thy soul ; and fable As fleeting as thy joys : Be wise, nor make Heav'n's highest blessing, vengeance j O be wise ! Nor make a curse of immortality. Say, know'st thou what it is ? Or what thou art ? Know'st thou the 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 unintelligent creation poor. For this, believe not me ; 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 wak'd so long ; 190 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. Has wak'd, and work'd, for ages j 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 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 two 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 published ; were repeal'd ; On earth kings, kingdoms, rose ; kings, kingdoms, fell ; Fam'd sages lighted up the Pagan world ; Prophets from Sion darted a keen glance Thro' distant age ; saints travell'd ; martyrs bled ; THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 191 By wonders sacred nature stood controul'd ; The living were translated ; dead were rais'd ; Angels, and more than angels, came from heav'n ; And, oh ! for this, descended lower still ; Guilt was hell's gloom ; astonished at his guest, For one short moment Lucifer ador'd : Lorenzo ! and wilt thou do less ? For this, That hallow'd page, fools scoff at, was inspir'd, Of all these truths thrice-venerahle 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. O 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 ! 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, stedfast, stern, Such foes implacable, are good and ill ; 192 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vir. Yet man, vain man ! would mediate peace between them. Think not this fiction : " There was a 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 caus'd the storm ? He sleeps. And art thou shock'd at mysteries ? The greatest, Thou. How dreadful to reflect, What ardour, care, and counsel, mortals cause In breasts divine ! How little in their own ! Where'er I turn, how new proofs pour upon me ! How happily this Avondrous view supports My former argument ! How strongly strikes Immortal's life full demonstration here ! Why this exertion ? Why this strange regard From heav'n's Omnipotent indulg'd to man ? Because, in man, the glorious, dreadful pow'r Extremely to be pain'd, or blest, for ever. 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 indulg'd 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 ev'ry thought a critic in the skies : THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 193 Hence clay, vile clay ! lias angels for its guard, And ev'ry guard a passion 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-cover'd height, And shak'n basis, own'd the present God : Witness, ye billows f ; whose returning tide, Breaking the chain that fastened it in air, Swept Egypt, and her menaces, to hell ! Witness, ye flames, th' Assyrian tyrant blew % To sevenfold rage, as impotent as strong : And thou, earth ! witness, whose expanding jaws Clos'd 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 To strike this truth thro' 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 heav'n * Exod. xix. 16, 18. f Exod. xiv. 27. I Dan. iii. 19. Numb. xvi. 32. 194 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vu. Is an immense, inestimable prize ; Or all is nothing, or that prize is all. And shall each toy be still a match for heav'n ? 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 controul'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, learned ; and sages o'er a plough. Is not, Lorenzo, then, imposed on thee 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 thro' 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 faith, Down the steep precipice of wrong he slides ; There's nothing to support him in the right. Faith in the future 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 fathers slain ? THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 195 '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 A richer pasture, and a larger range : And sense by right divine ascends the throne, When virtue'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 unportioned, all will int'rest wed ; Tho' that our admiration, this our choice. The virtues grow on immortality ; That root destroy'd, they wither and expire. A Deity believed, will nought avail ; Rewards and punishments, make God ador'd ; 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, tho' 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 For more than death ; for utter loss of being, Being, the basis of the Deity ! 196 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. 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 Erewhile ethereal heights) and throw her down, To lick the dust, and crawl, in such a thought. Is it in words to paint you ? O ye fallen ! 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 Most highly favour 'd, most profoundly lost ! Ye motly mass of contradiction strong ! And are you, too, convinc'd, your souls fly off In exhalation soft, and die in air, From the full flood of evidence against you ? In 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 tho' you can deform, you can't destroy j To curse, not uncreate, is all your pow'r. THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 197 Lorenzo, this black brotherhood renounce ; Renounce St. Evremont* and read St. Paul. Ere wrapt by miracle, by reason wing'd, His mounting mind made long abode in heav'n. This is free-thinking, unconfin'd to parts, To send the soul, on curious travel bent, Thro' all the provinces of human thought ; To dart her flight, thro' 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, 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 enlightened, 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 destin'd range ? And what yon boundless orbs to godlike man ? * An infidel writer. 198 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VH. 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 leave room For ampler orbs ; for new creations there. 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-natur'd man, 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 INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 199 (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 5 as sure as plumbets fall. Since God, or man, must alter, ere they meet, (Since 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 pow'r To counteract its own most gracious ends ; And this, of strict necessity, not choice : That pow'r deny'd, men, angels, were no more r But passive engines, void of praise, or blame. A nature rational implies the pow'r 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 for ever. Why this to thee ? Thee yet, perhaps, in doubt Of second life ? But wherefore doubtful still ? Eternal life is nature's ardent wish : 200 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. What ardently we wish, we soon believe ; Thy tardy faith declares that wish destroy'd : 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 soul detection ! blush, Lorenzo, 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, Aifords my cause an undesign'd support ! How disbelief affirms, what it denies ! " It, unawares, asserts immortal life." Surprising ! Infidelity 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 candour they strive hard to scorn. If not for that asylum, they might find A hell on earth ; nor 'scape a worse below. THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 201 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 ? From 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 Christain dwells, like* Uriel, in the sun. Meridian evidence puts doubt to flight ; And ardent hope anticipates the skies. Of that bright son, Lorenzo ! scale the sphere ; 'Tis easy ; it invites thee ; it descends From heav'n to woo, and waft thee whence it came : Read and revere the sacred page ; a page Where triumphs immortality ; a page Which not the whole creation could produce ; Which not the conflagration shall destroy ; In nature's ruins not one letter lost : Tis printed in the mind of gods for ever. 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 frenzy to the brain ! Parts push us on to pride, and pride to shame ; * See Milton's Paradise Lost. 202 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vn. 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 j stand fast ; be sure to be a knave j 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 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, Tho' sov'reign is the med'cine I prescribe, As yet, Fll 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 labour of the skies j The Infidel Reclaimed. THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 203 Increase, and enter on the joys of Heav'n : Thus shall my title pass a sacred seal, Receive an imprimatur from above, While angels shout An Infidel reclaimed ! To close, Lorenzo ! spite of all my pains, Still seems it strange, that thou should'st live for ever ? Is it less strange that thou should'st 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 believe. So weak our reason, and so great our God, What most surprises in the sacred page, Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true. Faith is not reason's labour, 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 ! the reverse is right. 204 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vu. Reason is man's peculiar ; sense, the brute's. The present is the scanty realm of sense ; The future, reason's empire imconfin'd : On that expending all her godlike pow'r, 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 say'st,) to damp the joys of life ? " No ; to give heart and substance to thy joys. That tyrant, hope, mark how she domineers ; She bids us quit realities for dreams ; 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 ; THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 205 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 vigour to the mind ! A joy attemper'd ! a chastis'd delight ! Like the fair summer evening, mild and sweet ! 'Tis man's full cup j 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 listen ; and be graver still. * The poetical parts of it. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD ANSWERED. . IN WHICH ARE CONSIDERED, 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 treasure ; 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 heav'n, Fir'd their ambition, as it crown'd their joy. Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font, Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 207 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 how 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 Unnumber'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. 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 ? O 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 208 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. 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 world ! and this, unrivall'd by the skies ! A world, where lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold, Three daemons that divide its realms between them, 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, life, death, on man. Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom wooes, And on its thorny pillow seeks repose ; A pillow, which, like opiates ill prepar'd, Intoxicates, but not composes j 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 1 Fantastic chase, of shadows hunting shades ! The gay, the busy, equal, tho' unlike ; Equal in wisdom, differently wise ! Thro' flow'ry meadows, and thro' dreary wastes, VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 201> One bustling, and one dancing, into death. 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 bus'ness tell us " What are men ;" The scenes of pleasure " What is all beside :" There, others we despise ; and here, ourselves. Amid disgust eternal, dwells delight ? 'Tis approbation strikes the string of joy. What wond'rous 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 pow'r ; 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 5n- gulph'd, Where gay delusion darkens to despair ! " This is a beaten track." Is this a track 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 ? p 210 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. Fame's trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell, It brings bad tidings : how it hourly blows Man's misadventures round the list'ning world ! 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's strongest thread, Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells, With, now 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 ; 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 harden'd felons, lies ; 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 j Night darker than what now involves the pole. O Thou who dost permit these ills to fall For gracious ends, and wouldstthat man should mourn ! VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 211 O Thou, whose hands this goodly fabric fram'd, Who know'st it best, and wouldst that man should know ! What is this sublunary world ? A vapour ! A vapour all it holds ; itself a vapour ; 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. 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 of joys ! perplex'd with doubts, And sharp with thorns ! a troubled ocean, spread With bold adventurers, their all on board ; No second hope, if here their fortune frowns : Frown soon it must. Of various rates they sail, 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 : All, more or less, against each other dash, 212 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driv'n, And suffering 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 for ever 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 ? 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 tugg'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 ; * Admiral Balchen, &c. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 213 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 ingulph'd ; It floats a moment, and is seen no more. One Caesar 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 from misfortune, not from nature free, 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. Woe then apart (if woe 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 say !) Convince me most of human misery : What are they ? Smiling 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 ! 214 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. High titles, then, what insult of their pain ! If that sole anchor, equal to the waves, Immortal hope ! defies not the rude storm, Takes comfort from the foaming billow's rage, And makes a welcome harbour of thee tomb. Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires ? " But here (thou say'st) 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 befal 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, thro' 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. As yet, his reason cannot go alone ; But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on. His little heart is often terrify'd ; 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. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 215 Ah ! what avails his innocence ? The task Injoin'd must discipline his early pow'rs ; 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 3) 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 : Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught, Or books (fair virtue's advocates !) inspir'd. For who receives him into public life ? Men of the world, the terrse-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 nought so strong 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 subdu'd : 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. 216 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vin. 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 : 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, thro' 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 unfeign'd j Affection, as his species, wide diffus'd ; Noble presumptions to mankind's renown ; Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love. These 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 Thro' 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 public guilt, Full oft we feel its foul contagion too, If less than heav'nly virtue is our guard. Thus, a strange kind of curst necessity VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 217 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 spacious 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 insurmountable extreme of guilt ! Poor Machiavel ! who labour'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' all face ; the man that shews his heart Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn'd. A man I knew, who liv'd upon a smile j And well it fed him ; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd thro' ev'ry vein. Lorenzo, what I tell thee, take not ill ! 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 travell'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 effaces on each other, Making court sweetmeats of their latent gall, In foolish hope, to steal each others trust ; Both cheating, both exulting, both deceiv'd ; 218 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vin. 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 th$&fore 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 ; Whose feeble nature truth keeps still in awe ; His incapacity is his renown. Tis 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 would'st thou then Escape that cruel need : Thou may'st 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 life 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 heav'n, Or make us demons, long before we die. To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shines, VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 219 Take either part, sure ills attend the choice : Sure, tho' not equal, detriment ensues. Not virtue's 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 envy'd state, And some forgiveness, needs the best of friends ? 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 ; " 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 : 220 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. 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 thro' mistake ! Tis not ambition charms thee : 'tis a cheat Will make thee start, as H at his Moor. Dost grasp at greatness ? First, know r what it is : Think'st thou thy greatness in distinction lies ? 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 ! If man is mean as man, VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 221 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. 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 thro' death's straits, earth's subtle serpents creep, Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown, As crooked Satan the forbidden tree, They leave their party-colour'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) 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, 222 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. Illustrious, might afford but few grandees. Th' Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveys Nought greater than an honest, humble heart ; A humble heart, his residence ! pronounc'd His second seat ; and rival to the skies. The private path, the secrets 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 bus'ness, lies ; Deny'd the public eye, the public voice, As if he liv'd on others' breath, he dies. 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 ? VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 223 His fame, which (like the mighty Caesar) crown'd With laurels, in full senate greatly falls, By seeming friends, that honour 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, tho' fancy'd, turns the brain ; 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 pursu'd. Who court applause oblige the world in this ; They gratify man's passion to refuse. Superior honour, when assum'd, is lost ; E'en 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, S( 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 pow'rs ; For her contend the rival gods above ; Pleasure's the mistress of the world below ; 224 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vin. 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 \:ein, 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. 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 ; VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 225 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 t doater on delight ! I am thy rival ; pleasure I profess j 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 flow'r : And honest Epicurus' foes were fools. But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence j If o'erstrain'd wisdom still retains the name. How knits austerity her cloudy brow, 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 j Or, if we could, is imposition right ? Own honey sweet, but, owning, add this sting " When mixt 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 nature loves is good, without our leave : And where no future drawback cries, " beware ;" Pleasure, tho' not from virtue, should prevail. 'Tis balm to life, and gratitude to heav'n ; How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoyed ! The love of pleasure is man's eldest born, Born in his cradle; living to his tomb ; Q 226 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vin. 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 ! Who think'st thyself a Murray, with disdain May 'st look on me. Yet, my Demosthenes * ! Canst thou plead pleasure's cause as well as I ? Know'st thou her nature, purpose, parentage r Attend my song, and thou shalt know them all j 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 ere found a happy life by chance, Or yawn'd it 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 leaves 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. First, pleasure's birth, rise, strength, and grandeur see ; Brought forth by wisdom, nurs'd by discipline, * A famous Grecian orator. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 227 By patience taught, by perseverance crown'd, She rears her head majestic ; round her throne, Erected in the bosom of the just, Each virtue, listed, 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 j Its mighty purpose, its important end. Not to turn human brutal, but to build Divine on human, pleasure came from heav'n. In aid to reason was the goddess sent ; To call up all its strength by such a charm. Pleasure first succours 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 j '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, for ever, pleasure's sacred stream ! Thro' Eden, as Euphrates ran, it runs, 228 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. 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 ; 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 daemons 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 j '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 appointments 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 tissonance, or harmony, shall rise. Heav'n bid the soul this mortal frame inspire j VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 229 Bid virtue's ray divine inspire the soul With unprecarious flows of vital joy j 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 j 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 lies, Enfeebled, lifeless, impotent to good ; A feign'd affection bounds her utmost pow'r. Some we can't love, but for the 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 God, is heay'n ; Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life ; The whirls of passion, and the strokes of heart. A Deity believ'd, is joy begun j A Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd ; A Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd. Each branch of piety delight inspires j Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next, 230 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. O'er death's dark gulph, and all its horror hides ; Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, That 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 ; 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. (f 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. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 231 Laughter, tho' never censur'd yet as sin, (Pardon a thought that only seems severe) Is half-immoral : is it much indulg'd ? By venting spleen, or dissipating thought, It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool ; And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves. 'Tis pride, or emptiness, applies the straw, That tickles little minds to mirth effuse ; Of grief approaching, the portentous sign ! The house of laughter makes a house of woe. A man triumphant is a monstrous sight j A man dejected is a sight as mean. What cause for triumph, where such ills abound ? What for dejection, where presides a Pow'r, 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 inspir'd, As thou, and thine, are apt and proud to do. If not inspir'd, that pregnant page had stood, 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 ; THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vui. 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 travail 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 mistim'd 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 poize, 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 unshock'd ? 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 ; VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 233 Delight, pure, delicate and durable ; Delight, 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 for ever :" 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 ? Mixt up of delicates of ev'ry sense ; 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 ; 11 Exertion, vigilance, a mind in arms, " A military discipline of thought, " To foil temptation in the doubtful field ; " And ever- waking ardour 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 ; Joy season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt. " Mad ! (thou reply'st, with indignation fir'd) 11 Of ancient sages proud to tread the steps, " I follow nature." Follow nature still, 234 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm, But look it be thine own : is conscience, then, No part of nature ? Is she not supreme ? Thou regicide ! O raise her from the dead ! Then, follow nature ; and resemble God. When, spite of conscience, pleasure is pursu'd, 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'rest 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 ; And forward time's great sequel to survey. Could human courts take vengeance 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 ; VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 235 And sets him quite at variance with himself. Thyself, first, know j 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. 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 Pow'r, From whom she springs, 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, curst ; extinction, loud implor'd : And ev'ry thing 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 a-field : The future pleases : why ? The present pains. 236 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. " 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, 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 shewn 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 fixt, and solid as a rock ; Slippery the false, and tossing as the wave. This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain ; That, like the fabled, self-enamour'd boy *, Home-contemplation her supreme delight ; She dreads an interruption from without, * Narcissus. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 237 Smit with her own 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 heav'n ! 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 thoughts, like angels, seen of old In Israel's dream *, come from, and go to heav'n : 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. 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. O 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 exultation, swelling high ; Which, like land-floods, impetuous pour awhile, Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire. * Gen. xxxviii. 12. 238 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vin. What does the man who 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 fixed state : a tenure, not a start. Bliss there is none but unprecarious bliss ; That is the gein : 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 ; 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 missed than gain'd. Much pain must expiate what much pain procur'd. Fancy, and sense, from an infected shore, Thy cargo bring ; and pestilence the prize. Then, such thy thirst, (insatiable thirst 1 By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more !) Fancy still cruises when poor sense is tir'd. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 239 Imagination is the Paphian shop, Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame, Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess, And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires) 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 armour 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 kissed. Detained 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 pacify'd ; if outward things are great, 'Tis magnanimity great things to scorn ; Pompous expences, 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 blest the bad, Nor can her frowns rob innocence of joys ; 240 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor : So tell his holiness, and be reveng'd. Pleasure, we both agree, is man's chief good j 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. Are rival joys contending for thy choice ? Consult thy own existence, and be safe 5 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 learnt ; To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain. Fir'd at the prospect of unclouded bliss, VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 241 Heav'n in reversion, 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 ? " Or stem the tide heav'n pushes thro' our veins, " Which sweeps away man's impotent resolves, " And lays his labour 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 heav'n, Leans all that way, his bias to the stars. The world's dark shades, in contrast set, shall raise His lustre more ; tho' bright, without a foil : Observe his awful portrait, and admire ; Nor 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. With aspect mild and elevated eye, Behold him seated on a mount serene, * In a former night. 242 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. 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, nor impair his peace. Earth's genuine sons, the scepter'd, 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 composed possession of the true. Alike throughout is his consistent peace, All of one colour, and an even thread ; While party- colour'd shreds of happiness, With hideous gaps between, patch up for them A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blow* The tatters by, and shews 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. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 243 Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) He lays aside to find his dignity ; 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 ; Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'n, 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 life still is sweet. But nothing charms Lorenzo like the firm, Undaunted breast And whose is that high praise ? They yield to pleasure, tho' they danger brave, And shew no fortitude but in the field ; If there they shew it, 'tis for glory shewn ; Nor will that cordial always man their hearts. 244 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. A cordial his sustains, that cannot fail : By pleasure unsubdu'd, unbroke by pain, 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 noble recompencc, 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 flow'r. He follows nature (not like thee !) and shews 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 Avell 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 affection, more than meet, His wisdom leaves not disengag'd from heav'n. 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. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 245 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 j On its own dunghill wiser than the world. What then, the world ? It must be doubly weak ; Strange truth ! as soon would they believe their creed. Yet thus it is ; nor otherwise can be ; So far from aught romantic what I sing. Bliss has no being, virtue has no strength, But from the prospect of immortal life. Who thinks earth all, or (what weighs just the same) Who cares no farther, must prize what it yields : Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades. Who thinks earth nothing, can't its charms admire : He can't a foe, tho' most malignant, 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 j For may not he 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 colour what, a thousand ages heuce ?" 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, His habit's firmness, and affection's flame ; 246 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vin. Angels ally'd, 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 heav'n ! Stand by thy scorn, and be reduc'd to nought : For what art thou ? Thou boaster ! while thy glare, 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, how 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, By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare. Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo ! wit abounds ; VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 247 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, blundering 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, compare?, 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 life Wit makes an enterpriser ; sense, a man. Wit hates authority ; commotion loves, And thinks herself the lightning of the storm. In states, 'tis dangerous ; in religion, death : 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 di'mond, weighty, solid, sound ; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam ; Yet, wit apart, it is a di'mond 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, 248 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vin. Where Syrens sit, to sing thee to thy fate ! A joy, in which our reason bears no part, Is but a sorrow tickling, 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 j She gives but little, nor that little, long. There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse j A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy, Our thoughtless agitation'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 strain'd; A nice machine ! scarce ever tun'd aright ; And when it jars thy Syrens 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, VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 249 " Body to soul, and soul submit to God." Would'st 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 shew 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 themselves 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 ? Arid 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) O how laborious is their gaiety ! They scarce can follow their ebullient spleen, Scarce muster patience to support the farce, And pump sad laughter, till the curtain falls . Scarce, did 1 say ? Some cannot sit it out ; Oft their own daring hands the curtain draw, And shew 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, 250 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm. Th' 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. O for a joy from reason ! joy from that, Which makes man, man ; and exercis'd aright, 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, O 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. VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 251 Nor need you blush (tho* sometimes your designs May shun the light) at your designs on heav'n ; Sole point ! where over-bashful is your blame. Are you not wise ? You know you are. Yet hear 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 difference 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 (Truths which at church you might have heard in prose) Has ventur'd into light ; well-pleas'd 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 ; 252 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT vm, And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulph. Since many an ample volume, mighty tome, Must die, and die unwept ; O 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 5 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 sw rm ; Prudent as Prussia in her zeal for Gaul. ff Are all, then, fools ?" Lorenzo cries. Yes, all But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee j) " The mother of true wisdom is the will 5" 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. THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, 1. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS. 2. A NIGHT-ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. Inscribed to his Grace THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE. Fatis contraria Fata rependens. VIRG. 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 labour 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, 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, 254 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest ; I chase the moments with a serious song. Song sooths our pains ; and age has pains to sooth. 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, O night ! indulge one labour more ? One labour 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. But if, beneath the favour 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 j 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 ; THE CONSOLATION. 255 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 unsully'd, 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 bury'd ; this in shame ; While howling furies ring the doleful knell ; And conscience, now so soft thou scarce can hear Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal. Where the prime actors of the last year's scene ; Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume ? How many sleep, who kept the world awake With lustre, and with noise ! Has death pr6claim'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. 256 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. " Profest diversions ! cannot these escape ?" Far from it : these present us with a shroud ; And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave. As some bold plunderers, for bury'd 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 ! such 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 ; Whole bury'd 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 : THE CONSOLATION. 257 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, O 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, 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, O 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 I 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. * The Deluge, referred to Genesis vii. 22. s 258 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 pow'rs ! Prime ministers of vengeance ! Chain'd in caves Distinct, apart, the giant furies roar ; Apart ; or, such their horrid rage for ruin, In mutual conflict would they rise, and wage 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. THE CONSOLATION. 25!> Amazing period ! when each mountain-height Out-burns Vesuvius ; rocks eternal pour Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd ; Stars rush ; and final ruin fiercely drives Her plough-share 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, O how unlike The babe of 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 now, all dross remov'd, heav'n's own pure day, Full on the confines of our ether, flames, While (dreadful contrast !) far, how far beneath ! Hell bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, 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 ardour wings her flight. 260 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 ! 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 may'st Provide more firm support, or sink for ever ! 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 ; From 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 heav'n. THE CONSOLATION. 261 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 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 bosom : 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 w r as ordain'd for man ? O day of consummation ! mark supreme (If men are wise) of human thought ! nor least, Or in the sight of angels, or their King ! Angels, whose radiant circles, height o'er height, Order o'er order, rising, blaze o'er blaze, As in a theatre, surround this scene, Intent on man, and anxious for his fate. 262 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. Angels look out for thee ; for thee, their Lord, To vindicate his glory j and for thee Creation universal calls aloud, To dis-involve 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 sun-beam pointing out each secret thought ! No patron ! Intercessor none ! Now past The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour ! 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 ; 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. THE CONSOLATION. 263 Say, them 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 !) As in debate, how best their powr's ally'd 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, Prest 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 qneen ! 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, How often called ! and with the voice of God ; Yet bore repulse, excluded as a cheat ! 264 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 breath can blow, Pour forth their myriads, potentates, and pow'rs, 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 j 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 ? 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 heav'n, Down, down she hurls it thro' the dark profound, Ten thousand thousand fathom ; there to rust, And ne'er unlock her resolution more. THE CONSOLATION. 265 The deep resounds, and hell, thro' all her glooms, Returns, in groans, the melancholy roar. O how unlike the chorus of the skies ! O how unlijie 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 god-like aim, and end, So well accomplish'^ ! so divinely clos'd ! To see the mighty dramatist's last act, (As meet) in glory rising o'er the rest. No fancy'd god, a god indeed descends 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 ! I 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 ? 266 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 ; To rouse the careless, the presumptuous awe, And turn the tide of souls another way ; By the same tenderness divine ordained, That planted Eden, and high-bloom'd from man A fairer Eden, endless, in the skies. Heav'n gives us friends to bless the present scene ; Resumes them, to prepare us for 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 indulged, 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 coroborates, exalts ; 'Tis joy, and conquest ; joy, and virtue too. A noble fortitude in ills, delights 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 CONSOLATION. 267 The crown of manhood is a winter-joy ; An evergreen, that stands the northern blast, And blossoms in the rigour of our fate. 'Tis a prime part of happiness, to know How much unhappiness must prove our lot ; A part which few possess ! I'll 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? " * Wish my being lost !" Presumptuous ! blasphemous ! absurd ! and false ! The triumph of my soul is, That I am ; And therefore that I may be What ? Lorenzo ! Look inward, and look deep ; and deeper still : Unfathomably deep our treasure runs In golden veins, through all eternity ! Ages, and ages, and succeeding still New ages, where this phantom of an hour, Which courts, each night, dull slumber, for repair, Shall wake, and wonder, and exult, and praise, And fly thro' infinite, and all unlock ; And (if deserved) 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, May'st boast a whole eternity, enrich'd With all a kind Omnipotence can pour. Since Adam fell, no mortal, uninspir'd, * Referring to the First Night. 268 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. Has ever yet conceiv'd, 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 labours to secure. Ills ? there are none ! All Gracious ! none from thee ; From man full many ! num'rous is the race 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 dang'rous, not 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 j none I find j Or this alone " That none is to be found." Not one, to soften censure's hardy crime ; Not one, to palliate peevish griefs complaint, Who, like a daemon, murm'ring from the dust, Dares into judgment call her Judge. Supreme I THE CONSOLATION. i?y For all I bless thee ; most, for the severe j * Her death my own at hand the fiery gulph, 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, death, 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 vapours breeds a pestilential air : Nor more propitious the Favonian breeze To nature's health, than purifying storms ; The dread volcano ministers to good. Its smother'd flames might undermine the world. Loud /Etnas 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, * Lucia. 270 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 j The Consolation cancels the Complaint, And makes a convert of my guilty song. As when o'er-labour'd, and inclin'd to breathe, A panting traveller, some rising ground, Some small ascent, has gain'd, he turns him round, And measures with his eye the various vales, The fields, woods, meads, and rivers, he has past ; And, satiate of his journey, thinks of home, Endear'd by distance, nor affects more toil : Thus I, tho' 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 j and with pleasure meditate an end, Tho' 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 j Of love divine the wonders she display'd ; Prov'd man immortal 5 shew'd the source of joy; THE CONSOLATION. 271 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, Tho' 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 discharg'd ; these thoughts, O Night ! are thine ; From thee they came, like lovers' secret sighs, While others slept. So, Cynthia (poets feign) In shadows veil'd, soft sliding from her sphere, Her shepherd cheer'd ; of her enamour'd less, Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung, Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid I sing ? Immortal silence ! Wliere shall I begin ? Where end ? Or how steal music from the spheres, To sooth their goddess ? O majestic Night ! Nature's great ancestor ! Day's elder born ! And fated to survive the transient sun ! By mortals, and immortals, seen with awe ! A starry crown thy raven-brow T adorns, An azure zone, thy waist; clouds, in heav'n's loom Wrought thro' varieties of shape and shade, In ample folds of draper) 7 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 ; 2y2 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. And, like a sable curtain starr'd with gold, Drawn o'er my labours past, shall close the scene. And what, O man ! so worthy to be sung ? What more prepares us for the songs of heav'n ? 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 design'd 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 thai expanse Of thought, to rise to that exalted height Of admiration, to contract that awe, And give her whole capacities that strength, Which best may qualify for final joy. The more our spirits are enlarg'd on earth, The deeper draught shall they receive of heav'n. 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 did'st 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 enclosure, from the sun's Contracted circle set my heart at large : Eliminate my spirit, give it range * David, 1 Samuel, xvi. 18. 24. THE CONSOLATION. 273 Thro' 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, 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 thro' yon azure main ; Main, without tempest, pirate, rock, or shore ; And whence thou may'st 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 thro' 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'll mount ; We'll innocently steal celestial fire, And kindle our devotion at the stars ; A theft that shall not chain, but set thee free. Above our atmosphere's intestine wars, * Night the Eighth. T 274 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 lightning ; '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 misconstru'd 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 ardours ; ev'ry pow'r 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 ! 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'll point out to thee Its various lessons ; some that may surprise An un-adept in mysteries of Night ; THE CONSOLATION. 275 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 ? The existence of a God ? Yes ; and of other beings, man above ; Natives of ether ! Sons of higher climes ! And, what may move Lorenzo's wonder more, Eternity is written in the skies,. And whose eternity ? Lorenzo ! thine : 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 can'st 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 thine eye (if bold an eye to lift, If bold to meet the face of injur'd heav'n) To yonder stars : for other ends they shine Than to light revellers from shame to shame, And, thus, be made accomplices in guilt. the Eighth. 276 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT rx. Why from yon arch, that infinite of space, With infinite of lucid orbs replete, 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 Pow'r 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 welcom'd 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 un-upbraided by this radiant choir. The planets of each system represent Kind neighbours ; 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. 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 THE CONSOLATION. 277 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 stil !) 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 ; 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 shews 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 pow'r ! 278 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. This theatre ! What eye can take it in ? By what divine enchantment was it rais'd, 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 ; How boundless in magnificence and might ! O what a confluence of ethereal fires, From urns unnumber'd, down the steep of heav'n, 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, or unaw'd ? Who sees it, and can stop at what is seen ? Material offspring of Omnipotence ! Inanimate, all-animating birth ! Work worthy him who made it ! worthy praise ! All praise ! praise more than human ! nor deny'd Thy praise divine ! But tho' man, drow r n'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 ! O how loud It calls devotion ! genuine growth of Night ! Devotion ! daughter of astronomy ! An undevout astronomer is mad. True 5 all things speak a God : but in the small, THE CONSOLATION. 279 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 plancted 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 heav'n ! 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 streightens 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 restor'd, O nature ! wide flies off th' expanding round. As when whole magazines, at once, are fir'd, The smitten air is hollow'd by the blo\v ; The vast displosion dissipates the clouds ; Shock'd ether's billows dash the distant skies ; Thus (but far more) th' expanding round flies off, And leaves a mighty void, a spacious womb, Might teem with new creation ; re-inflam'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, obscure, and steep 'd in sense ; For sure, to sense r they truly are divine, 280 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 perch'd ; and thought What was their highest must 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, 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, Dropt down that reas'ning 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 j 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, THE CONSOLATION. 281 Know this, Lorenzo (seem it ne'er so strange) 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 light upon thy creed. These stars, this furniture, this cost of Heav'n, If but reported, thou had'st ne'er believed ; 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 So v '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 j Let thought, awaken'd, take the lightning's wing, 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. Would' st thou on metaphysic pinions soar ? Or wound thy patience amid logic thorns ? 282 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 my chief lesson there." Too late to read this manuscript of heav'n, When, like a parchment-scroll, shrunk up by flames, It folds Lorenzo's lesson from his sight. Lesson how various ! Nor the God alone, I see His ministers ; I see diffus'd In radiant orders, essences sublime, Of various offices of various plume, In heav'nly liveries, distinctly clad, Azure, green, purple, pearl, or downy gold, 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 Inform us of Superiors numberless, As much in excellence, above mankind, As above earth, in magnitude, the spheres. These, as a cloud of witnesses, hang o'er us ; In a throng'd theatre are all our deeds ; THE CONSOLATION. JS.i Perhaps, a thousand demi-gods descend On ev'ry beam we see, to walk with men. Awful reflection ! Strong restraint from ill ! Yet, here, our virtue finds still stronger aid, From these ethereal glories sense surveys. Something like magic strikes from this blue vault ; With just attention is it view'd ? We feel A sudden succour, unimplor'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-pow'r ! How dost thou swell, and strut, with human pride, To shew thy littleness ! What childish toys, Thy wat'ry columns squirted to the clouds ! Thy bason'd rivers, and imprison'd seas ! Thy mountains moulded into forms of men ! Thy hundred-gated capitals ! Or those Where three days travel left us much to ride j Gazing on miracles by mortals wrought, Arches triumphal, theatres immense, Or nodding gardens pendent in mid-air ! Or temples proud to meet their gods half-way ! 284 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. Yet these affect us in no common kind : What 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 daring man, he makes her sacred awe (That guard from ill) his shelter, his temptation To more than common guilt, and quite inverts Celestial art's intent. The trembling stars See crimes gigantic, stalking thro' the gloom With front erect, that hide their head by day, And making night still darker by their deeds. . Slumb'ring in covert, till the shades descend, Rapine and murder, link'd, now prowl for prey. The miser earths his treasures ; and the thief, Watching the mole, half-beggars him ere morn. Now plots and foul conspiracies awake ; And, muffling up their horrors for 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. THE CONSOLATION. 285 Prepost'rous madmen, void of fear or shame, Lay their crimes bare to these chaste eyes of heav'n ; 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 sublime Of human hearts, and wiser make the wise. Those ends were answer'd once ; when mortals liv'd Of stronger wing, of aquiline ascent In theory sublime. O 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 Stagarite, and Plato, he who drank The poison'd 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 ardour, ran The zodiac of their learn'd, illustrious lives. 286 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. In Christian hearts, O for a pagan zeal ! A needful but opprobrious pray'r ! As much Our ardour 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 heav'n : 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 gaz'd on in his sphere : That, mind immortal loves immortal aims : That, boundless mind affects a boundless space : That, vast surveys, and the sublime of things, The soul assimilate, and make her great : That, therefore, heav'n her glories, as a fund Of inspiration, thus spreads out to man. Such are their doctrines ; such the night inspired. 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, THE CONSOLATION. 287 In full proportion let loose all her pow'rs ; 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 life, more vigour, in her native air ; And feels herself at home among the stars ; And, feeling, emulates her country's praise. 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 expatiate, 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. O that the stars (as some have feign'd) let fall Bloodshed, and havoc, on embattled realms, 288 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. And rescu'd monarchs from so black a guilt ! Bourbon ! this wish, how gen'rous in a foe ! Wouldst thou be great, wouldst thou become a god, And stick thy deathless name among the stars, 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 Avhat 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 godlike, as these more divine. And more divine than these, thou canst not see. Dazzled, o'erpower'd, with the delicious draught Of miscellaneous splendours, 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 ! O 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 for ever. Lorenzo, much of moral hast thou seen : Of curious arts art thou more fond ? Then mark 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 tow'rs ; Wisdom, and choice, their well-known characters THE CONSOLATION. 28!) Here deep impress ; and claim it for their own. Tho' splendid all, no splendour void of use ; Use rivals beauty ; art contends with pow'r j No wanton waste, amid effuse expense ; The great Economist adjusting all To prudent pomp, magnificently wise. How rich the prospect ! and for ever new ! And newest to the man that views it most j For newer still in infinite succeeds. Then, these aerial racers, O 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' soon, we labour to believe it true ! What involution ! What extent ! What swarms Of worlds, that laugh at earth ! immensely great ! Immensely distant from each other's spheres ! What then, the wond'rous space thro' 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 ty'd ! How soon are they dissolved, * Ezekiel, x. 9, 10. 2!K> THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. And set the seeming marry'd planets free ! They rove for ever, without error rove ; Confusion imconfused ! 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, And bid let fall soft beams on human rest, Restless themselves. On yon cerulean plain, 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 pow'r. 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 heav'n, Which fixes all ; makes adamant of air, Or air of adamant ; makes all of nought, Or nought of all ; if such the dread decree. Imagine from their deep foundations torn THE CONSOLATION. 291 The most gig-antic sons of earth, the broad And tow'ring Alps, all toss'd 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 noblest ends ? More obvious ends to pass, are not these stars The seats majestic, proud imperial thrones, On which angelic delegates of heav'n, At certain periods, as the Sovereign nods, Discharge high trusts of vengeance, or of love ; To clothe, in outward grandeur, grand design, And acts more solemn still more solemnize ? Ye citizens of air ! what ardent thanks, What full effusion of the grateful heart, Is due from man indulg'd in such a sight ! A sight so noble ! and a sight so kind ! It drops new truths at every 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, 292 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. To man unlabour'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 th' existence of a God, Is found (as I conceive) where rarely sought ; And thou may'st read thy soul immortal, here. 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 j 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 pow'r. 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 pow'r To turn Lorenzo's stubborn tide of thought From stagnating on earth's infected shore, * The Emperor of Turkey. THE CONSOLATION. 293 And purge from nuisance his corrupted heart ? Fails her attraction when it draws to heav'n ? Nay, and to what thou valu'st more, earth's joy ? Minds elevate, and panting for unseen, 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. O let me gaze ! Of gazing there's no end. O let me think ! Thought too is wilder'd here ; In mid-way flight imagination tires ; Yet soon re-prunes 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 heav'n. 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 w r orld ; Tho' nothing half so rapid as their flight. An eye of awe and wonder let me roll, And roll for ever : who can satiate sight 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, * Hugenius. 294 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. 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 solid 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 plenitude of pow'r, Or nature's laws to fix, or to repeal ? To make a sun, or stop his mid-career ? To countermand his 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. Prom Adam's bow'r look down thro' the whole train Of miracles ; resistless is their pow'r ? They do not, cannot, 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. THE CONSOLATION. 295 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 tf 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 glitt'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 military style delights thee, (For stars have fought their battles, leagu'd with man) " Who marshals this bright host ? Enrolls their names ? " Appoints their posts, their marches, and returns, lf Punctual, at stated periods ? who disbands When, this vile, foreign dust, which smothers all That travel earth's deep vale, shall I shake off ? 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 an universe ; Fill us with great ideas full of heav'n, And antidote the pestilential earth ! In ev'ry storm, that either frowns, or falls, What an asylum has the soul in pray'r ! And what a fane is this, in which to pray ! And what a God must dwell in such a fane ! O what a genius must inform the skies ! And is Lorenzo's salamander-heart Cold and untouch'd, amid these sacred fires ? O ye nocturnal sparks ! Ye glowing embers, 298 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. On heav'n's broad hearth ! who burn, or burn no more, Who blaze, or die, as great Jehovah's breath 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 Truths, 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, 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 in approach to woe. Open thy bosom, set thy wishes wide, And let in manhood j let in happiness ; THE CONSOLATION. 299 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 besieged ! 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 ! This scene is heav'n's indulgent violence : 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 ? O 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 pow'r. 300 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT *x. What order, beauty, motion, distance, size ! Concertion of design, how exquisite ! How complicate, in their divine police ! Apt means ! great ends ! consent to gen'ral good ! Each attribute of these material gods, So long (and that with specious pleas) ador'd, A separate 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, " But that I am ; and, since I am, conclude " Something eternal : had there e'er been nought, " Nought still had been : eternal there must be. " But what eternal ? Whv not human race ? THE CONSOLATION. 301 " And Adam's ancestors without an end ? " That's hard to be conceiv'd, since ev'ry link " Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail ; tf 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 ' s Is seen in all their motions, all their makes ; " Design implies intelligence, and art : (e 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. u 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 ? " Has matter innate motion ? Then each atom, " Asserting its indisputable right " To dance, would form an universe of dust. u 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, 302 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT ix. E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade To the black portal thro' th j incumbent shade ? Deep are those shades ; but shades still deeper hide My counsels from the ken of human pride. " Thus far thy floating tide, &c.] There is a very great air in all that precedes, but this is signally sublime. We are struck with admiration to see the vast and ungovernable ocean receiving com- mands, and punctually obeying them ; to 6nd it like a managed horse, raging, tossing, and foaming, but by the rule and direction of its master. This passage yields in sublimity to that of " Let there be light," &c. so much only as the absolute government of nature yields to the creation of it. The like spirit in these two passages is no bad concurrent argu- ment that Moses was the author of the book of Job. 340 PARAPHRASE ON Where dwells the light ? In what refulgent dome ? And where has darkness made her dismal home ? Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught With ripen'd wisdom thro' long ages brought ; Since nature was call'd forth when thou wast by, And into being rose beneath thine eye ! Are mists begotten ? Who their father knew ? From whom descend the pearly drops of dew ? To bind the stream by night, what hand can boast ? Or whiten morning, with the hoary frost ? Whose pow'rful breath from northern regions blown, Touches the sea, and turns it into stone ? A sudden desert spreads o'er realms defac'd, And lays one half of the creation waste ? Thou know'st me not ; thy blindness cannot see How vast a distance parts thy God from thee. Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft ? Canst thou In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow ? And when day triumphs in meridian light, Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night ? Who launch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll Suspended seas aloft, from pole to pole ? Who can refresh the burning sandy plain, And quench the summer with a waste of rain ? Who in rough deserts, far from human toil, Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile ? There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shone, And spreads its beauties to the sun alone. To check the show'r, who lifts his hand on high, And shuts the sluices of th' exhausted sky ; PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. 341 When earth no longer mourns her gaping veins, Her naked mountains, and her russet plains ; But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields ; When groves and forests lavish all their bloom, And earth and heav'n are fill'd with rich perfume ? Hast thou e'er scal'd my wintry skies, and seen Of hail and snow my northern magazine ? These the dread treasures of mine anger are, My fund of vengeance for the day of war, When clouds rain death, and storms, at my command, Rage thro' the world, or waste a guilty land. Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast, Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast ? Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour ? Who strikes thro' nature with the solemn roar Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall, And in fierce light'ning wraps the flying ball ? Not he who trembles at the darted fires, Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires. Who drew the comet out to such a size, And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies ? Did thy resentment hang him out ? Does he Glare on the nations, and denounce from thee ? Who on low earth can moderate the rein That guides the stars along the ethereal plain ? Appoint their seasons and direct then* course, Their lustre brighten, and supply their force ? Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain, And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain ? 342 PARAPHRASE ON Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere, Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year ? Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know, And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow ? Mine is the night, with all her stars j I pour Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store. Dost thou pronounce where day-light shall be born, And draw the purple curtain of the morn ? Awake the sun, and bid him come away, And glad thy world with his obsequious ray ? Hast thou, inthron'd in flaming glory, driv'n Triumphant round the spacious ring of heav'n ? That pomp of light, what hand so far displays, That distant earth lies basking in the blaze ? Who did the soul with her rich powr's invest, And light up reason in the human breast ; To shine, with fresh increase of lustre, bright, When stars and sun are set in endless night ? To these my various questions make reply. Th' Almighty spoke ; and, speaking, shook the sky. What then, Chaldean sire, was thy surprise ! Thus thou, with trembling heart, and downcast eyes : " Once and again, which I in groans deplore, " My tongue has erred ; but shall presume no more. " My voice is in eternal silence bound, " And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground." He ceas'd ; when, lo ! again th' Almighty spoke ! The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke. Can that arm measure with an arm divine ? And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine ? PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. 343 Or in the hollow of thy hand contain The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main, When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise In all their rage, and dash the distant skies ? Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd ; And be the grandeur of thy pow'r display 'd ; Put on Omnipotence, and frowning make The spacious round of the creation shake ; Dispatch thy vengeance, bid it overthrow Triumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low, And crumble them to dust. When this is done, I grant thy safety lodg'd in thee alone : Of thee thou art, and may'st undaunted stand Behind the buckler of thine own right hand. Fond man ! the vision of a moment made ! Dream of a dream ! and shadow of a shade ! What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd, What insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd ? When, pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood Calls upon God, importunate for food, Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request, And stills the clamour of the craving nest ? When, pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood, &c.] Another argument that Moses was the author, is, that most of the creatures here mentioned are Egyptian. The reason given why the raven is particularly mentioned as an object of the care of Providence, is, because, by her clamorous and importunate voice, she particularly seems always calling upon it. And since there were ravens on the banks of the Nile more clamorous than the rest of that species, those probably are meant in this place. 344 PARAPHRASE ON Who in the cruel ostrich has subdu'd A parent's care, and fond inquietude ? While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found, Without an owner on the sandy ground ; Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie, And borrow life from an indulgent sky ; Adopted by the sun in blaze of day, They ripen under his prolific ray. Unmindful she that some unhappy tread May crush her young in their neglected bed. What time she skims along the field with speed, She scorns the rider, and pursuing steed. Who in the cruel ostrich has subdu'd, &c.] There are many in- stances of this bird's stupidity ; let two suffice. First, It covers its head in the reeds, and thinks itself all out of sight. Stat lumine clauso Ridendum revoluta caput ; creditque latere, Qu< non ipsa -videt. Claud. Secondly, They that go in pursuit of them, draw the skin of an ostrich's neck on one hand, which proves a sufficient lure to take them with the other. They have so little brain, that Heliogabalus had six hundred heads for his supper. Here we may observe, that our judicious as well as sublime au- thor, just touches the great points of distinction in each creature, and then hastens to another. A description is exact when you can- not add but what is common to another thing ; nor withdraw, but something peculiarly belonging to the thing described. A likeness is lost in too much description, as a meaning often in too much illustration. What time she skims along the field, &c.j Here is marked another peculiar quality of this creature, which neither flies, nor runs dis- tinctly, but has a motion composed of both, and, using its wings as sails, makes great speed. PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. 345 How rich the peacock ! what bright glories run From plume to plume, and vary in the sun ! He proudly spreads them to the golden ray, Gives all his colours, and adorns the day ; With conscious state the spacious round displays, And slowly moves amid the waving blaze. Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, Perpetual summer, and a change of skies ? When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind ; The sun returning, she returns again, Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. Tho' strong the hawk, tho' practis'd well to fly, An eagle drops her in a lower sky ; Vasta relut Libya: venantum vocibus ales Cum premitur, calidas cursu transmittit arenas, Inque modum veli sinuatis flamine pcnnis Puherulenta volut Claud, in Eutr. She scorns the rider, and pursuing steed.] Xenophon says, Cyrus had horses that could overtake the goat and the wild ass ; hut none that could reach this creature. A thousand golden ducats, or a hundred camels, was the stated price of a horse that could equal their speed. How rich the peacock, &c.] Though this bird is but just men- tioned in my author, I could not forbear going a little farther, and spreading those beautiful plumes (which are there shut up) into half a dozen lines. The circumstance I have marked of his opening his plumes to the sun is true. " Expandit colores adverse maxime sole, quia sic fulgentius radiant." Plin. 1. x. c. 20. Tho' strong the hawk, tho 1 practisd well to fly.] Thuanus (de Re Accip.) mentions a hawk that flew from Paris to London in a night. And the Egyptians, in regard to its swiftness, made it the symbol for the wind ; for which reason we may suppose the hawk, as well as the crow above, to have been a bird of note in Egypt. 346 PARAPHRASE ON An eagle, when, deserting human sight, She seeks the sun in her unweary'd flight. Did thy command her yellow pinion lift So high in air, and seat her on the clift, Where far above thy world she dwells alone, And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own j Thence M'ide o'er nature takes her dread survey, And with a glance predestinates her prey ? She feasts her young with blood, and, hov'ring o'er Th' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promis'd gore. Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd, Roll o'er the mountain goat and forest hind, While pregnant they a mother's load sustain ? They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain. Hale are their young, from human frailties freed ; Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed ; They live at once ; forsake the dam's warm side ; Take the wide world, with nature for their guide ; Thence wide o'er nature takes her dread survey, &c.] The eagle is said to be of so acute a sight, that when she is so high in the air that man cannot see her, she can discern the smallest fish under water. My author accurately understood the nature of the crea- tures he describes, and seems to have been a naturalist as well as a poet ; which the next note will confirm. Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd, &c.] The mean- ing of this question is, Know'st thou the time and circumstances of their bringing forth ? for to know the time only was easy, and had nothing extraordinary in it; but the circumstances had something peculiarly expressive of God's providence, which makes the ques- tion proper in this place. Pliny observes, that the hind with young- is by instinct directed to a certain herb called Seselis, which facili- tates the birth. Thunder also (which looks like the more im- mediate hand of Providence) has the same effect, Ps. xxix. In so early an age to observe these things, may style our author a naturalist. PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. 347 Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade ; And find a home in each delightful shade. Will the tall reem, which knows no lord but me, Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee ? Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke, Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke ? Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care j Lay on his neck the toil of all the year ; Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors, And cast his load among thy gather'd stores. Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge, And break his bonds, and bid him live at large, Thro' the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam, And lose himself in his unbounded home ? By nature's hand magnificently fed, His meal is on the range of mountains spread ; As in pure air aloft he bounds along, He sees in distant smoke the city throng ; Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother 'd train, The threat'ning driver, and the servile rein. Survey the warlike horse ! didst thou invest With thunder his robust distended chest ? No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays ; 'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze ; Survey the warlike horse .' &c.] The description of the horse is the most celebrated of any in the poem. There is an excellent critique on it in the Guardian. I shall therefore only observe, that, in this description, as in other parts of this speech, our vulgar trans- lation has much more spirit than the Septuagint : it always takes the original in the most poetical and exalted sense, so that most commentators, even on the Hebrew itself, fall beneath it. 848 PARAPHRASE ON To paw the vale he proudly takes delight, And triumphs in the fulness of his might ; High-rais'd he snuffs the battle from afar, And burns to plunge amid the raging war ; And mocks at death, and throws his foam around, And in a storm of fury shakes the ground. HOAV does his firm, his rising heart advance Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance ; While his fix'd eye-balls meet the dazzling shield, Gaze, and return the lightning of the field ! He sinks the sense of pain in gen'rous pride, Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side : But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast Till death ; and when he groans, he groans his last. But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks, Grimly majestic in his lonely walks ; When round he glares, all living creatures fly ; He clears the desert with his rolling eye. Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command, And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand ? Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow, And to his gloomy den the morsel throw, Where bent on death lie hid his tawny brood, And couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood ; Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day, In darkness wrapt, and slumber o'er their prey ? By the pale moon they take their destin'd round, And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground. By the pale moon they take their destin'd round, &c.] Pursuing their prey by night is true of most wild beasts, particularly the lion, Ps. civ. 20. The Arabians have one among their five hundred names for the lion, which signifies, " the hunter by moonshine." PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. 349 Now shrieks, and dying groans, the desert fill ; They rage, they rend, their ravenous jaws distil With crimson foam ; and, when the banquet's o'er, They stride away, and paint their steps with gore ; In flight alone the shepherd puts his trust, And shudders at the talon in the dust. Mild is my Behemoth*, tho' large his frame ; Smooth is his temper, and represt his flame, While unprovoked. This native of the flood Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore for food ; Earth sinks beneath him as he moves along To seek the herbs, and mingle with the throng. See, with what strength his harden'd loins are bound, All over proof, and shut against a wound. How like a mountain cedar moves his tail ! Nor can his complicated sinews fail. Built high and wide, his solid bones surpass The bars of steel ; his ribs are ribs of brass ; His port majestic, and his armed jaw, Give the wild forest, and the mountain, law. The mountains feed him ; there the beasts admire The mighty stranger, and in dread retire : At length his greatness nearer they survey, Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey. The fens and marshes are his cool retreat, His noontide shelter from the burning heat ; Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made, And groves of willows give him all their shade. His eye drinks Jordan up, when, fir'd with drought, He trusts to turn its current down his throat ; * The river-horse. 350 PARAPHRASE ON In lessen'd waves it creeps along the plain : He sinks a river, and he thirsts again. Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side, Cast forth thy line into the swelling tide : With slender hair Leviathan command, And stretch his vastness on the loaded strand. Will he become thy servant ? Will he own Thy lordly nod, and tremble at thy frown ? Or with his sport amuse thy leisure day, And, bound in silk, with thy soft maidens play ? Shall pompous banquets swell with such a prize ? And the bowl journey round his ample size ? Or the debating merchants share the prey, And various limbs to various marts convey ? Thro' his firm skull what steel its way can win ? What forceful engine can subdue his skin ? Fly far, and live ; tempt not his matchless might ; The bravest skrink to cowards in his sight ; He sinks a rivfr, ttnd he thirsts again.'] Cephisi glaciate caput, quo snetus anhelam Ferre sitim Python, amnewque avertere ponto. Stat. Theb. v. 349. Qui spiris tegeret mantes, hauriret hiutu Flumina, qc. Claud. Prsef. in Ruf. Let not then this hyperbole seem too much for an eastern poet, though some commentators of name strain hard in this place for a new construction, through fear of it. Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side, &c.] The taking the crocodile is most difficult. Diodorus says, they are not to be taken but by iron nets. When Augustus conquered Egypt, he struck a medal, the impress of which was a crocodile chained to a palm-tree, with this inscription : " Nemo antea religavit." PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. 351 The rashest dare not rouse him up ; who then Shall turn on me, among- the sons of men ? Am I a debtor ? Hast thou ever heard Whence come the gifts which are on me conferr'd ? My lavish fruit a thousand valleys fills, And mine the herds that graze a thousand hills j Earth, sea, and air, all nature is my own ; And stars and sun are dust beneath my throne : And dar'st thou with the world's great Father vie, Thou who dost tremble at my creature's eye ? At full my huge Leviathan shall rise, Boast all his strength, and spread his wond'rous size. Who, great in arms, e'er stripp'd his shining mail, Or crown'd his triumph with a single scale ? Whose heart sustains him to draw near ? Behold, Destruction yawns ; his spacious jaws unfold, And, marshall'd round the wide expanse, disclose Teeth edg'd with death, and crowding rows on rows : What hideous fangs on either side arise ! And what a deep abyss between them lies ! Mete with thy lance, and with thy plummet sound, The one how long, the other how profound ! The rashest dare not rouse him up, &r.] This alludes to a cus- tom of this creature, which is, when sated with fish, to come ashore, and sleep among the reeds. Behold, Destruction yawns ; his spacious jaws unfold, &c.] The croco- dile's mouth is exceeding wide. When he gapes, says Pliny, " Fit oturn os." iMartial says to his old woman, Cum comparuta rictibus tuis ora, Niliacus habet crocodilus angusta. So that the expression here is barely just. 352. PARAPHRASE ON His bulk is charg'd with such a furious soul, That clouds of smoke from his spread nostrils roll, As from a furnace ; and when rous'd his ire, Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire. The rage of tempests, and the roar of seas, Thy terror, this thy great superior please ; Strength on his ample shoulder sits in state ; His well-join'd limbs are dreadfully complete; His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part ; As steel his nerves, as adamant his heart. When, late-awak'd, he rears him from the floods, And, stretching forth his stature to the clouds, Writhes in the sun aloft his scaly height, And strikes the distant hills with transient light, Far round are fatal damps of terror spread, The mighty fear, nor blush to own their dread. Large is his front ; and, when his burnish'd eyes Lift their broad lids, the morning seems to rise. Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire.~\ This too is nearer truth than at first view may he imagined. The crocodile, say the naturalists, lying long under water, and heing there forced to hold its breath, when it emerges, the breath long represt is hot, and bursts out so violently, that it resembles fire and smoke. The horse suppresses not his breath by any means so long, neither is he so fierce and animated ; yet the most correct of poets ventures to use the same metaphor concerning him. Collectumque premens volvit sub naribus ignem. By this and the foregoing note, I would caution against a false opi- nion of the eastern boldness, from passages in them 511 understood. Large is his front ; and when his burnish'd e.yes, &c.] " His eyes are like the eyelids of the morning." I think this gives us as great an image of the thing it would express as can enter the thought of man. It is not improbable, that the Egyptians stole their hiero- glyphic for the morning, which is the crocodile's eye, from this passage, though no commentator I have seen mentions it- It is 358 In vain may death in various shapes invade, The swift-wing'd arrow, the descending blade ; His naked breast their impotence defies ; The dart rebounds^ the brittle faulchion flies. Shut in himself, the war without he hears, Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears ; The cumber'd strand their wasted vollies strow ; His sport, the rage and labour of the foe. His pastimes like a cauldron boil the flood, And blacken ocean with the rising mud ; The billows feel him, as he works his way ; His hoary footsteps shine along the sea j The foam high- wrought, with white divides the green, And distant sailors point where death has been. His like earth bears not on her spacious face j Alone in nature stands his dauntles race , For utter ignorance of fear renown'd. In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around ; easy to conceive how the Egyptians should be both readers and ad- mirers of the writings of Moses, whom I suppose the author of this poem. I have observed already, that three or four of the creatures here described are Egyptian: the two last are notoriously so ; they are the river-horse and the crocodile, those celebrated inhabitants of the Nile ; and on those two it is that our author chiefly dwells. It would have been expected, from an author more remote from that river than Moses, in a catalogue of creatures produced to magnify their Creator, to have dwell on the two largest works of his hand, viz. the elephant and the whale : this is so natural an expectation, that some commentators have rendered Behemoth and Leviathan, the elephant and whale, though the descriptions in our author will not admit of it ; but Moses being (as we may well suppose) under an immediate terror of the hippopotamus and crocodile, from their daily mischiefs and ravages around him, it is very accountable why he should permit them to take place. A A I 354 PARAPHRASE, &c. Makes every swoln, disdainful heart, subside, And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride. Then the Chaldean eas'd his lab'ring breast, With full conviction of his crime opprest. " Thou canst accomplish all things, Lord of might ! " And ev'ry thought is naked to thy sight. " But oh ! thy ways are wonderful, and lie " Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye. " Oft have I heard of thine Almighty pow'r ; " But never saw thee till this dreadful hour. {< O'erwhelm'd with shame, the Lord of life I see ; " Abhor myself, and give my soul to thee. " Nor shall my weakness tempt thine anger more ! " Man was not made to question, but adore." END OF THE PARAPHRASE. INDEX. THE FIGURES REFER TO THE PAGE. ADDRESS to death, 8 ; to the great and indolent, 25 ; to the lilies, 44 ; to the aged, 62 ; to God, 63,65,268,272,325; to infidels, 66, 196; to the ocean, 212; to the day of judgment, 260; to the stars and their supposed inhabitants, 278, 289; to night, 308; to man, 318; to Jesus Christ, 330; to Lorenzo to awake, 832. Adjuration, solemn, 321. Afflictions, beneficial, 266. Age and disease, harbingers of death, 56. Allegory on sleep, 1; on time, 20; on aged trees, 62; on the end of life, 64; on learning, 94. Altamont, death of, 100. Ambition and avarice, their influence, 132, 138; the true, 133. Angels and men compared, 75. Annihilation, absurdities of, 184. Art, bad effects of, 87. Astrology, the true, 287. Author's prayer for himself, 329. Bell, striking of the, its import, 3 Bible, reading of, advised, 201, 231. Bliss, earthly, its instability, 7. Brutes, how superior to man, 166. Christian, his dignity, 84 ; compared to a ship at sea, 241 ; difference between him and worldly men, 242. Christ's crucifixion, 66; his life, death, &c. proofs of immor- tality, 67, 356 INDEX. Clouds, beautifully described, 271. Complaint of a good man on the idea of no future existence, 178. Conscience, treachery of, 25 ; its power whence derived, 195. Conversation, benefits of, 32. Creation, its end immortality, 190. Day of judgment described, 258. Dead, folly of lamenting them, 4; crime of violating, 46. Death, danger of sudden, 18; of Christ, its great advantages, 73; antidote against the fear of, 107; its different forms, 112; view of, 257. Death-bed of the just, 37; of friends, finely described, 102. Deception, contempt of, recommended, 218; how to be rendered unnecessary, ib. Deluge described, 257. Devil, his sentence, 262. Discontent proves man immortal, 158. Disease, the harbinger of death, 56. Diversions censured, 19. Dreams a proof of immortality, 4. Earth, not be trusted in, 45 ; compared with eternity, 144. Epitaph on the human race, supposing no future existence, 184. Eternity described, 144. Evening, a summer's, 39. Evils, natural, beneficial, 266. Experience corrects pride, 94. Faith dissipates the fear of death, 81. Fame, vanity of, 61 ; description, 169. Fear of a future state, proves its reality, 205. Firmament described, 287. Florello, story of, 214. Folly contrasted with wisdom, 236. Fortune, its inutility to the wicked, 240. Free-thinking, true, defined, 197. Friends, their value, 32, 34 ; miracles on earth, 35 ; fine description of their death, 102. Friendship, how preserved, 35. Funerals, pompous, described, 322. Future state, complaint supposing none, 178. INDEX. 357 Glory, true, defined, 220. God sublimely described, 70; from what cause adored, 195; his de- crees vindicated, 265. Grave, described, 5; a hell if no future state, 183. Greatness, true, described, 220. Grief, the school of wisdom, 94. Happiness, present, an earnest of future pain, 11; where only to be found, 34 ; true, defined, 236. Health of mind described, ib. Heavens, starry, questions arising from a view of, 295. Hell described, 259, 332. Hope, different kinds of, 160 ; a proof of immortality, 204. Hours past, wisdom of recalling them to memory, 25. Idleness, the bane of the soul, 29. Ills proceed from man, 268; their intent, 269. Imagination, follies of, 239. Immortality described, 243 ; its influence on the soul, 143. Infancy described, 214. Infidelity, cause of, 195. Infidels resemble the devil, 200. Instinct in animals superior to reason in man, 181. Joy, false, 223; true, 231. Kissing the Pope's toe ridiculed, 239. Knowledge, virtue, &c. evils on the system of infidels, 178. Laughter, half immoral, 231. Learning described, 94; true, 110. Life, various evils of, 9 ; length how to be computed, 110. Love and joy, the essence of heaven, 185. Lysander and Aspasia, their story, 119. Man, complicated nature of, 3; good, characterized, 28; cause of his misery, 116; his heart described, 161; melancholy picture of, 319. Ministers of God described, 282. Miracles defined, 252; their use, 294. Moon's influence on the tides, 292. Morality defined, 81. 358 INDEX. Narcissa, her death and character, 42. Nature compared with man, 147. Necessity, doctrine of, disapproved, 199. Night described, 8, 271, 277, 308; pre-eminence over day, 90,277. Nobility, wealth, &c. vanity of, 60. Obligations, null on the plan of infidelity, 178. Ocean described, 212. Passions, grandeur of, 173 ; origin, 174. Patience and resignation, supports of human peace, 240. Patriotism and bravery chimerical without a future state, 163. Peace and pleasure, whence derived, 219. Philander, effects of his last sigh, 12; death, 38. Philosophers, heathen, praised, 285 ; their doctrines, 286. Piety, its blessings, 229. Pleasure and pride, how reconciled, 87 ; origin, 226 ; prohibited by conscience, unnatural, 254. Poetry and prose, affinity, 88. Praise, effects of the love of, 170. Prayer, an asylum in trouble, 296- Prince, a truly great, defined, 137. Pursuits, human, vanity of, 6. Questions, not to be solved without immortality, 176. Quietism, what, 78. Reason, a proof of immortality, 159 ; explained, 176. Redemption, descant on, 67. Reflection, benefits of, 29. Religion, blessings of, 76. Ruin of man, from himself, 199. Scale of beings, 148. Scriptures, their value, 201 ; why contemned by infidels, 231. Seasons, described, 147. Self-knowledge, the highest wisdom, 74. Shame, why implanted in man, 168. Sinner, hardened, his wretched state, 254. Skies, prove the being of God, 274. Solitude, its advantages, 40; the companion of safety, 91. INDEX. 359 Sorrow, the common lot of mankind, 9. Soul, its immortality proved by dreams, 4 ; for what end created, 286. Speech, its advantages, 32. Spirits departed, their thoughts of men, 331. Starry heavens, benefit of viewing, 278. Stars, how kept in their places, 291 ; distance from the earth, 303. Suicide, English prone to, 100; springs from despair, 249. Superstition, cruel, 45. Tears, different sources, 103. Thought of death, advantageous, 50; serious, its importance, 250. Time, end of, described, 262 ; meeting with eternity, 263. Tombs, instruct, 96. Truth, described, 85. Understanding, its use, &c. 139. Vice, defined, 320. Warnings, their use, SO. Wealth, true, described, 139. Wisdom, advantages of, 247. World defined, 208,211; man of, described, 215; the present a grave, 256. THE END. W. WILSON, Printer, 4, Greville-Street, London. - 2 f- // // a* 1 * 'i\ V-, . ;-;<. * '.-. V* , ^^t^>