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 NIGHT THOUGHTS.
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLAINT: 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG, D.D. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR JOHN SHARPE, 
 
 PICCADILLY; 
 bY C. WHITTINGHAM, CHISWICK. 
 
 MDCCCXVII.
 
 Annex 
 
 CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 THERE are three distinct stages in the development 
 of the faculties, at which the taste undergoes a per- 
 ceptible modification, correspondent to the progress 
 of the intellectual character. The first stage is, when 
 the imagination begins to exert its newly awakened 
 perceptions, and the whole scene of mental vision 
 presents a field of discovery and wonder. Then all 
 that is vast, or wild, or distant, or grand, (it matters 
 not how improbable the fiction, or how remote from 
 human feelings and human interests, so that it is 
 decked out in the vivid colours of romance,) is seized, 
 and appropriated by the mind, with emotions keen as 
 they are indefinite, and laid up as the elements of 
 future hopes and day dreams. The passions succeed 
 the imagination in the order of development: as 
 the child begins to enlarge into incipient manhood, 
 while the delusions of romance fade around him, new 
 instincts, new wants are awakened, and he begins 
 to feel himself alone. The taste participating in 
 this change, demands excitement of a different kind. 
 The softer colouring of rural nature, the gentler 
 accents of tender or of heroic sentiment, scenes of 
 beauty instead of tales of wonder, now have their 
 turn in pleasing; and emotions of enthusiasm, tinc- 
 A2 

 
 c 
 
 tured perhaps with devotional or melancholic feeling, 
 swell and agitate the breast. The agitations of pas- 
 sion subside as the objects of life acquire distinct- 
 ness, and as the sun of intellect approaching its 
 zenith, shortens the shadows which they cast. Then, 
 according to the direction which the character as- 
 sumes, either the affections of the heart undertake the 
 conquest of the imagination, and the taste becomes 
 disciplined to reality, or the selfishness of our nature 
 becomes all exerted in the toil of worldly acquisition ; 
 and neither the poetry of fable, nor the poetry of life, 
 can please any longer. The pleasure that is derived 
 from works of imagination, by persons in general at 
 the middle period of life, arises almost entirely from 
 the recollections of youth being awakened by them, 
 or from the skilful exhibition of human art. It is the 
 judgment, instead of the fancy, which now must be 
 won into complacency and soothed to delight. Per- 
 haps as life advances, and even our intellectual sen- 
 sations lose something of their vividness, we may be 
 found to grow less fastidious or severe in our taste ; 
 we regain our fondness for the stronger stimulants of 
 imaginative pleasure; we recur to the gaudy visions 
 of the morning landscape ; we yield ourselves up by 
 an effort of abstraction to the delusions by which we 
 were once unconsciously beguiled, and make long 
 forgotten things serve for novelties. Then, too, 
 moral reflections on the past, acquire by association 
 with the remembrances of actual experience, an 
 inmost picturesque interest ; and the gravest lessons 
 of the poet have power to charm the contemplation. 
 No poet has ever acquired an extensive popularity.
 
 who has not adapted his subject to the imagination 
 at one of these distinct periods of development. It 
 is a rare achievement, so to combine all the elements 
 of imaginative pleasure, as to fascinate attention at 
 every period. Our great poet has indeed presented 
 to us in his Paradise Lost, a theme of sublime won- 
 der, and a tale of human passion ; a display of all 
 that is elevated in sentiment, daring in invention, and 
 exquisite in skill. Next to him, Spenser, the poet of 
 faery land, has power to cast his spells on the fancy 
 even of boyhood, and to retain the mastery of our 
 feelings through the successive phases of our taste. 
 Thomson has the charm of gaudiness for our child- 
 hood ; the first sense of beauty is awakened by 
 colouring. He pleases still more, as the love of 
 nature and the instincts of passion are awakened 
 w ithin us. He does not, however, continue always 
 to please. When we speak of Young, we always 
 refer to his " NIGHT THOUGHTS." It required no 
 ordinary genius to communicate any poetical interest 
 to a poem on such a plan, and of such a class of 
 subjects. Yet this is one of the few poems on 
 which the broad stamp of popularity has been pro- 
 minently impressed. Editions have been multiplied 
 from every press in the country. It is to be seen on 
 the shelf of the cottager, with the Family Bible and 
 the Pilgrim's Progress ; and it ranks among the first 
 and favourite materials of the poetical library. What 
 is more remarkable, is, that the French are fond of 
 Young, although they cannot understand either Mil- 
 ton or Shakspeare. 
 
 Young is, in fact, more of the orator than of the
 
 8 
 
 poet; but his oratory is still of a character distinct 
 from the eloquence of prose. The NIGHT THOUGHTS 
 please us much in the same manner as we are cap- 
 tivated by the wondeis of fiction: only, in this poem, 
 the vastness, the grandeur, the novelty consist, not 
 in strange or romantic incidents, but in the unex- 
 pected turns and adventurous sallies, the dazzling 
 pomp of metaphor, the infinite succession of combi- 
 nations and intersections of thought, the stratagems 
 of expression, which occur throughout this long 
 poetical homily ; so that, forbidding as the subject is 
 from its severity, he has contrived to enliven it with 
 all the graces of wit, chastened by the majesty of 
 truth. Add to this, there is a charm in that stern 
 and pensive melancholy which is the character of the 
 Night Thoughts ; a sentimental charm which hangs 
 about moonlight graves, and whispering night winds, 
 and funereal cj press, in which those persons espe- 
 cially love to indulge, who have known no deeper 
 wounds of sensibility than those of fictitious griefs, 
 or philosophic pcnsiveness. 
 
 The worst fault of the NIGHT THOUGHTS, is, that 
 it is so evidently the work of the closet. There is 
 none of the freshness of the open air, none of the 
 breath of living nature in Young's poetry : his tlowers 
 are all dried leaves, which, though gathered in the 
 sunshine, have been laid up till they almost smejl of 
 death. Young states, that the facts mentioned in 
 the poem " did naturally pour on the thought of the 
 writer" the moral reflections of which it mainly con- 
 sists. Cold, grave, midnight reflections of this kind 
 are, however, very diflercut from those which spring
 
 from the kindling feelings of the poet under the 
 impulse of present emotion. Young is too much an 
 egotist to be impassioned : he is all thought, thought 
 undisturbed by the weakness of feeling; he is too 
 sublime to sink for a moment into the triteness of 
 simple nature. It is the wit and the politician who 
 has assumed the cassock, and he indeed supports 
 it admirably well; he is evidently sincere and in 
 earnest; but he cannot quite forget his native cha- 
 racter. There is a very remarkable instance of this 
 at the close of the Eighth Night, where, speaking of 
 Lucifer, he surprises and puzzles the modern reader 
 by a sarcasm which has outlived its point : 
 
 "The world, whose legions cost him slender pay, 
 And volunteers around his banner swarm, 
 Prudent as Prussia in her zeal for Gaul." 
 
 It was inevitable, that in a poem of this kind 
 there should be a luxuriance of faults as well as of 
 beauties. Julnisou terms it " a wildernessof thought." 
 The perpetual enigma of the style at length wearies; 
 the antitheses pall upon us : we even grow fatigued 
 with admiration. The faults of Young are, however, 
 the faults of genius, and they are amply redeemed 
 by the splendour which is thrown around them. It 
 is not perhaps peculiar to Young's poetry, that very 
 young and very old persons are the most partial to the 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS : the reason of this may be sought 
 in the circumstances to which we have adverted, 
 as connected with the progress of taste. It pleases 
 the more before the taste has attained the period 
 of refined cultivation, because we are then less sen- 
 sible of the defects of his style, and are most suscep-
 
 10 
 
 tible of that indistinct feeling of awe which the gothie 
 gloom of his poetry is adapted to excite. It pleases 
 us as age advances, on account of the sympathetic 
 views of life, which make the poetry of Young seem 
 to an old man doubly natural. The author had passed 
 his sixtieth year when he published the First Night; 
 and there is, it must be owned, something of the 
 querulousness, as well as the sageness of age, in the 
 general strain of his sentiments. But his long Com- 
 plaint terminates, as it should do, in Consolation : and 
 the Ninth Night is the one, which, next to the first 
 three, is the most generally read and the most fre- 
 quently adverted to. . 
 
 Edward Young, the son of Dr. Edward Young, 
 Dean of Sarum, was born at Upham, near Winches- 
 ter, in 1681. He received his education at Win- 
 chester College, from whence he was removed to the 
 university of Oxford, and in 1708 he was nominated 
 to a law fellowship at All Souls, by Archbishop Tcni- 
 son. In 1716, he was appointed to speak the Latin 
 oration, on occasion of the laying of the foundation of 
 the Codrington library. His first poetical adventure 
 was, an epistle to the Right Honourable George, 
 Lord Lansdowne, published in 1712. In this poem, 
 be began the siege of patronage in which we find 
 him still engaged, and still unsuccessfully, in the 
 very decline of life. 
 
 "Twice told the period spent on stubborn Troy, 
 Court favour, yet uutakeu, 1 besiege." 
 
 Young was not, however, a neglected, though he 
 was a disappointed man. He enjoyed some splendid 
 intimacies. Among his early patrons ranks the in-
 
 11 
 
 famous Marquis of Wharton, with whom, in the 
 beginning of 1717, he travelled into Ireland; but of 
 this unenviable patronage, Young afterwards took 
 pains to efface the remembrance. 
 
 While attached to the Exeter family, Young stood 
 a contested election for Cirencester. He subse- 
 quently took orders, and became, we are informed, a 
 very popular preacher. 
 
 His satires appeared at successive intervals be- 
 tween the years 1725 and 1728. It is said, that they 
 produced him no less a sum than three thousand 
 pounds; but he was a considerable loser by the 
 " South-sea Dream." 
 
 In July, 1730, he was presented by his college to 
 the rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire. In the fol- 
 lowing year he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, daugh- 
 ter of the Earl of Litchfield, and widow of Colonel 
 Lee. She died in 1741. Mr. and Mrs. Temple, the 
 daughter and son-in-law of Lady Elizabeth by her 
 former husband, are supposed to be the PHILANDER 
 and NARCISSA of the NIGHT THOUGHTS; notwith- 
 standing a passage which would seem to intimate 
 that the three persons whose deaths he lamented, 
 died within a few months of each other; whereas 
 Mrs. Temple died of a consumption, at Lyons, in 
 1736, Mr. Temple, in 1740: but the variation was 
 perhaps ventured on the ground of poetical license. 
 
 The NIGHT THOUGHTS were begun immediately 
 after the death of Lady Elizabeth. The preface to 
 the Seventh Night is dated July the 7th, 1744. A 
 scandalous and inhuman report has attributed to 
 LORENZO, a real existence in the person of the au-
 
 12 
 
 thor's own son. On a comparison of dates, it appears 
 that the supposed Lorenzo was only eight years of 
 age when Young sat down to the composition of the 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 In 1762, he published " Resignation;" a surprising 
 display of unimpaired faculty at fourscore years of 
 age! In April, 1766, he expired, having retained his 
 intellects to the last. Only four years before, "good 
 Dr. Young," 
 
 " Who thought even gold might come a day too late," 
 
 was appointed clerk of the closet to the Princess 
 Dowager. Of the 011(3 two friends whom he had to 
 mention in his will, viz. his housekeeper, and his 
 " friend Henry Stevens, a hatter at the Temple gate," 
 one died a little time before him : 
 
 " Ah me ! the dire effect 
 of loitering here, of death defrauded long."
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As the occasion of this Poem was real, not fic- 
 titious ; so the method pursued in it was rather 
 imposed by what spontaneously arose in the 
 Author's mind on that occasion, than meditated 
 or designed. Which will appear very probable 
 from the nature of it. For it differs from the 
 common mode of poetry; which is, from long 
 narrations to draw short morals. Here, on the 
 contrary, the narrative is short, and the morality 
 arising from it makes the bulk of the Poem. 
 The reason of it is, that the facts mentioned did 
 naturally pour these moral reflections on the 
 thought of the Writer.
 
 What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed, 
 Solicjt the cold hand of Charity! 
 To shock us more, solicit it in vain.' 
 
 THE 
 
 NIGHT I. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALLR-A EN GRAVED BY J H. ROBINSON . 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARi'E, PICCADILLY 
 MARCH 16.1817

 
 THE 
 
 COMPLAINT. 
 
 NIGHT THE FIRST. 
 
 ON 
 
 LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 $onouratle attfjur SDnglofo, 
 
 SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 
 
 TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! 
 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
 
 Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes : 
 
 Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 
 
 And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 
 
 From short (as usual) and 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 fancied misery, 
 At random drove, her helm of reason lost. 
 
 B2
 
 4 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. 
 
 Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain : 
 
 (A bitter change !) severer for severe : 
 
 The day too short for my distress ; and night, 
 
 Even in the zenith of her dark domain, 
 
 Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. 
 
 Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, 
 In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. 
 Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound ! 
 Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds : 
 Creation sleeps. Tis as the general pulse 
 Of life stood still, and nature made a pause ; 
 An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
 And let her prophecy be soon fulfil I'd : 
 Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 
 
 Silence and Darkness ! solemn sisters ! twins 
 From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought 
 To reason, and on reason build resolve 
 (That column of true majesty in man), 
 Assist me : I will thank you in the 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. 
 Through this opaque of nature, and of soul, 
 This double night, transmit one pitying ray,
 
 ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 
 
 To lighten and to cheer. Oh lead my mind 
 (A mind that fain would wander from its woe), 
 Lead it through various scenes of life and death ; 
 And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. 
 Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song: 
 Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will 
 Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve, 
 Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear : 
 Nor let the phial of thy vengeance pour'd 
 On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain. 
 
 The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 
 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 centred in our make such strange extremes ! 
 From different natures marvelously mixt, 
 Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ! 
 Distinguished link in being's endless chain! 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
 A beam ethereal, sullied and absorb'd !
 
 6 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. 
 
 Though sullied, and dishonour'd, still divine ! 
 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
 
 An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
 
 Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
 
 A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, 
 
 And in myself am lost ! At home a stranger, 
 
 Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, 
 
 And wondering at her own: how reason reels ! 
 
 Oh what a miracle to man is man, 
 
 Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy, what dread ! 
 
 Alternately transported, and alarm'd ! 
 
 What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? 
 
 An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; 
 
 Legions of angels can't confine me there. 
 
 'Tis past conjecture ; all things rise in proof. 
 While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread, 
 What though my soul fantastic measures trod 
 O'er fairy fields; or mouru'd along the gloom 
 Of pathless woods ; or, down the craggy steep 
 1 1 11 1 I'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool; 
 Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow winds, 
 With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain .' 
 Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature 
 Of subtler essence than the trodden clod ; 
 Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, 
 Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall; 
 Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal : 
 Even silent night proclaims eternal day. 
 For human weal, Heaven 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, AND IMMORTALITY. : 
 
 In infidel distress ? Are angels there ? 
 Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire 
 
 They live ! they greatly live a life on earth 
 Unkindled, unconceiv'd ; and from an eye 
 Of tenderness let heavenly 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 slumbering in his sire. 
 Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell, 
 Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life, 
 The life of gods, oh transport ! and of man. 
 
 Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts ; 
 Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 
 Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, 
 Here pinions all his wishes : wing'd by Heaven 
 To fly at infinite ; and reach it there, 
 Where seraphs gather immortality,
 
 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. 
 
 On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 
 
 What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow 
 
 In HIS lull 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, raptured, 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 ! 
 Oh how self-fetter'd was my groveling 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 noon-tide trances hung 
 With gorgeous tapestries of pictured joys ! 
 Joy behind joy, in endless perspective ! 
 Till at death's toll, whose restless iron tongue
 
 ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. ! 
 
 Calls daily for his millions at a meal, 
 Starting I woke, and found myself undone. 
 Where's now my frenzy's pompous furniture ? 
 The cobweb'd cottage, with its ragged wall 
 Of mouldering 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 lodged above these rolling spheres; 
 The baleful influence of whose giddy dance 
 Sheds sad vicissitude on all beneath. 
 Here teems with revolutions every hour ; 
 And rarely for the better : or the best, 
 More mortal than the common births of fate. 
 Each moment has its sickle, emulous 
 Of Time's enormous scythe, whose 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 Heaven ! 
 I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air. 
 Oh had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace ! 
 What darts of agony had miss'd my heart ! 
 B 3
 
 10 TH!i COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. 
 
 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. 
 Amid 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 fill'd her horn. 
 
 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 every varied posture, place, and hour, 
 How widow'd every thought of every joy ! 
 Thought, busy thought! too busy for my peace! 
 Through the dark postern of time long elapsed, 
 Led softly, by the stillness of the night, 
 Led like a murderer, (and such it proves!) 
 Strays (wretched rover !) o'er the pleasing past ; 
 In quest of wretchedness perversely strays ; 
 And finds all desert now ; and meets the ghosts 
 Of my departed joys, a numerous train ! 
 
 1 rue the riches of my former fate : 
 Sweet comfort's blasted clusters I lament : 
 I tremble at the blessings once so dear; 
 And every pleasure pains me to the heart. 
 
 Yet why complain ? or why complain for one ? 
 Hangs out the sun his lustre but for me,
 
 ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 11 
 
 The single man? Are angels all beside? 
 I mourn for millions : 'tis the common Jot ; 
 In this shape, or in that, has fate entail'd 
 The mother's throes on all of woman born, 
 Not more the children, than sure heirs, of pain. 
 
 War, famine, pest, volcano, storm, and fire, 
 Intestine broils, oppression, with her heart 
 Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind. 
 God's image, disinherited of day, 
 Here, plunged in mines, forgets a sun was made. 
 There, beings deathless as their haughty lord, 
 Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life ; 
 And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair. 
 Some, for hard masters, broken under arms, 
 In battle lopt away, with half their limbs, 
 Beg bitter bread through realms their valour saved, 
 If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom. 
 Want, and incurable disease, (fell pair !) 
 On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize 
 At once ; and make a refuge of the grave. 
 How groaning hospitals eject their dead ! 
 What numbers groan for sad admission there ! 
 What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed, 
 Solicit the cold hand of charity ! 
 To shock us more, solicit it in vain ! 
 Ye silken sons of pleasure ! since in pains 
 You rue more modish 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:
 
 12 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT f. 
 
 Disease invades the chastest temperance ; 
 
 And punishment the guiltless ; and alarm, 
 
 Through thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace. 
 
 Man's caution often into danger turns, 
 
 And, his guard falling, crushes him to death. 
 
 Not Happiness itself makes good her name : 
 
 Our very wishes give us not our wish. 
 
 How distant oft the thing we dote on most, 
 
 From that for which we dote, felicity ! 
 
 The smoothest course of nature has its pains ; 
 
 And truest friends, through error, wound our rest. 
 
 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, 
 Loud sorrows howl, envenomed passions bite, 
 Ravenous calamities our vitals seize, 
 And threatening fate wide opens to devour. 
 
 W r hat then am I, who sorrow for myself.' 
 In age, in infancy, from others' aid 
 Is all our hope ; to teach us to be kind. 
 That nature's first, last lesson to mankind : 
 The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels.
 
 ON LIFE, DEATH, AMD IMMORTALITY. * 13 
 
 More generous 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 thou art blest ; 
 
 By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles. 
 
 Know, smiler ! at thy peril art thou pleased : 
 
 Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain. 
 
 Misfortune, like a creditor severe, 
 
 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. 
 Dear is thy welfare : think me not unkind ; 
 I would not damp, but to secure, thy joys. 
 Think not that fear is sacred to the storm : 
 Stand on thy guard against the smiles of fate. 
 Is Heaven 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 ;
 
 14 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. 
 
 Awake us to their cause, and consequence ; 
 O'er our scann'd conduct give a jealous eye, 
 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 died with thee, PHILANDER ! thy last sigh 
 Dissolved the charm : the disenchanted earth 
 Lost all her lustre. Where her glittering towers? 
 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 out-cast earth in darkness ! what a change 
 From yesterday ! Thy darling hope so near, 
 (Long-labour'd prize !) oh how ambition flush'd 
 Thy glowing cheek ! Ambition truly great, 
 Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within 
 (Sly, treacherous miner !) working in the dark, 
 Smiled at thy well-concerted scheme, and beckon'd 
 The worm to riot on that rose so red, 
 Unfaded ere it fell ; one moment's prey ! 
 
 Man's foresight is conditionally wise : 
 LORENZO ! wisdom into folly turns 
 Oft, the first instant its idea fair 
 To labouring thought is born. How dim our eye !
 
 ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 15 
 
 The present moment terminates our sight; 
 
 Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the next: 
 
 We penetrate, we prophesy, in vain. 
 
 Time is dealt out by particles ; and each, 
 
 Ere mingled with the streaming sands of life, 
 
 By fate's inviolable oath is sworn 
 
 Deep silence, " where eternity begins." 
 
 By nature's law, what may be, may be now : 
 There's no prerogative in human hours. 
 In human hearts what bolder thought can rise, 
 Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? 
 Where is to-morrow ? In another world. 
 For numbers this is certain ; the reverse 
 Is sure to none : and yet on this perhaps, 
 This peradventure, infamous for lies, 
 As on a rock of adamant, we build 
 Our mountain hopes ; spin out eternal schemes, 
 As we the fatal sisters could out-spin, 
 And, big with life's futurities, expire. 
 
 Not even PHILANDER had bespoke his shroud ; 
 Nor had he cause: a warning was denied: 
 How many fall as sudden, not as safe ! 
 As sudden, though for years admonish'd home. 
 Of human ills the last extreme beware: 
 Beware, LORENZO ! a slow sudden death. 
 How dreadful that deliberate surprise ! 
 Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer: 
 Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
 Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. 
 Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
 
 16 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. 
 
 And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
 The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
 If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? 
 That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. 
 
 Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
 The palm, " that all men are about to live," 
 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 lodged in their own hands is folly's vails ; 
 That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign ; 
 The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone : 
 Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool ; 
 And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
 All promise is poor dilatory man, 
 And that through every stage : when young, indeed, 
 In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
 Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, 
 As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
 At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
 At fifty, chides bis 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
 
 ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 17 
 
 Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden 
 
 dread : 
 
 But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 
 Soon close; where pass'd the shaft, no trace is found. 
 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 : 
 Even with the tender tear which Nature sheds 
 O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 
 Can I forget PHILANDER? That were strange! 
 
 my full heart ! But should I give it vent, 
 
 The longest night, though longer far, would fail, 
 And the lark listen to my midnight song. 
 
 The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn ; 
 Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast, 
 
 1 strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer 
 
 The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel ! like thee, 
 
 And call the stars to listen : every star 
 
 Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay. 
 
 Yet be not vain ; there are who thine excel, 
 
 And charm through distant ages : wrapt in shade, 
 
 Prisoner of darkness ! to the silent hours, 
 
 How often I repeat their rage divine, 
 
 To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe ! 
 
 I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire. 
 
 Dark, though not blind, like thee, Maeonides ! 
 
 Or, Milton ! thee ; ah ! could I reach your strain ! 
 
 Or his, who made Maeonides 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 ?
 
 18 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT I. 
 
 Oh had he press'd his theme, pursued the track 
 Which opens out of darkness into day ! 
 Oh had he, mounted on his wing of fire, 
 Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man ! 
 How had it bless'd mankind, and rescued me !
 
 His comforters he comforts ; great in rum . 
 With unreluctant grandeur gives, not yields 
 His soul sublime, and closes with his fate. 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLAINT, 
 n. 
 
 DRAWN BY R1CI&KD WE STALL It. A. ENGRAVED BY R.RHODEi 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PlCCADIliY. 
 MAkcH 16.1817.
 
 NIGHT THE SECOND. 
 
 ON 
 
 TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 Rigfjt ^onouraHe t$e Carl of CBtlntmgton. 
 
 " WHEN the cock crew, he wept;" smote by that eye, 
 Which looks on me, on all : that Power, who bids 
 This midnight sentinel, with clarion shrill 
 (Emblem of that which shall awake the dead), 
 Rouse souls from slumber, into thoughts of Heaven, 
 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, though dead, 
 May still befriend. What themes? Time's wondrous 
 
 price, 
 
 Death, friendship, and PHILANDER'S final scene. 
 So could I touch these themes, as might obtain
 
 20 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengaged. 
 
 The good deed would delight me ; half impress 
 
 On my dark clond an Iris; and from grief 
 
 Call glory. Dost thou mourn PHILANDER'S fate? 
 
 I know, thou say'st it : says thy b'fe 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 prisoner 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 
 For Esculapiau, 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 ;
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 21 
 
 And what it's 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 Heaven 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 confess'd. 
 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 medicines cannot cure? 
 When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes 
 Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight, 
 As lands, and cities with their glittering spires, 
 To the poor shattered bark, by sudden storm 
 Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there ? 
 Will toys amuse? No: thrones will then be toys, 
 And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. 
 
 Redeem we time ? Its loss we dearly buy. 
 What pleads LORENZO for his high-prized sports? 
 He pleads time's numerous 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 purposed virtue, still be thine : 
 This cancels thy complaint at once; this leaves
 
 22 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 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 ! every moment pays. 
 If nothing more than purpose in thy power ; 
 Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed : 
 Who does the best his circumstance allows, 
 Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more. 
 Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint; 
 Tis not in things, o'er thought to domineer. 
 Guard well thy thought ; our thoughts are heard in Hea- 
 On all-important Time, through every age, [ven. 
 Though much, and warm, the wise have urged ; the man 
 Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour. 
 
 "I've lost a day". the prince who nobly cried, 
 
 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 blessing we possess ? 
 Time the supreme ! Time is eternity ; 
 Pregnant with all eternity can give ; 
 Pregnant with all that makes archangels sniilc. 
 Who murders time, he crushes in the birth 
 A power ethereal, only not adored. 
 
 Ah ! how unjust to nature, and himself, 
 Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man ! 
 Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 23 
 
 We censure nature for a span too short: 
 That span too short, we tax as tedious too ; 
 Torture invention, all expedients tire, 
 To lash the lingering moments into speed, 
 And whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves. 
 Art, brainless art! our furious charioteer 
 (For nature's voice unstifled would recall), 
 Drives headlong towards the precipice of death ; 
 Death, most our dread; death, thus more dreadful 
 Oh what a riddle of absurdity ! [made : 
 
 Leisure is pain ; 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; wander earth around 
 To fly that tyrant, thought. As Atlas groan'd 
 The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. 
 We cry for mercy to the next amusement : 
 The next amusement mortgages our fields; 
 Slight inconvenience ! prisons hardly frown, 
 From hateful time if prisons set us free. 
 Yet when death kindly tenders us relief, 
 \Ve call him cruel ; years to moments shrink, 
 Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd. 
 To man's false optics (from his folly false) 
 Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, 
 And seems to creep, decrepit with his age: 
 Behold him, when past by ; what then is seen, 
 But his broad pinions swifter than the winds? 
 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.
 
 24 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 Not short Heaven'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, used is life : 
 
 And bare existence, man, to live ordaiu'd, 
 
 Wrings, and oppresses with enormous weight. 
 
 And why? since time was given for use, not waste, 
 
 Enjoin 'd to fly ; with tempest, tide, and stars, 
 
 To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man. 
 
 Time's use was dooin'd a pleasure : waste, a pain ; 
 
 That man might feel his error, if unseen : 
 
 And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure ; 
 
 Not, blundering, split on idleness for ease. 
 
 Life's cares are comforts; such by Heaven 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, niark'd above, unfolds : 
 Then time turns torment, when man turns a fool. 
 We rave, we wrestle with great nature's plan: 
 We thwart the Deity ; and 'tis decreed, 
 Who thwart his will, shall contradict their own. 
 Hence our unnatural quarrels with ourselves; 
 Our thoughts at enmity; our bosom-broils: 
 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 !
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 25 
 
 Gone? they ne'er go ; when past, they haunt us still: 
 The spirit walks of every day deceased ; 
 And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns. 
 Nor death, nor life, delight us. If lime past, 
 And time possess'd, both pain us, what can please? 
 That which the Deity to please ordain'd, 
 Time used. The man who consecrates his hours 
 By vigorous 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 (heaven's stranger !) 
 On his important embassy to man. [sent 
 
 LORENZO ! no : on the long-destined hour, 
 From everlasting ages growing ripe, 
 That memorable hour of wondrous birth, 
 When the DREAD SIRE, on emanation bent, 
 And big with nature, rising in his might, 
 Call'd forth creation (for then Time was born), 
 By Godhead streaming through a thousand worlds; 
 Not on those terms, from the great days of heaven, 
 From old eternity's mysterious orb, 
 Was Time cut off, and cast beneath the skies: 
 The skies, which watch him in his new abode, 
 c
 
 26 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 Measuring his motions by revolving spheres ; 
 
 That horologe machinery divine. 
 
 Hours, days, and months, and years, his children, play, 
 
 Like numerous 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, unhinged 
 
 (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 ? 1 grant thee, in a state 
 
 Not unambitious ; in the ruffled shroud, 
 Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath. 
 Has death his fopperies ? Then w r ell 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 011 
 A brighter beam in Leo ; silky-soft 
 Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid ;
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 27 
 
 And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song, 
 
 And robes, and notions, framed in foreign looms ! 
 
 O ye LORENZOS of our age ! who deem 
 
 One moment unamused, a misery 
 
 Not made for feeble man ! who call aloud 
 
 For every bauble drivel'd o'er by sense; 
 
 For rattles, and conceits of every cast, 
 
 For change of follies, and relays of joy, 
 
 To drag you patient through the tedious length 
 
 Of a short winter's day say, sages ! say, 
 
 Wit's oracles ! say, dreamers of gay dreams ! 
 
 How will you weather an eternal night, 
 
 Where such expedients fail ? 
 
 O treacherous 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 licence, unrecall'd, 
 Unmark'd ; see, from behind her secret stand, 
 The sly informer minutes every fault, 
 And her dread diary with horror fills. 
 Not the gross act alone employs her pen: 
 She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, 
 A watchful foe ! the formidable spy, 
 Listening, o'erhears the whispers of our camp ; 
 Our dawning purposes of heart explores, 
 And steals our embryos of iniquity. 
 As all-rapacious usurers conceal 
 Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs ; 
 Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats 
 Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; 
 Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied ; 
 c2
 
 28 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II, 
 
 In leaves more durable than leaves of brass, 
 
 Writes our whole history : which death shall read 
 
 In every 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. Oh 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, knells call, Heaven invites, 
 Hell threatens : all exerts ; in effort, all ; 
 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 gulf 
 
 A moment trembles ; drops ! and man, for whom 
 
 All else is in alarm ! man, the sole cause 
 
 Of this surrounding storm ! and yet he sleeps, 
 
 As the storm rock'd to rest. Throw years away ! 
 
 Throw empires, and be blameless. Moments seize ; 
 
 Heaven's on their wing : a moment we may wish,
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 2J> 
 
 When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day stand still ; 
 Bid him drive back his car, and re-import 
 This period past, re-give the given hour. 
 LORENZO, more than miracles we want: 
 LORENZO Oh for yesterday 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 returned ; 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 Heaven ? 
 
 Where shall I find Him? Angels ! tell me where. 
 You know him ; He is near you : point him out : 
 Shall I see glories beaming from his brow ? 
 Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers ? 
 Your golden wings, now hovering o'er him, shed 
 Protection ; now, are waving in applause 
 To that blest son of foresight ! lord of fate ! 
 That awful independent on To-morrow I 
 Whose work is done; who triumphs in the past; 
 Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile; 
 Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly; 
 That common, but opprobrious lot ! past hours, 
 If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, 
 If folly bounds our prospect by the grave,
 
 30 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 All feeling of futurity benumb'd ; 
 All god-like passion for eternals quench'd ; 
 All relish of realities expired ; 
 ' Renounced all correspondence with the skies ; 
 Our freedom chain'd ; quite wingless our desire ; 
 In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar ; 
 Prone to the centre ; crawling in the dust ; 
 Dismounted every great and glorious aim ; 
 Imbruted every faculty divine ; 
 Heart-buried in the rubbish of the world. 
 The world, that gulf of souls, immortal souls, 
 Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire 
 To reach the distant skies, and triumph there 
 On thrones, which shall not mourn their masters 
 
 changed, 
 
 Though we from earth; ethereal, they that fell. 
 Such veneration due, O man, to man. 
 
 Who venerate themselves, the world despise. 
 For what, gay friend ! is this escutcheon'd world, 
 Which hangs out DEATH in one eternal night ! 
 A night, that glooms us in the noon-tide ray, 
 And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud. 
 Life's little 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 deplored ; 
 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 that lately smiled, where are they now ? 
 Pallid to thought, and ghastly ! drown'd, all drowu'd
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 31 
 
 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 heaven ; 
 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. 
 Oh reconcile them ! Kind experience cries, 
 " There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs : 
 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, though grey, is still a child. 
 Loose then from earth the grasp of fond desire, 
 Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore. 
 
 Art thou so moor'd thou canst not disengage, 
 Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes? 
 Since, by life's passing breath, blown up from earth, 
 Light, as the summer's dust, we take in air 
 A moment's giddy flight, and fall again ; 
 Join the dull mass, increase the trodden soil, 
 And sleep, till earth herself shall be no more : 
 Since then (as emmets, their small world o'erthrown) 
 We, sore-amazed, 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, 
 (Oh how omnipotent is time !) decrees ; 
 Should not each warning give a strong alarm ?
 
 32 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 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 iusolence 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 decipher what it means. 
 Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls : 
 Dost ask, How? Whence? Belshazzar-like, amazed? 
 Man's make encloses the sure seeds of death ; 
 Life feeds the murderer: ingrate! he thrives 
 On her own meal, and then his nurse devours. 
 
 But here, LORENZO, the delusion lies; 
 That solar shadow, as it measures life, 
 It life resembles too: life speeds away 
 From point to point, though seeming to stand still. 
 The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth : 
 Too subtle is the movement to be seen ; 
 Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone. 
 "Warnings point out our danger; gnomons, time: 
 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 r 
 Tis later with the wise than he's aware. 
 A WILMINGTON goes slower than the sun ;
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 33 
 
 And all mankind mistake their time of day ; 
 Even age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown 
 In furrow'd brows. To gentle life's descent 
 We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain. 
 We take fair days in winter, for the spring ; 
 And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft 
 Man must compute that age he cannot feel, 
 He scarce believes he's older for his years. 
 Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store 
 One disappointment sure, to crown the rest; 
 The disappointment of a promised hour. 
 
 On this, or similar, PHILANDER ! thou, 
 Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue ; 
 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 shorten'd winter's eve, 
 By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth, 
 Best found, so sought ; to the recluse more coy ! 
 Thoughts disentangle passing o'er the lip ; 
 Clean runs the thread ; if not, 'tis thrown away, 
 Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song : 
 Song, fashionably fruitless ; such as stains 
 The fancy, and unhallowed passion fires ; 
 Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane. 
 
 Know'st thou, LORENZ.O ! what a friend contains ? 
 As bees mix'd nectar draw from fragrant flowers, 
 So men from FRIENDSHIP, wisdom and delight; 
 Twins tied by nature, if they part they die. 
 Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach? 
 Good sense will stagnate : thoughts shut up want air, 
 And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun, 
 c 3
 
 34 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT II. 
 
 Had thought been all, sweet speech had been denied ; 
 Speecb,thought's canal ! speech,thought's criterion tuo ! 
 Thought in the mine, may come forth gold or dross; 
 When coin'd in words, 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 ; 
 Brightens, for ornament ; and whets, for use. 
 What numbers, sheath'd in erudition, lie, 
 Plunged to the hilts in venerable tomes, 
 And rusted in ; who might have borne an edge, 
 And play'd a sprightly beam, if born to speech ; 
 If born bless'd heirs of half their mother's tongue ! 
 Tis thought's exchange ; which, like th' alternate push 
 Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned scum, 
 And defecates the student's standing pool. 
 
 In contemplation is his proud resource? 
 Tis poor, as proud, by converse unsnstain'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 awed. 
 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. 
 
 Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, 
 And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive,
 
 85 
 
 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 wise. 
 Nature, in zeal for human amity, 
 Denies, or damps, an undivided joy. 
 Joy is an import; joy is an exchange ; 
 Joy flies monopolists : it calls for two ; 
 Rich fruit ! Heaven-planted ! never pluck'd by one. 
 Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give 
 To social man true relish of himself. 
 Full on ourselves, descending in a line, 
 Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight : 
 Delight intense, is taken by rebound ; 
 Reverberated pleasures fire the breast. 
 
 Celestial Happiness, whene'er she stoops 
 To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, 
 And one alone, to make her sweet amends 
 
 For absent heaven the bosom of a friend ; 
 
 Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, 
 
 Each other's pillow to repose divine. 
 
 Beware the counterfeit: in passion's flame 
 
 Hearts melt ; but melt like ice, soon harder froze. 
 
 True love strikes root in reason ; passion's foe : 
 
 Virtue alone eutenders us for life : 
 
 I wrong her much eutenders us for ever. 
 
 Of Friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fair 
 
 Is virtue kindling at a rival fire, 
 
 And, emulously, rapid in her race. 
 
 O the soft enmity ! endearing strife ! 
 
 This carries friendship to her noon-tide point, 
 
 And gives the rivet of eternity.
 
 3<J THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 From friendship, which outlives my former themes, 
 Glorious survivor of old time and death ! 
 From friendship, thus, that flower of heavenly seed, 
 The wise extract earth's most Hyblean bliss, 
 Superior wisdom, crown'd with smiling joy. 
 
 But for whom blossoms this Elysian flower? 
 Abroad they find, who cherish it at home. 
 LORENZO ! pardon what my love extorts ; 
 An honest love, and not afraid to frown. 
 Though choice of follies fasten on the great, 
 None clings more obstinate, than fancy fond 
 That sacred friendship is their easy prey ; 
 taught by the wafture of a golden lure, 
 Or fascination of a high-born smile. 
 Their smiles, the great, and the coquette, throw out 
 For others' hearts, tenacious of their own ; 
 And we no less of ours, when such the bait. 
 Ye fortune's cofferers ! ye powers of wealth ! 
 Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope! 
 \s well mere man an angel might beget. 
 Love, and love only, is the loan for love. 
 LORENZO ! pride repress ; nor hope to find 
 A friend, but what has found a friend in ih< ( . 
 All like the purchase; few the price will pay: 
 And this makes friends such miracles below. 
 
 What if (since daring on so nice a theme") 
 I show thee friendship delicate as dear, 
 Of tender violations apt to die? 
 Reserve will wound it ; aud distrust, destroy. 
 Deliberate on all things with thy friend. 
 But since friends grow not thick on every bough. 
 Nor every friend uiirotten at the core; 
 J'irst, on thy friend, deliberate vith thyself:
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 37 
 
 Pause, ponder, sift ; not eager in the choice, 
 Nor jealous of the chosen ; fixing, fix: 
 Judge before friendship, then confide till death. 
 Well, for thy friend; but nobler far for thee: 
 How gallant danger for earth's highest prize ! 
 A friend is worth all hazards we can run. 
 " Poor is the friendless master of a world : 
 A world in purchase for a friend is gain." 
 
 So sung he (Angels hear that angel sing ! 
 Angels from friendship gather half their joy) : 
 So sung PHILANDER, as his friend Avent round 
 In the rich ichor, in the generous blood 
 Of BACCHUS, purple god of joyous wit, 
 A brow solute, and ever-laughing eye. 
 He drank long health, and virtue, to his friend ; 
 His friend, who warm'd him more, who more inspired. 
 Friendship's the wine of life ; but friendship new 
 (Not such was his) is neither strong, nor pure. 
 Oh for the bright complexion, cordial warmth, 
 And elevating spirit, of a friend, 
 For twenty summers ripening by my side; 
 All feculence of falsehood long thrown down ; 
 All social virtues rising in his soul ; 
 As crystal clear; and smiling as they rise! 
 Here nectar flows: it sparkles in our sight; 
 Rich to the taste, and genuine from the heart. 
 High-flavour'd bliss for gods ! on earth how rare ! 
 On earth how lost ! PHILANDER is no more. 
 
 Think'st thou the theme intoxicates my song? 
 Am I too warm ? Too warm I cannot be. 
 I loved him much ; but now I love him more. 
 Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceal 'd, 
 Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes
 
 38 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT II. 
 
 Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold ; 
 How blessings brighten as they take their flight ! 
 His flight PHILANDER took ; his upward flight, 
 If ever soul ascended. Had he dropp'd, 
 (That eagle genius !) O had he let fall 
 One feather as he flew ; I then had wrote, 
 What friends might flatter; prudent foes forbear; 
 Rivals scarce damn; and ZOILUS reprieve. 
 Yet what I can, I must: it were profane 
 To quench a glory lighted at the skies, 
 And cast in shadows his illustrious close. 
 Strange ! the theme most affecting, most sublime, 
 Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung! 
 And yet it sleeps, by genius unawaked, 
 Painim or Christian; to the blush of wit. 
 Man's highest triumph ! man's profoundest fall ! 
 The death-bed of the just ! is yet undrawn 
 By mortal hand ; it merits a divine : 
 Angels should paint it, angels ever there ; 
 There, on a post of honour, and of joy. 
 
 Dare I presume, then? But PHILANDER bids; 
 
 And glory tempts, and inclination calls 
 
 Yet am I struck ; as struck the soul, beneath 
 Aerial groves' impenetrable gloom ; 
 Or, in some mighty ruin's solemn shade; 
 Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust, 
 In vaults ; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings ; 
 Or, at the midnight altar's hallow'd flame. 
 
 It is religion to proceed : I pause 
 
 And enter, awed, the temple of my theme. 
 Is it bis death-bed ? No ; it is his shrine : 
 Behold him, there, just rising to a god. 
 
 The chamber where the good man meets his fate,
 
 ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP. 3'J 
 
 Is privileged beyond the common walk 
 Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven. 
 Fly, ye profane ! if not, draw near with awe, 
 Receive the blessing, and adore the chance, 
 That threw in this Bethesda your disease : 
 If unrestored by this, despair your cure : 
 For here, resistless demonstration dwells ; 
 A death-bed's a detector of the heart. 
 Here, tired dissimulation drops her mask ; 
 Through life's grimace, that mistress of the^cene! 
 Here, real and apparent are the same. 
 You see the man ; you see his hold on heaven : 
 If sound his virtue ; as PHILANDER'S, sound. 
 Heaven waits not the last moment ; owns her friends 
 On this side death ; and points them out to men : 
 A lecture, silent, but of sovereign power ! 
 To vice, confusion ; and to virtue, peace. 
 Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, 
 Virtue alone has majesty in death ; 
 And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. 
 PHILANDER ! he severely frown'd on thee. 
 " No warning given ! Unceremonious fate ! 
 A sudden rush from life's meridian joy ! 
 A wrench from all we love ! from all we are ! 
 A restless bed of pain ! a plunge opaque 
 Beyond conjecture ! feeble nature's dread ! 
 Strong reason's shudder at the dark unknown ! 
 A sun extinguish'd ! a just-opening grave ! 
 And oh ! the last, last, what? (can words express? 
 Thought reach it?) the last silence of a friend !" 
 Where are those horrors, that amazement where, 
 This hideous group of ills (which singly shock) 
 Demands from man? I thought him man till now.
 
 40 THE COMPLAINT, NIGHT If. 
 
 Through nature's wreck, through vanquished agonies 
 (Like the stars struggling through this midnight 
 
 gloom), 
 
 What gleams of joy ! what more than human peace ! 
 Where the frail mortal ? the poor abject worm ? 
 No, not in death, the mortal to he found. 
 His conduct is a legacy for all, 
 Richer than Mammon's for his single heir. 
 His comforters he comforts ; great in ruin, 
 With unreluctant grandeur, gives, not yields, 
 His soul sublime ; and closes with his fate. 
 
 How our hearts burn'd within us at the scene ! 
 Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man? 
 His God sustains him in his final hour ! ^^ 
 His final hour brings glory to his God ! 
 Man's glory heaven vouchsafes to call her own. 
 We gaze, we weep ; mix'd tears of grief and joy ! 
 Amazement strikes ! devotion bursts to flame ! 
 Christians adore ! and infidels believe ! 
 
 As some tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow, 
 Detains the sun, illustrious from its height ; 
 While rising vapours, and descending shades, 
 With damps, and darkness, drown the spacious vale; 
 Undamp'd by doubt, undarken'd by despair, 
 PHILANDER, thus, augustly rears his head, 
 At that black hour, which general horror sheds 
 On the low level of the inglorious throng : 
 Sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy, 
 Divinely beam on his exalted soul ; 
 Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, 
 With incommunicable lustre, bright.
 
 What could I do? what fucc our? what refourc 
 With pious sacriledg-e a grave I rtole. 
 With impious piety that grave 1 wrong-'d . 
 
 THE 
 
 NIGHT in. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALLRA. ENGRAVED BY GEORGE Cl 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPS. PICCADILLY. 
 MARCH 15. 1817.
 
 NIGHT THE THIRD. 
 NARCISSA. 
 
 TO 
 
 race t&e 2)uctje00 of )- 
 
 Iguoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes. VIRG. 
 
 FROM dreams,wbere thought in fancy's maze runs mad, 
 To reason, that heaven-lighted lamp in man, 
 Once more I wake ; and at the destined hour, 
 Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn, 
 I keep my assignation with my woe. 
 
 O ! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, 
 Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! 
 Who think it solitude to be alone. 
 Communion sweet ! communion large and high ! 
 Our reason, guardian angel, and our God ! 
 Then nearest these, when others most remote ; 
 And all, ere long, shall be remote, but these. 
 How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone, 
 A stranger! unacknowledged! unapproved! 
 Now w r oo them ; wed them ; bind them to thy breast: 
 To win thy wish, creation has no more.
 
 42 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT III. 
 
 Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend. 
 
 But friends, how mortal ! dangerous the desire. 
 
 Take PHCEBUS to yourselves, ye basking bards ! 
 Inebriate at fair fortune's fountain-head : 
 And reeling through the wilderness of joy; 
 Where sense runs savage, broke from reason's chain, 
 And sings false peace, till smother'd by the pall. 
 My fortune is unlike ; unlike my song ; 
 Unlike the deity my song invokes. 
 I to Day's soft-eyed sister pay my court, 
 (ENDYMION'S rival !) and her aid implore ; 
 Now first implored in succour to the muse. 
 
 Thou, who didst lately borrow * CYNTHIA'S form, 
 And modestly forego thine own ! O thou, 
 Who didst thyself, at midnight hours, inspire ! 
 Say, why not CYNTHIA patroness of song ? 
 As thou her crescent, she thy character 
 Assumes ; still more a goddess by the change. 
 
 Are there demurring wits, who dare dispute 
 This revolution in the world inspired ? 
 Ye train Pierian ! to the lunar sphere, 
 In silent hour, address your ardent call 
 For aid immortal ; less her brother's right. 
 She, with the spheres harmonious, nightly leads 
 The mazy dance, and hears their matchless strain ; 
 A strain for gods, denied to mortal ear. 
 Transmit it heard, thou silver queen of Heaven ! 
 What title, or what name, endears thee most? 
 CYNTHIA! CYLLENE! PH<EBE! or dost hear 
 With higher gust, fair P D of the skies ! 
 
 * At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade.
 
 KARCISSA. 43 
 
 Is that the soft enchantment calls thee down, 
 
 More powerful than of old Circean charm ? 
 
 Come ; but from heavenly banquets with thee bring 
 
 The soul of song, and whisper in mine ear 
 
 The theft divine ; or in propitious dreams 
 
 (For dreams are thine) transfuse it through the breast 
 
 Of thy first votary but not thy last ; 
 
 If, like thy namesake, thou art ever kind. 
 
 And kind thou wilt, be ; kind on such a theme ; 
 A theme so like thee, a quite lunar theme, 
 Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair! 
 A theme that rose all pale, and told my soul 
 Twas night; on her fond hopes perpetual night; 
 A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp, 
 Than that which smote me from PHILANDER'S tomb. 
 NARCISSA follows, ere his tomb is closed. 
 Woes cluster ; rare are solitary woes ; 
 They love a train, they tread each other's heel : 
 Her death invades his mournful right, and claims 
 The grief that started from my lids for him ; 
 Seizes the faithless, alienated tear; 
 Or 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. O PHILANDER ! 
 What was thy fate ? A double fate to me ; 
 Portent, and pain ! a menace, and a blow ! 
 Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace ; 
 Not less a bird of omen, than of prey. 
 It call'd NARCISSA long before her hour; 
 It call'd her tender soul, by break of bliss, 
 From the first blossom, from the buds of joy ;
 
 44 THE COMPLAINT. XIGHT lit. 
 
 Those few our noxious fate nnblasted leaves 
 In this inclement clime of human life. 
 
 Sweet harmonist ! and beautiful as sweet ! 
 And young as beautiful ! and soft as young ! 
 A nd 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 groves he fell, 
 And left it unharmonious ! all its charms 
 Extinguish 'd in the wonders of her song ! 
 Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd ear, 
 Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain 
 (Oh to forget her !) thrilling through my heart ! 
 
 Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy, this group 
 Of bright ideas, flowers of paradise, 
 As yet unforfeit ! in one blaze we bind, 
 Kneel, and present it to the skies; as all 
 We guess of Heaven : and these were all her own. 
 And she was mine ; and I was was! most bless'd 
 Gay title of the deepest misery ! 
 As bodies grow more ponderous, robb'd of life : 
 Good lost weighs more in grief, than, gain'd, in joy. 
 Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm, 
 Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay: 
 And if in death still lovely, lovelier there ; 
 Far lovelier ! pity swells the tide of love. 
 And will not the severe excuse a sigh? 
 Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep ! 
 Our tears indulged indeed deserve our shame, 
 Ye that e'er lost an angel ! pity me.
 
 NARCISSA. 45 
 
 Soon as the lustre languished in her eye, 
 Dawning a dimmer day on human sight; 
 And on her cheek, the residence of spring, 
 Pale omen sat ; and scatter'd fears around 
 On all that saw (and who would cease to gaze, 
 That once had seen?) With haste, parental haste-. 
 I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid north, 
 Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew, 
 And bore her nearer to the sun; the sun 
 (As if the sun could envy) check'd his beam, 
 Denied his wonted 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) every fair ; 
 You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand, 
 Which often cropp'd your odours, incense meet 
 To thought so pure ! 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, 
 Must, soon or late, with anguish turn the scale ^ 
 And anguish, after rapture, how severe! 
 Rapture ? Bold man ! who tempts the wrath divine, 
 By plucking fruit denied to mortal taste ; 
 While here, presuming on the rights of Heaven.
 
 46 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT III. 
 
 For transport dost thou call on every hour, 
 LORENZO? At tby friend's expense be wise: 
 Lean not on earth ; 'twill pierce thee to the heart ; 
 A broken reed, at best ; but, oft, a spear ; 
 On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires. 
 
 Turn, hopeless thought! turn from her: Thought 
 Resenting rallies, and wakes every woe. [repell'd 
 SnatchM ere thy prime ! and in thy bridal hour ! 
 And when kind fortune, with thy lover, smiled ! 
 And when high-flavour d thy fresh opening joys! 
 And when blind man pronounced 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 raved ; 
 That mourn 'd the dead ; and this denied a grave. 
 
 Their sighs incensed; sighs foreign to the will ! 
 Their will the tiger suck'd, outraged the storm. 
 For oh ! the cursed ungodliness of zeal ! 
 While sinful flesh relented, spirit nursed 
 In blind infallibility's embrace, 
 The sainted spirit petrified the breast ; 
 Denied 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 niy duty ; coward in my grief !
 
 NARCISSA. 47 
 
 More like her murderer, than friend, I crept, 
 With soft-suspended step, and, muffled deep 
 In midnight darkness, whisperM my last sigh. 
 I whisper'd what should echo through their realms ; 
 Nor writher 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, blessM shade ! of grief 
 And indignation rival bursts I pour'd : 
 Half execration mingled with my prayer ; 
 Kindled at man, while I his God adored ; 
 Sore grudged the savage land her sacred dust ; 
 Stamp'd the cursed soil ; and, with humanity 
 Denied NARCISSA, wish'd them all a grave. 
 
 Glows my resentment into guilt? What guilt 
 Can equal violations of the dead? 
 The dead how sacred ! Sacred is the dust 
 Of this Heaven-labour'd form, erect, divine ! 
 This Heaven-assumed majestic robe of earth 
 fae deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse 
 fWith azure bright, and clothed the sun in gold. 
 When every passion sleeps Ibat can offend ; 
 When strikes us every motive that can melt ; 
 When man can wreak his rancour uncontroll'd, 
 That strongest curb on insult and ill-will; 
 Then, spleen to dust? the dust of innocence? 
 An angel's dust? This Lucifer transcends: 
 When he contended for the patriarch's bones, 
 Twas not the strife of 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 :
 
 48 tHE COMPLAINT. NIGHT III. 
 
 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 his vengeance? Hear it not, ye stars! 
 And thou, pale moon ! turn paler at the sound ; 
 Man is to man the sorest, surest ill. 
 A previous blast foretells the rising storm ; 
 Overwhelming 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 ! 
 Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, 
 That hideous sight, a naked human heart 
 
 Fired is the muse? And let the muse be fired : 
 "Who not inflamed, when what he speaks, he feels, 
 And in the nerve most tender, in his friends ? 
 Shame to mankind ! PHILANDER had his foes ; 
 He felt the truths I sing, and I in him. 
 But he, nor I, feel more: past ills, NARCISSA ! 
 Are sunk in thee, thou recent wound of heart ! 
 WTiich bleeds with other cares, with other pangs ; 
 Pangs numerous, as the numerous ills that swarm'd 
 O'er thy distinguish'd fate, and, clustering there 
 Thick as the locusts on the laud of Nile,
 
 NARC1SSA. 49* 
 
 Made death more deadly, and more dark the grave. 
 Reflect (if not forgot iny 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 mouru'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 their right channel, through the vale of deafh. 
 
 The vale of death ! that hush'd Cimmerian vale, 
 Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinished fates, 
 With raven wing incumbent, waits the day 
 (Dread day!) that interdicts all future change! 
 That subterranean world, that land of ruin! 
 Fit walk, LORENZO, for proud human thought ! 
 There let my thought expatiate, and explore 
 Balsamic truths, and healing sentiments ; 
 Of all most wanted, and most welcome, here. 
 For gay LORENZO'S sake, and for thy own, 
 My soul ! "The fruits of dying friends survey; 
 Expose the vain of life ; weigh life and death ; 
 Give death his eulogy ; thy fear subdue ; 
 And labour that first palm of noble minds, 
 A manly scorn of terror from the tomb." 
 
 This harvest reap from ihy NARCISSA'S grave.
 
 50 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT III. 
 
 As poets feign'd, from AJAX' streaming blood 
 Arose, with grief inscribed, a mournful flower; 
 Let wisdom blossom from my mortal wound. 
 And first, of dying friends ; what fniit 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, 
 And save the world a nuisance. Smitten friends 
 Are angels sent on errands full of love; 
 For us they languish, and for us they die : 
 And shall they languish, shall they die, in vain ? 
 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 prayer ? 
 Senseless, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves, 
 Tread under foot their agonies and groans ; 
 Frustrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths ?
 
 NARCISSA. 51 
 
 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 era ! golden days, begin ! 
 
 The thought of death shall, like a god, inspire. 
 
 And why not think of death ? Is life the theme 
 
 Of every thought ? and wish of every hour ? 
 
 And song of every joy ? Surprising truth ! 
 
 The beaten spaniel's fondness not so strange. 
 
 To wave the numerous ills that seize on life 
 
 As their own property, their lawful prey ; 
 
 Ere man has measured half his weary stage, 
 
 His luxuries have left him no reserve, 
 
 No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights ; 
 
 On cold-served repetitions he subsists, 
 
 And in the tasteless present chews the past ; 
 
 Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down. 
 
 Like lavish ancestors, his 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 th light ? 
 For what live ever here ? With labouring 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, 
 
 D2
 
 52 THE COMPLAINT. NH.HI III. 
 
 And yawn our joys ? or thank a misery 
 For change, though sad? to see what we have seen? 
 Hear, till unheard, the same old slabber'd tale ? 
 To taste the tasted, and at each return 
 Less tasteful ? o'er our palates to decant 
 Another vintage ? strain a flatter year, 
 Through loaded vessels, and a laxer tone ? 
 Crazy machines to grind earth's wasted fruits ! 
 Ill-ground, and worse concocted ! load, not life ! 
 The rational foul kennels of excess! 
 Slill-streaming thoroughfares of dull debauch ! 
 Trembling each gulp,lest death should snatch the bowl. 
 
 Such of our fine ones is the wish refined ! 
 So would they have it: elegant desire ! 
 Why not invite the bellowing stalls, and wilds ? 
 But such examples might their riot awe. 
 Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought 
 (Though on bright thought they father all their flights), 
 To what are they reduced ? To love, and hate, 
 The same vain world ; to censure, and espouse, 
 This painted shrew of life, who calls them fool 
 Each moment of each day; to flatter bad 
 Through dread of worse ; to cling to this rude rock, 
 Barren, to them, of good, and sharp with ills, 
 And hourly blacken'd with impending storms, 
 
 And infamous for wrecks of human hope 
 
 Scared at the gloomy gulf, that yawns beneath : 
 Such are their triumphs ! such their pangs of joy ! 
 
 Tis time, high time, to shift this dismal scene. 
 This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure? 
 One only ; but that one, what all may reach ; 
 VIRTUE she, wonder-working goddess ! charms,
 
 NARCISSA. 63 
 
 That rock to bloom ; and tames the painted shrew ; 
 And, what will more surprise, LORENZO! gives 
 To life's sick, nauseous iteration, change ; 
 And straightens 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 cuckow-seasons sing 
 The same dull note to such as nothing prize, 
 But what those seasons, from the teeming earth, 
 To doting 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 minds, that bask in virtue's beams, 
 Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves 
 In that for which they long, for which they live. 
 Their glorious efforts, wiug'd with heavenly hope, 
 Each rising morning sees still higher rise ; 
 Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents 
 To worth maturing, new strength, lustre, fame ; 
 While nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel 
 Rolling beneath their elevated aims, 
 Makes their fair prospect fairer every 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,
 
 04 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT 111. 
 
 " He sins against this life, who slights the next." 
 
 What is this life ? How few their favourite know ! 
 
 Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace, 
 
 By passionately loving life, we make 
 
 Loved 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 ! 
 
 W'hen 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worse than nought; 
 
 A nest of pains ; when held as nothing, much : 
 
 Like some fair humorists, 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 ! 
 
 Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy ! 
 
 The mighty basis of eternal bliss ! 
 
 Where now the barren rock ? the painted shrew I 
 Where now, LORENZO ! life's eternal round I 
 Have I not made my triple promise good? 
 Vain is the world ; but only to the vaiu. 
 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, labouring 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.
 
 NARCISSA. 00 
 
 Nor is that glory distant : O LORENZO ! 
 A good man, and an angel ! these between, 
 How thin the barrier ! What divides their fate ? 
 Perhaps a moment, or perhaps a year, 
 Or, if an age, it is a moment still ; 
 A moment, or eternity's forgot. 
 Then be, what once they were, who now are gods ; 
 Be what PHILANDER was, and claim the skies. 
 Starts timid nature at the gloomy pass ? 
 The soft transition call it; and be cheer'd: 
 Such it is often, and why not to thee ? 
 To hope the best, is pious, brave, and wise ; 
 And may itself procure, what it presumes. 
 Life is much flatter'd, death is much traduced ; 
 Compare the rivals, and the kinder crown. 
 "Strange competition!" True, LORENZO! strange! 
 So little life can cast into the scale. 
 
 Life makes the soul dependent on the dust ; 
 Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. 
 Through chinks, styled organs, dim life peeps at light: 
 Death bursts th' involving cloud, and all is day; 
 All eye, all ear, the disembodied power. 
 Death has feign'd evils, nature shall not feel ; 
 Life, ills substantial, wisdom cannot shun. 
 Is not the mighty mind, that son of heaven ! 
 By tyrant life dethroned, imprison'd, pain'd ? 
 By death enlarged, ennobled, deified? 
 Death but entombs the body ; life the soul. 
 
 " Is death then guiltless ? How he marks his w ay 
 With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine ! 
 Art, genius, fortune, elevated power ! 
 With various lustres these light up the world,
 
 36 THE COMPLAINT. KIGHT HI. 
 
 Which death puts out, and darkens human race." 
 
 1 grant, LORENZO ! this indictment jast : 
 
 The sage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror! 
 
 Death humbles these; more barbarous life, the man. 
 
 Life is the triumph of our mouldering 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, 
 
 Dark lattice! letting in eternal day. 
 
 LORENZO ! blush at fondness for a life, 
 Which sends celestial souls on errands vile, 
 To cater for the sense ; and serve at boards, 
 Where every 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 bemired ! 
 LORENZO ! blush at terror for a death, 
 Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers, 
 Where nectars sparkle, angels minister, 
 And more than angels share, and raise, and crown, 
 And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss. 
 What need I more? O death, the palm is thine. 
 
 Then welcome, death ! thy dreaded harbingers, 
 Age and disease ; disease, though long my guest ; 
 That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life : 
 Which, pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell, 
 That calls my few friends to my funeral ; 
 Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear, 
 While reason and religion, better taught, 
 Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb
 
 NARCISSA. 57 
 
 With wreath triumphant. Death is victor}' ; 
 
 It binds in chains the raging ills of life : 
 
 Lust and ambition, wrath and avarice, 
 
 Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his power. 
 
 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 though 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 
 
 For mighty gain : the gain of each, a life ! 
 
 But oh ! the last the former so transcends, 
 
 Life dies, compared ; 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, Mho the rescued 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 ; 
 Though the four winds were warring for my dust. 
 Yes, and from winds, and waves, and central night, 
 Though prison'd there, my dust too I reclaim 
 (To dust when drop prond nature's proudest spheres), 
 And live entire. Death is the crown of life: 
 D 3
 
 58 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT III. 
 
 Were death denied, poor man would live in vain ; 
 Were death denied, to live would not be life ; 
 Were death denied, even fools would wish to die. 
 Death wounds to cure: we fall; we rise; we reign! 
 Spring from our fetters ; fasten in the skies ; 
 Where blooming Eden withers in our sight : 
 Death gives us more than was in Eden lost. 
 This king of terrors is the prince of peace. 
 When shall I die to vanity, pain, death ? 
 When shall I die? When shall I live for ever?
 
 OUIJT coevals! remnants of yourselves ! 
 Poor Human ruins tottering* o'er the gra 
 
 THUS 
 
 NIGHT IV. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WES TALL R_A. ENGRAVED BY SAMUEL N6BLE , 
 
 PTJBLISHFJ3 BY JOHN SHARPE. PICCADILLY. 
 
 MARCH 15.1817.
 
 NIGHT THE FOURTH. 
 
 THE 
 
 CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH: 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 OUR ONLY CURE FOR THE FEAR OF DEATH, AND 
 
 PROPER SENTIMENTS OF HEART ON THAT 
 
 INTERESTING BLESSING. 
 
 t!je 
 
 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 sovereign cure. 
 
 Why start at death ! Where is he ? Death arrived, 
 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,
 
 60 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT IV. 
 
 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; every date cries "Come away." 
 And what recalls 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 ; 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 his death bequeathing endless pain ; 
 His heart, though 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 purposed emendations where we fail'd ; 
 Or hopes of plaudits from our candid Judge, 
 When, on their exit, souls are bid unrobe, 
 Toss fortune back her tinsel, and her plume, 
 And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene. 
 
 With me, that time is come ; my world is dead ;
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 61 
 
 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 loitering 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 remember'd, 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; 
 Imbittering 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. 
 Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool ;
 
 62 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 Caught at a court; purged off by purer air, 
 And simpler diet ; gifts of rural life ! 
 
 Bless'd be that baud divine, which gently laid 
 My heart at rest, beneath this bumble shed. 
 The world's a stately bark, on dangerous 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 enclosure, leap the mounds of right, 
 Pursuing, and pursued, each other's prey; 
 As wolves, for rapine ; as the fox, for wiles ; 
 Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all. 
 
 Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 
 What though 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, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, 
 Who thought even gold might come a day too late; 
 Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme 
 For future vacancies in church or state ; 
 
 Some avocation deeming it to die, 
 
 Unbit by rage canine of dying rich ; 
 
 Guilt's blunder ! and the loudest laugh of hell.
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 63 
 
 O my coevals ! remnants of yourselves ! 
 Poor human ruins, tottering 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 age ? 
 With avarice, 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 unexperienced rush on numerous 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 buried 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 my bier, and point me to the dust. 
 
 O thou great Arbiter of life and death ! 
 Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun ! 
 Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth
 
 64 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 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 eouldst 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 ! 
 
 Though nature's terrors, thus, may be repress 'd ; 
 Still frowns grim death ; guilt points the tyrant's spear. 
 And whence all human guilt ? From death forgot. 
 Ah me ' too long I set at nought the swarm 
 Of friendly warnings, which around me flew ; 
 And smiled, 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. 
 On high? What means my frenzy? 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
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 65 
 
 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 heaven itself can such indulgence dwell? 
 Oh what a groan was there ! a groan not His. 
 He seized our dreadful right ; the load sustain'd ; 
 And heaved 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. 
 
 Oh for their song, to reach my lofty theme ! 
 Inspire me, night ! with all thy tuneful spheres : 
 Whilst I with seraphs share seraphic themes, 
 And show to men the dignity of man ; 
 Lest I blaspheme my subject with my song. 
 Shall Pagan pages glow celestial flame, 
 And Christian languish ? On our hearts, not heads, 
 Falls the foul infamy. My heart! awake: 
 What can awake thee, unawaked by this, 
 " Expended Deity on human weal ?" 
 Feel the great truths, which burst the tenfold night 
 Of Heathen error, with a golden flood 
 Of endless day: to feel, is to be fired ; 
 And to believe, LORENZO! is to feel. 
 
 Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Power! 
 Still more tremendous, for thy wondrous love ! 
 That arms, with awe more awful, thy commands; 
 And foul transgression dips in sevenfold guilt ;
 
 66 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 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 roused such vengeance? which such love in- 
 flamed ? 
 
 O'er guilt (how mountainous!; with out-stretch'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 ! 
 Oh how are both exalted by the deed ! 
 The wondrous 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 : 
 They set at odds Heaven's jarring attributes ; 
 And, with one excellence, another wound; 
 Maim Heaven's perfection, break its equal beams, 
 Bid mercy triumph over God himself, 
 Undeified by their opprobrious praise : 
 A God all mercy, is a God unjust. 
 
 Ye brainless wits ! ye baptized infidels ! 
 Ye worse for mending ! wash'd to fouler stains !
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 67 
 
 The ransom was paid down ; the fund of Heaven, 
 Heaven's inexbaustible, exhausted fund, 
 Amazing, and amazed, pour'd forth the price, 
 All price beyond : though curious to compute, 
 Archangels fail'd to cast the mighty sum: 
 Its value vast, ungrasp'd by minds create, 
 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 iiew ! a dread eclipse (without 
 (Opposing spheres), from her Creator's frown ! 
 pun! didst thou fly thy Maker's pain? or start 
 At that enormous load of human guilt, 
 jWhich 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 Heaven that hour let fall a tear ; 
 Heaven wept, that men might smile ! Heaven bled, that 
 Might never die ! [man 
 
 And is devotion virtue ? Tis compell'd : 
 What heart of stone, but glows at thoughts like these ? 
 Such contemplations mount us ; and should mount 
 The mind still higher ; nor ever glance on man, 
 Unraptured, uninflamed. Where roll my thoughts 
 To rest from wonders ? Other wonders rise ; 
 And strike where'er they roll : my soul is caught : 
 Heaven's sovereign blessings, clustering from the 
 cross,
 
 68 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 Rush on her, in a throng, and close her round, 
 The prisoner of amaze ! In His bless'd 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 ravenous foe, that gorged all human race ! 
 The King of glory, He, whose glory fill'd 
 Heaven with amazement at his love to man; 
 And with divine complacency beheld 
 Powers most illumined, wilder'd in the theme. 
 
 The theme, the joj', how then shall man sustain f 
 Oh the burst gates! crush'd sting! demolish'd throue! 
 Last gasp ! of vanquished death. Shout earth and hea- 
 This sum of good to man : whose nature, then, [vcu! 
 Took wing, and mounted with him from the tomb ! 
 Then, then, I rose ; then first humanity 
 Triumphant pass'd the crystal ports of light, 
 (Stupendous guest!) and seiz'd eternal youth, 
 Seiz'd in our name. E'er since, 'tis blasphemous 
 To call man mortal. Man's mortality 
 Was, then, transferr'd to death ; and heaven's duration 
 Unalienably seal'd to this frail frame, 
 This child of dust Man, all-immortal ! hail ;
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. CD 
 
 Hail, Heaven! all-lavish of strange gifts to man! 
 Thine all the glory ; man's the boundless bliss. 
 
 Where am I rapt by this triumphant theme ? 
 On 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, though 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 Heaven's indulgent sight. 
 If, sick of folly, I relent ; he writes 
 My name in heaven, with that inverted spear 
 (A spear deep-dipp'd in blood !) which pierced 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 wondrous cure: 
 And, at each step, let higher wonder rise ! 
 " Pardon for infinite offence ! and pardon 
 Through means that speak its value infinite! 
 A pardon bought with blood ! with blood divine ! 
 With blood divine of Him, I made my foe ! 
 Persisted to provoke ! though woo'd and awed, 
 Bless'd and chastised, a flagrant rebel still ! 
 A rebel, 'midst the thunders of his throne ! 
 Nor I alone ! a rebel universe ! 
 My species up in arms ! not one exempt ! 
 Yet for the foulest of the foul, he dies; 
 Most joy'd, for the redeem'd from deepest guilt!
 
 70 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 As if our race were held of highest rank ; 
 And Godhead dearer, as more kind to man!" 
 
 Bound, every heart ! and every bosom, burn ! 
 Oh what a scale of miracles is here ! 
 Its lowest round, high planted on the skies ; 
 Its towering 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 Heaven 
 More fragrant, than Arabia sacrificed, 
 And all her spicy mountains in a flame. 
 
 So dear, so due to Heaven, shall praise descend, 
 With her soft plume (from plausive angels' Ming 
 First pluck'd by man) to tickle mortal ears, 
 Thus diving in the pockets of the great? 
 Is praise the perquisite of every paw, 
 Though black as hell, that grapples well for gold ? 
 O love of gold ! thou meanest of amours ! 
 Shall praise her odours waste on VIRTUE'S dead, 
 Embalm the base, perfume the stench of guilt, 
 Earn dirty bread by washing ^Ethiops fair, 
 5 Removing filth, or sinking it from sight, 
 A scavenger in scenes, where vacant posts, 
 Like gibbets yet untenauted, expect 
 Their future ornaments ? From courts and throne* 
 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 Power, 

 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 71 
 
 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 back 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? 
 Wliat, heaven's meridian glory, but thy smile ? 
 And shall not praise be thine? not human praise? 
 While heaven's high host on hallelujahs live ? 
 Oh 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 through the shades of hell, great Love! by thee, 
 O most adorable ! most unadored ! 
 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! Oh tell me, mighty Mind! 
 Where art thou ? Shall I dive into the deep ? 
 Call to the sun, or ask the roaring winds, 
 For their Creator ? Shall I question loud
 
 72 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 The thunder, if in that the 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 tuned); the nerve, that writes, sustains]: 
 Wrapp'd in his being, I resound his praise : 
 But though past all diffused, without a shore, 
 His essence ; local is his throne (as meet), 
 To gather the dispersed (as standards call 
 The listed from afar) ; to fix a point, 
 A central point, collective of his sons ; 
 Since finite every nature but his own. 
 
 The nameless He, whose nod is nature's birth ; 
 And nature's shield, the shadow of his hand ; 
 Her dissolution, his suspended smile! 
 The great First-Last ! pavilion'd high he sits 
 In darkness from excessive splendour born, 
 By gods unseen, unless through lustre lost. 
 His glory, to created glory, bright, 
 As that to central horrors : he looks down 
 On all that soars ; and spans immensity. 
 
 Though night unuumber'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 heaven ? 
 Down to the centre should I send my thought, 
 Through beds of glittering ore, and glowing gems ; 
 Their beggar'd blaze wants lustre for my lay ; 
 T,oes out in darkness : if, on towering wing,
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 73 
 
 I send it through the boundless vault of stars ; 
 The stars, though 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, though divine. 
 
 Still more This theme is man's, and man's alone; 
 Their vast appointments reach it not : they see 
 On earth a bounty not indulged on high ; 
 And downward look for Heaven'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 envied here ; 
 And some did envy ; and the rest, though gods, 
 Yet still gods unredeem'd (there triumphs man, 
 Tempted to weigh the dust against the skies), 
 They less would feel, though more adorn, my theme. 
 They sung creation (for in that they shared) ; 
 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 ; 
 Though 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 heaven : 
 
 F.
 
 74 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 A truth so strange ! 'twere bold to think it true, 
 
 If not far bolder still, to disbelieve. [ven r 
 
 /Here pause, and ponder Was there death in hea- 
 VVhat then on earth? on earth, which struck the blow? 
 Who struck it? W r ho? Oh how is man enlarged, 
 Seen through this medium ! how the pigmy towers ! 
 How counterpoised his origin from dust ! 
 How counterpoised, 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, through the thickest cloud 
 Of guilt and clay condensed, the Son of Heaven ! 
 The double son ; the made, and the re-made ! 
 And shall Heaven's double property be lost? 
 Man's double madness only can destroy. 
 To man the bleeding cross has promised all ; 
 The bleeding cross has sworn eternal grace ; 
 Who gave his life, what grace shall He deny ? 
 O ye ! who, from this Rock of Ages, leap, 
 Disdainful, plunging headlong in the deep ! 
 What cordial joy, what consolation strong, 
 Whatever winds arise, or billows roll, 
 Our interest in the Master of the storm ? 
 Cling there, and in wreck 'd nature's 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, 
 Degenerate mortal ! and unread by thee ?
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TftlUMPH. 75 
 
 The beam dim reason sheds, shows wonders there ; 
 What high contents ! illustrious faculties ! 
 Hut the grand comment, which displays at full 
 Our human height, scarce sever'd from divine, 
 By Heaven composed, was publish'd on the cross. 
 
 Who looks on that, and sees not in himself 
 An awful stranger, a terrestrial god ? 
 A glorious partner with the Deity 
 In that high attribute, immortal life? 
 If a God bleeds, he bleeds not for a worm : 
 I gaze, and, as I gaze, my mounting soul 
 Catches strange fire, eternity ! at thee ; 
 And drops the world or rather, more enjoys. 
 How changed the face of nature ! how improved ! 
 What seem'd a chaos, shines a glorious world, 
 Or, what a world, an Eden ; heigh ten'd all ! 
 It is another scene ! another self! 
 And still another, as time rolls along; 
 And that a self far more illustrious still. 
 Beyond long ages, yet roll'd up in. shades 
 Unpierced by bold conjecture's keenest ray, 
 What evolutions of surprising fate ! 
 How nature opens, and receives my soul 
 In boundless walks of raptured 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 unconfined wants wings to reach him : 
 Beyond its reach, the Godhead only, more. 
 
 E2
 
 76 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 He, tbe great Father ! kindled at one flame 
 The world of rational* ; one spirit ponr'd 
 From spirit's awful fountain ; pour'd Himself 
 Through all their souls ; but not in equal stream, 
 Profuse, or frugal, of th' inspiring God, 
 As his wise plan demanded ; and, when past 
 Their various trials, in their various spheres, 
 If they continue rational, as made, 
 Resorbs them all into Himself again ; 
 His throne their centre, and his smile their crown. 
 Why doubt we, then, the glorious truth to sing ; 
 Though yet unsung, as deem'd, perhaps, too bold ! 
 Angels are men of a superior kind ; 
 Angels are men in lighter habit clad, 
 High o'er celestial mountains wingM in flight ; 
 And men are angels, loaded for an hour, 
 Who wade this miry vale, and climb with pain, 
 And slippery step, the bottom of the steep. 
 Angels their failings, mortals have their praise ; 
 While here, of corps ethereal, such enroll'd, 
 And summon'd to the glorious standard soon, 
 Which flames eternal crimson through the skies. 
 Nor are our brothers thoughtless of their kin, 
 Yet absent; but not absent from their love. 
 MICHAEL has fought our battles; RAPHAEL sung 
 Our triumphs ; GABRIEL on our errands flown, 
 Sent by the SOVEREIGN : 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:
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 77 
 
 Religion ! the sole voucher man is man ; 
 Supporter sole of man above himself; 
 Even 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 on the skies, 
 And bids earth roll, nor feels her idle whirl. 
 
 As when a wretch, from thick, polluted air, 
 Darkness, and stench, and suffocating damps, 
 And dungeon horrors, by kind fate discharged, 
 Climbs some fair eminence, where ether pure 
 
 Surrounde him, ami Elj siail prospects rise J 
 
 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, iu his love so terrible, what then 
 His wrath inflamed ? his tenderness on fire ;
 
 78 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 Like soft, smooth oil, outblazing other fires ? 
 
 Can prayer, can praise, avert it ? Thou, my all ! 
 
 My theme ! my inspiration ! and my crown ! 
 
 My strength in age ! my rise in low estate ! 
 
 My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth ! my world ! 
 
 My light in darkness ! and my life in death ! 
 
 My boast through time ! bliss through eternity ! 
 
 Eternity, too short to speak thy praise ! 
 
 Or fathom thy profound of love to man ! 
 
 To man of men the meanest, even to me ; 
 
 My sacrifice! my GodJ what things are these! 
 
 What then art THOU? by what name shall I call 
 Knew I the name devout archangels use, [Thee I 
 Devout archangels should the name enjoy, 
 By me unrival'd ; thousands more sublime, 
 None half so dear, as that, which, though 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! 
 ffOw art thou pleased, 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,. 
 
 '-
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 79 
 
 And future life symphonious to my strain, 
 
 (That noblest hymn to heaven !) for ever lie 
 
 Entomb'd my fear of death ! and every fear, 
 
 The dread of every 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 Heaven ! 
 
 Think you my song too turbulent? too warm ? 
 
 Are passions, then, the Pagans of the soul? 
 
 Reason alone baptized? alone ordain'd 
 
 To touch things sacred ? Oh for warmer still ! 
 
 Guilt chills iuy /.eal, ami age benumbs my powers ; 
 
 Oh for an humbler heart, and prouder song ! 
 
 THOU, my much-injured 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 Heaven, which gave us ardour, and has shown 
 
 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 uninflamed? 
 
 Devotion, when lukewarm, is undevout ; 
 
 But when it glows, its heat is struck to heaven :
 
 SO THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 To human hearts her golden harps are strung ; 
 High heaven's orchestra chaunts Amen to man. 
 
 Hear I, or dream I hear, their distant strain, 
 Sweet to the soul, and tasting strong of heaven, 
 Soft-wafted on celestial pity's plume, 
 Through the vast spaces of the universe, 
 To cheer me in this melancholy gloom ? 
 Oh when will death (now stingless), like a friend, 
 Admit me of their choir? Oh when will death, 
 This mouldering, old partition-wall throw down ? 
 Give beings, one in nature, one abode ? 
 Oh death divine ! that giv'st us to the skies ! 
 Great future ! glorious patron of the past, 
 And present ! when shall I thy shrine adore ? 
 From nature's continent, immensely wide, 
 Immensely bless'd, 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, through the guardian hand 
 Of elder brothers, to our Father's throne ; 
 Who hears our Advocate, and, through his wounds 
 Eeholding 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 !
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 81 
 
 Ineffably pre-eminent regard ! 
 
 Sacred to man, and sovereign through the whole 
 
 Long golden chain of miracles, which hangs 
 
 From heaven through 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 
 
 Diseased, drives pain from guilt, lights life in death ; 
 
 Turns earth to heaven; to heavenly thrones transforms 
 
 The ghastly ruins of the mouldering tomb. 
 
 Dost ask me when? When He who died returns; 
 Returns, how changed! Where then the man of woe? 
 In glory's terrors all the Godhead burns ; 
 And all his courts, exhausted by the tide 
 Of deities triumphant in his train, 
 Leave a stupendous solitude in heaven ; 
 Replenish'd soon, replenish'd with increase 
 Of pomp, and multitude ; a radiant band 
 Of angels new ; of angels from the tomb. 
 
 Is this by fancy thrown remote ? and rise 
 Dark doubts between the promise, and event ? 
 I send thee not to volumes for thy cure ; 
 Read nature ; nature is a friend to truth : 
 Nature is Christian ; preaches to mankind ; 
 And bids dead matter aid us in our creed. 
 Hast thou ne'er seen the comet's flaming flight? 
 Th' illustrious stranger passing, terror sheds 
 On gazing nations, from his fiery train 
 Of length enormous ; takes his ample round 
 Through depths of ether ; coasts unnumber'd worlds, 
 Of more than solar glory ; doubles wide 
 Heaven's mighty cape ; and then re-visits earth, 
 E3
 
 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IT. 
 
 From the long travel of a thousand years. 
 Thus, at the destined 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; even adders bear; 
 But turn, and dart into the dark again. 
 Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death, 
 To break the shock blind nature cannot shun, 
 And lands thought smoothly on the further shore. 
 Death's terror is the mountain faith removes ; 
 That mountain-barrier between man and peace. 
 'Tis faith disarms destruction ; and absolves, 
 From every clamorous charge, the guiltless tomb. 
 
 Why disbelieve ? LORENZO ! " Reason bide, 
 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 4 
 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 ! fired with local zeal ! 
 No ; reason re-baptized 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 pursued is faith : and, unpursued 
 Where proof invites, 'tis reason, then, no more:
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 83 
 
 And such our proof, that, or our faith is right, 
 Or reason lies, and Heaven 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 flower: 
 The fading flower shall die ; but reason lives 
 Immortal, as her Father in the skies. 
 When faith is virtue, reason makes it so. 
 Wrong not the Christian ; think not reason yours : 
 Tis reason our great Master holds so dear; 
 'Tis reason's injured rights his wrath resents; 
 'Tis reason's voice obey'd his glories crown ; 
 To give lost reason life, He pour'd his own. 
 Believe, and show the reason of a man ; 
 Belie * - e, and taste the pleasure of a God ; 
 Believe, and look with triumph on the tomb. 
 Through reason's wounds alone thy faith can die ; 
 Which dying, tenfold terror gives to death, 
 And dips in venom his twice-mortal sting. 
 
 Learn hence what honours, what loud paeans, due 
 To those who push our antidote aside ; 
 Those boasted friends to reason, and to man, 
 Whose fatal love stabs every joy, and leaves 
 Death's terror heighten'd, gnawing on his heart. 
 These pompous sons of reason, idolized 
 And vilified at once ; of reason dead, 
 Then deified, as monarchs were of old ; 
 What conduct plants proud laurels on their brow? 
 While love of truth through all their camp resounds,
 
 81 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 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 
 (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 wise 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;
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH. 85 
 
 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 gulf of time ; as far from thee, 
 
 As they had ne'er been thine : the day in hand, 
 
 Like a bird struggling to get loose, is going ; 
 
 Scarce now possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone; 
 
 And each swift moment fled, is death advanced 
 
 By strides as swift. Eternity is all ! 
 
 And whose eternity? Who triumphs there? 
 
 Bathing for ever in the font of bliss ! 
 
 For ever basking 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 ; 
 An honest hour, and faithful to her tnist. 
 Truth, eldest daughter of the Deity ; 
 Truth, of his council, when he made the worlds : 
 Nor less, when he shall judge the worlds he made ; 
 Though silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound, 
 Smother'd with errors, and oppress'd with toys, 
 That Heavcn-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 demons I discharge, and Hydra-stings ;
 
 86 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT IV. 
 
 The keen vibration of bright truth is hell : 
 Just definition ! though 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."
 
 Lorenzo! read with me Narcifsa's stone- 
 (Narcifsa was thy favourite) let us read 
 Her moral stone ; . 
 
 THE 
 
 NIGHT V. 
 
 JRAWN BY RICHARD \VESTALLR. A. EN GRAVED BY EDWARD FTNDEN; 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY: 
 MARCH 16.1817.
 
 NIGHT THE FIFTH. 
 
 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 &tg*)t ^onouraMe tlie 
 
 LORENZO ! to recriminate is just. 
 
 Fondness for fame is avarice of air. 
 
 I grant, the man is vain who writes for praise : 
 
 Praise no man e'er deserved, who sought no more. 
 
 As just thy second charge. I grant the muse 
 Has often blush'd at her degenerate sons, 
 Retain'd by sense to plead her filthy cause ; 
 To raise the low, to magnify the mean, 
 And subtilize the gross into refined: 
 As if to magic numbers' powerful 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 the swine-enjoyments from the miro, 
 
 The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause. 
 We wear the chains of pleasure, and of pride. 
 These share the man; and these distract him too; 
 Draw different ways, and clash in their commands, 
 Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars ; 
 But pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground.
 
 88 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 Joys shared by brute-creation, pride resents; 
 Pleasure embraces : man would both enjoy, 
 And both at once : a point so hard how gain ! 
 But, what can't wit, when stung by strong desire? 
 
 Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprize. 
 Since joys of sense can't rise to reason's taste,; 
 In subtle sophistry's laborious forge, 
 Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops 
 To sordid scenes, and greets 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 j udgment,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, cursed art ! wipes off the indebted blush 
 From nature's cheek, and bronzes every shame. 
 Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt; 
 And infamy stands candidate for praise. 
 
 All writ by man in favour of the soul, 
 These sensual ethics far, in bulk, transcend. 
 The flowers of eloquence, profusely pour'd 
 O'er spotted vice, fill half the letter'd world. 
 Can powers of genius exercise their page, 
 And consecrate enormities with song ?
 
 THE RELAPSE. 89 
 
 But let not these inexpiable strains 
 Condemn the muse that knows her dignity ; 
 Nor meanly stops at time, but holds the world 
 As 'tis, in nature's ample field, a point, 
 A point in her esteem ; from whence to start, 
 And run the round of universal space, 
 To visit being universal there, 
 And being's Source, that utmost flight of mind ! 
 Yet spite of this so vast circumference, 
 Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great. 
 Sing Syrens only ? Do not angels sing ? 
 There is in poesy a decent pride, 
 Which well becomes her when she speaks to prose, 
 Her younger sister ; haply, not more wise. 
 
 Think'st thou, LORENZO! to find pastimes here? 
 No guilty passion blown into a ilanic, 
 No foible flatter'd, dignity disgraced, 
 No fairy field of fiction all on flower, 
 No rainbow colours, here, or silken tale ; 
 But solemn counsels, images of awe, 
 Truths, which eternity lets fall on man 
 With double weight, through these revolving spheres, 
 This death-deep silence, and incumbent shade : 
 Thoughts such as shall re-visit your last hour ; 
 Visit uncall'd, and live when life expires: 
 And thy dark pencil, midnight ! darker still 
 In melancholy dipp'd, embrowns the whole. 
 
 Yet this, even this, my laughter-loving friends ! 
 LORENZO ! and thy brothers of the smile ! 
 If, what imports you most, can most engage, 
 Shall steal your ear, and chain you to my song. 
 Or if you fail me, know, the wise shall taste
 
 90 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 The truths I sing ; the truths I sing shall feel ; 
 And, feeling, give assent ; and their assent 
 Is ample recompense, is more than praise : 
 But chiefly thine, O LITCHFIELD ! nor mistake ; 
 Think not unintroduced I force my way; 
 NARCISSA, not unknown, not unallied, 
 By virtue or by blood, illustrious youth ! 
 To thee, from blooming amaranthine bowers, 
 Where all the language harmony, descends 
 Uncall'd, and asks admittance for the muse ; 
 A muse that will not pain thee with thy praise : 
 Thy praise she drops, by nobler still inspired. 
 
 O thou, bless'd Spirit : whether the supreme, 
 Great antemundane Father ; in whose breast 
 Embryo creation, unborn being, dwelt, 
 And all its various revolutions roll'd 
 Present, though future; prior to themselves j 
 Whose breath can blow it into nought again ; 
 Or, from his throne some delegated power, 
 Who, studious of our peace, dost turn the thought 
 From vain and vile, to solid and sublime ! 
 Unseen thou lead'st me to delicious draughts 
 Of inspiration, from a purer stream, 
 And fuller of the god, than that which burst 
 From famed Castalia : nor is yet allay'd 
 My sacred thirst ; though long my soul has ranged 
 Through pleasing paths of moral, and divine, 
 By Thee sustain'd, and lighted by the stars. 
 
 By them best lighted are the paths of thought ; 
 Nights are their days, their most illumined hours. 
 By day, the soul, o'erborne by life's career, 
 Stunn'd by the din, and giddy with the glare,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 Reels far from reason, jostled by the throng. 
 
 By day the soul is passive, all her thoughts 
 
 Imposed, precarious, broken ere mature. 
 
 By night, from objects free, from passion cool, 
 
 Thoughts uncontroll'd, and unimpress'd, the births 
 
 Of pure election, arbitrar}' range, 
 
 Not to the limits of one world confined j 
 
 But from ethereal travels light on earth, 
 
 As voyagers drop anchor, for repose. 
 
 Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians, fond 
 Of feather'd fopperies, the sun adore: 
 Darkness has more divinity for me ; 
 It strikes thought inward ; it drives back the soul 
 To settle on herself, our point supreme ! 
 There lies our theatre; there sits our judge. 
 Darkness the curtain drops o er life's dull scene : 
 'Tis the kind hand of Providence stretch'd out 
 Twist man and vanity ; 'tis reason's reign, 
 And virtue's too : these tutelary shades 
 Are man's asylum from the tainted throng. 
 Night is the good man's friend, and guardian tooj 
 It no less rescues virtue, than inspires. 
 
 Virtue, for ever frail, as fair, below, 
 Her tender nature suffers in the crowd, 
 Nor touches on the world, without a stain : 
 The world's infections ; few bring back at eve, 
 Immaculate, the manners of the morn. 
 Something we thought, is blotted ; we resolved, 
 Is shaken; we renounced, returns again. 
 Each salutation may slide in a sin 
 Unthought before, or fix a former flaw. 
 Nor is it strange : light, motion, concourse, noise t
 
 92 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 All, scatter us abroad ; thought, outward-bound, 
 Neglectful of her home affairs, flies off 
 In fume and dissipation, quits her charge, 
 And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe. 
 
 Present example gets within our guard, 
 And acts with double force, by few repell'd. 
 Ambition fires ambition ; love of gain 
 Strikes, like a pestilence, from breast to breast: 
 Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapours breathe ; 
 And inhumanity is caught from man, 
 From smiling man. A slight, a single glance, 
 And shot at random, often has brought home 
 A sudden fever, to the throbbing heart, 
 Of envy, rancour, or impure desire. 
 We see, we hear, with peril ; safety dwells 
 Remote from multitude ; the world's a school 
 Of wrong, and what proficients swarm around 
 We must, or imitate, or disapprove ; 
 Must list as their accomplices, or foes : 
 That stains our innocence ; this wounds our peace. 
 From nature's birth, hence, wisdom has been smit 
 With sweet recess, and languish'd for the shade. 
 
 This sacred shade, and solitude, what is it? 
 Tis the felt presence of the Deity. 
 Few are the faults we flatter when alone. 
 Vice sinks in her allurements, is ungilt, 
 And looks, like other objects, black by night. 
 By night, an atheist half-believes a God. 
 
 Night is fair virtue's immemorial friend : 
 The conscious moon, through every distant age, 
 Has held a lamp to wisdom, and let fall 
 On contemplation's eye, her purging ray.
 
 THE RELAPSE. 93 
 
 The famed Athenian, he who woo'd from heaven 
 
 Philosophy the fair, to dwell with men, 
 
 And form their manners, not inflame their pride; 
 
 While o'er his head, as fearful to molest 
 
 His labouring mind, the stars in silence slide, 
 
 And seem all gazing on their future guest, 
 
 See him soliciting his ardent suit 
 
 In private audience : all the livelong night, 
 
 Rigid in thought, and motionless, he stands ; 
 
 Nor quits his theme, or posture, till the sun 
 
 (Rude drunkard, rising rosy from the main !) 
 
 Disturbs his nobler intellectual beam, 
 
 And gives him to the tumult of the world. 
 
 Hail, precious moments ! stolen from the black waste 
 Of murdcr'd time ! auspicious midnight ! hail ! 
 The world excluded, every passion hush'd, 
 And open'd a calm intercourse with heaven, 
 Here the soul sits in council ; ponders past, 
 Predestines future action; sees; not feels, 
 Tumultuous life, and reasons with the storm ; 
 All her lies answers, and thinks down her charms. 
 
 What awful joy ! what mental liberty ! 
 I am not pent in darkness ; rather say 
 (If not too bold), in darkness I'm embower'd. 
 Delightful gloom ! the clustering 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,
 
 94 THE COMPLAINT. KlGHT V. 
 
 From pleasing dalliance with the charms of night 
 My wandering 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 through 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, charged 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, though beaten, all our praise. 
 Tis vain to seek in men for more than man. 
 Though proud in promise, big in previous thought, 
 Experience damps our triumph. I, who late, 
 Emerging from the shadows of the grave, 
 Where grief detain'd me prisoner, 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 fledged with waxen wings, 
 In sorrow drown'd but not in sorrow lost.
 
 THE RELAPSE. 95 
 
 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 Heaven 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 overfed, 
 Digests not into sense her motley meal. 
 This book-case, with dark booty almost burst, 
 This forager on others' wisdom, leaves 
 Her native farm, her reason, quite untill'd. 
 With raix'd manure she surfeits the rank soil, 
 Dnng'd, but not dress'd ; and, rich to beggary, 
 A pomp untamcable of weeds prevails. 
 Her servant's wealth, encumber'd wisdom mourns. 
 
 And what says genius? " Let the dull be wise." 
 Genius, too hard for right, can prove it wrong ; 
 And loves to boast, where blush men less inspired. 
 It pleads exemption from the laws of sense ; 
 Considers reason as a leveller ; 
 And scorns to share a blessing with the crowd. 
 That wise it could be, thinks an ample claim 
 To glory, and to pleasure gives the rest. 
 CRASSUS but sleeps, ARDELIO is undone. 
 Wisdom less shudders at a fool, than wit. 
 
 But wisdom smiles, when humbled mortals weep. 
 When sorrow wounds the breast, as ploughs the glebe,
 
 96 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 And hearts obdurate feel her softening shower; 
 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'il range the plenteous intellectual field; 
 And gather every thought of sovereign power 
 To chase the moral maladies of man ; 
 Thoughts which may bear transplanting to the skies, 
 Though natives of this coarse penurious soil ; 
 Nor wholly wither there, where seraphs sing, 
 Refined, exalted, not annull'd, in heaven. 
 Reason, the sun that gives them birth, the same 
 In either clime, though more illustrious there. 
 These choicely cull'd, and elegantly ranged, 
 Shall form a garland for NARCISSA'S tomb ; 
 And, peradventure, of no fading flowers. 
 Say, on what themes shall puzzled choice descend ? 
 
 "Th' importance of contemplating the tomb ; 
 
 Why men decline it ; suicide's foul birth ; 
 
 The various kind 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 his errand in our hearts, 
 
 And banish peace, till nobler guests arrive, 
 
 And bring it back, a true, and endless peace ? 
 
 Calamities are friends : as glaring day
 
 THE RELAPSK. 07 
 
 Of these unnumber'd lustres robs our sight ; 
 Prosperity puts out unuumber'd thoughts 
 Of import high, and light divine, to man. 
 
 The man how blest, who, sick of gaudy scenes, 
 (Scenes apt to thnist between us and ourselves !) 
 Is led by choice to take his favourite walk, 
 Beneath death's gloomy, silent, cypress shades, 
 Unpierced by vanity's fantastic ray; 
 To read his monuments, to weigh his dust, 
 Visit his vaults, and dwell among the tombs ! 
 LORENZO! read with me NARCISSA'S stone; 
 (NARCISSA was thy favourite ;) 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 : and yet in them we see 
 Faint images of what we, here, enjoy. 
 What cause have we to build on length of life? 
 Temptations seize, when fear is laid asleep ; 
 And ill foreboded is our strongest guard. 
 
 See, from her tomb, as from an humble shrine, 
 Truth, radiant goddess! sallies on my soul, 
 And puts delusion's dusky train to flight ; 
 Dispels the mists our sultry passions raise, 
 From objects low, terrestrial, and obscene; 
 And shows the real estimate of things ; 
 Which no man, unafflicted, ever saw ; 
 Pulls off the veil from virtue's rising charms ; 
 Detects temptation in a thousand lies. 
 Truth bids me look on men, as autumn leaves ; 
 And all they bleed for, as the summer's dust, 
 Driven by the whirlwind: lighted by her b^ ns, 
 t
 
 98 THE COMPLA1ST. MGHT V. 
 
 I widen my horizon, gain new powers, 
 See things invisible, feel things remote, 
 Am present with futurities; think nought 
 To man so foreign, as the joys possess'd ; 
 Nought so much his, as those beyond the grave. 
 
 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, 
 Lake Sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss ! 
 At the first blast it vanishes in air. 
 Not so, celestial. Wouldst thou know, LORENZO ! 
 How differ worldly wisdom, and divine ? 
 Just as the waning, and the waxing, moon. 
 More empty worldly wisdom every day ; 
 And every day more fair her rival shines. 
 When later, there's less time to play the fool. 
 Soon our whole term for wisdom is expired 
 (Thou know'st she calls no council in the grave) ; 
 And everlasting fool is writ in fire, 
 Or real wisdom wafts us to the skies. 
 
 As worldly schemes resemble Sibyl's leaves, 
 The good man's days to Sibyl's books compare 
 (In ancient story read, thou know'st the tale), 
 In price still rising, as in number less, 
 Inestimable quite his final hour. 
 For that who thrones can offer, offer thrones ; 
 Insolvent worlds the purchase cannot pay. 
 " Oh let me die his death !" all nature cries. 
 " Then live his life." All nature faulters there. 
 Our great physician daily to consult, 
 To commune with the grave our only cure.
 
 THE RELAPSE. 99 
 
 What grave prescribes the best? A friend's: and 
 From a friend's grave, how soon we disengage ! [yet, 
 Even 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 misemploy 'd, so rarely fastens there. 
 Nor reason, nor affection, no, nor both 
 Combined, 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 ; 
 Though well to ponder it, is life's chief end. 
 
 Is death, that ever threatening, ne'er remote, 
 That all-important, and that only sure 
 (Come when he will), an unexpected guest ? 
 Nay, though invited by the loudest calls 
 Of blind imprudence, unexpected still; 
 Though numerous messengers are sent before, 
 To warn bis great arrival. What the cause, 
 The wondrous cause, of this mysterious ill ? 
 All heaven 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, unperceived the change. 
 F2
 
 100 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 In the same brook none ever bathed him twice : 
 
 To the same life none ever twice awoke. 
 
 We call the brook the same ; the same we think 
 
 Oar life, though still more rapid in its flow ; 
 
 Nor mark the much, irrevocably lapsed, 
 
 And mingled 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 ; 
 
 Amused, unconscious of the gliding wave ; 
 
 Till on a sudden we perceive a shock: 
 
 We start, awake, look out; what see we there f 
 
 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? 
 Or is it fear turns startled reason back, 
 From looking down a precipice so steep ? 
 'Tis dreadful; and the dread is wisely placed, 
 By nature, conscious of the make of man. 
 A dreadful friend it is, a terror kind, 
 A flaming sword, to guard the tree of life. 
 By that unawed, in life's most smiling hour, 
 The good man would repine; would suffer joys, 
 And burn impatient for his promised skies. 
 The bad, on each punctilious pique of pride, 
 Or gloom of humour, would give rage the rein ; 
 Bound o'er the barrier, rush into the dark, 
 And mar the schemes of Providence below. 
 
 What groan was that, LORENZO ? Furies ! rise ;
 
 THE RELAPSE. 101 
 
 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 calPd, 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 : 
 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, unmortgaged 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 
 
 But some reject this sustenance divine; [there.
 
 102 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 To beggarly vile appetites descend ; 
 Ask alms of earth, fur gnests that came from heaven ! 
 Sink into staves ; 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 ; though fast barr'd 
 By laws divine and human; guarded strong 
 With horrors doubled to defend the pass, 
 The blackest, nature, or dire guilt, can raise ; 
 And moated round with fathomless destruction, 
 Sure to receive, and whelm them in their fall. 
 
 Such, Britons! is the cause, to you unknown, 
 Or worse, o'erlook'd ; o'erlook'd by magistrates, 
 Thus criminals themselves. I grant the deed 
 Is madness ; but the madness of the heart. 
 And what is that? Our utmost bound of guilt. 
 A sensual, unreflecting life, is big 
 With monstrous births ; and suicide, to crown 
 The black infernal brood. The bold to break 
 Heaven's law supreme, and desperately rush, 
 Through sacred nature's murder, on their own, 
 Because they never think of death, they die. 
 Tis equally man's duty, glory, gain, 
 At once to shun, and meditate his end. 
 
 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 v
 
 THE RELAPSE. 103 
 
 Wipe the cold dew, or stay the sinking head, 
 
 Number their moments, and, in every clock, 
 
 Start at the voice of an eternity ; 
 
 See the dim lamp of life just feebly lift 
 
 An agonizing beam, at us to gaze, 
 
 Then sink again, and quiver into death, 
 
 That most pathetic herald of our own ; 
 
 How read we such sad scenes ? As sent to man 
 
 In perfect vengeance? No; in pity sent, 
 
 To melt him down, like wax, and then impress, 
 
 Indelible, death's image on his heart; 
 
 Bleeding for others, trembling for himself. 
 
 We bleed, we tremble, we forget, we smile. 
 
 The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry. 
 
 Our quick-returning folly cancels all ; 
 
 As the tide rushing rases what is writ 
 
 In yielding sands, and smooths the letter'd shore. 
 
 LORENZO ! hast thou ever weigh'd a sigh? 
 Or studied the philosophy of tears? 
 (A science, yet uulectured in our schools !) 
 Hast thou descended deep into the breast, 
 And seen their source? If not, descend with me, 
 And trace these briny rivulets to their springs. 
 
 Our funeral tears from different 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 dislill'd. 
 Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to melt, 
 Struck by the magic of the public eye, 
 Like MOSES' smitten rock, gush out amain.
 
 104 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 Some weep to share the fame of the deceased, 
 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 sometiu'ug they could love : 
 They weep not to relieve their grief, but show. 
 Some weep in perfect justice to the dead, 
 As conscious all their love is in arrcar. 
 Some mischievously weep, not unapprised, 
 Tears, sometimes, aid the conquest of an eye. 
 With what address the soft Epbesiaiis draw 
 Their sable net-work o'er entangled hearts ! 
 As seen through crystal, how their roses glow, 
 While liquid pearl runs trickling down their check ! 
 Of hers not prouder Egypt's wanton queen, 
 Carousing gems, herself dissolved in love. 
 Some weep at death, abstracted from the dead, 
 And celebrate, like CHARLES, their own decease. 
 By kind construction some are decm'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, uuconcern'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,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 105 
 
 And fa\l as short ! The cruel grief soon tamed, 
 They make a pastime of the stingless tale ; 
 Far as the deep-resounding knell, they spread 
 The dreadful news, and hardly feel it more. 
 No grain of wisdom pays them for their woe. 
 
 Half-round the globe, the tears pump'd up by death 
 Are spent in watering 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, 
 Though there thrown down her true support to learn, 
 Without Heaven's aid, impatient to be blest, 
 She crawls to the next shrub, or bramble vile, 
 Though from the stately cedar's arms she fell ; 
 With stale, forsworn embraces, clings anew, 
 The stranger weds, and blossoms, as before, 
 In all the fruitless fopperies of life : 
 Presents her weed, well-fancied, at the ball, 
 And raffles for the death's-head on the ring. 
 
 So wept AURELIA, till the destined 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 dotes ; 
 And died 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 ? 
 " Young, gay, and fortunate !" Each yields a theme. 
 I'll dwell on each, to shun thought more severe; 
 (Heaven knows I labour with severer still !) 
 F 3
 
 106 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy death. 
 
 A soul without reflection, like a pile 
 
 Without inhabitant, to min 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 exhaled, and went to heaven. 
 Time on this head has snow'd ; yet still 'tis borne 
 Aloft; nor thinks but on another's grave. 
 Cover'd with shame I speak it, age severe 
 Old worn-out vice sets down for virtue fair; 
 With graceless gravity, chastising youth, 
 That youth chastised surpassing in a fault, 
 Father of all, forgetfulness of deatli : 
 As if, like objects pressing on the sight, 
 Death bad advanced 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 buried, 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, 
 And yet we will not hear. What mail defends 
 Our untouch'd hearts ? What miracle turns off 
 The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers 
 Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd? 
 We stand, as in a battle, throngs on throngs 
 Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves; 
 Though bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!
 
 THE RELAPSE. 107 
 
 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, [green ; 
 Though grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are 
 Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent; 
 Folly sings six, while nature points at twelve. 
 
 Absurd longevity ! More, more, it cries ; 
 More life, more w r ealth, more trash of every kind. 
 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 every 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, even 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,
 
 108 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 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 snn declines. 
 No wish should loiter, then, this side the grave. 
 Our hearts should leave the world, before the knell 
 Calls for our carcasses 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 ; 
 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 press'd, 
 By repetition hammer'd on thine ear, 
 The thought of death ? That thought is the machine, 
 The grand machine ! that heaves us from the dust, 
 And rears us into men. That thought plied home, 
 Will soon reduce the ghastly precipice 
 O'er-hanging hell, will soften the descent, 
 And gently slope our passage to the grave ; 
 How warmly to be wish'd ! What heart of flesh
 
 THE RELAPSE. 100 
 
 Would trifle with tremendous? dare extremes? 
 Yawn o'er the fate of infinite ? What band, 
 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 
 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, though 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-stirvivor every 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 ?
 
 110 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 If fear we must, let that death turn us pale, 
 Which murders strength and ardour; what remains 
 Should rather call on death, than dfead 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 every place and hour; 
 Nor longer want, ye monumental sires ! 
 A brother-tomb to tell you you shall die. 
 That death you dread (so great is nature's skill !) 
 Know, you shall court before you shall enjoy. 
 
 But you are learn'd ; in volumes deep you sit ; 
 In wisdom shallow. Pompous ignorance ! 
 Would you be still more learned than the learn'd ? 
 Learn well to know how much need not be known, 
 And what that knowledge, which impairs your sense* 
 Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, 
 Unhedged, lies open in 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 : 
 And dive in science for distinguish'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*
 
 THE RELAPSE. Ill 
 
 If you would learn death's character, attend : 
 All casts of conduct, all degrees of health, 
 All dies 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. 
 What countless multitudes not only leave, 
 But deeply disappoint us, by their deaths ! 
 Though great our sorrow, greater our surprise. 
 Like other tyrants, death delights to smite, 
 What, smitten, most proclaims the pride of power, 
 And arbitrary nod. His joy supreme, 
 
 To bid the wretch survive the fortunate; 
 
 The feeble wrap th' athletic in his shroud ; 
 
 And weeping fathers build their children's tomb: 
 
 Me thine, NARCISSA ! What though short thy date? 
 
 Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures. 
 
 That life is long, which answers life's great end. 
 
 The time that bears no fruit, deserves no name ; 
 
 The man of wisdom is the man of years. 
 
 In hoary youth METHUSALEMS may die; 
 
 Oh how misdated on their flattering tombs ! 
 NARCISSA'S youth has lectured me thus far. 
 
 And can her gaiety give counsel too ? 
 
 That, like the Jews' famed oracle of gems, 
 
 Sparkles instruction ; such as throws new light, 
 
 And opens more the character of dealh; 
 
 111 known to thee, LORENZO ! This thy vaunt: 
 
 " Give death his due, the wretched, and the old; 
 
 Even let him sweep his rubbish to the grave: 
 
 Let him not violate kind nature's laws,
 
 112 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 But own man born to live, as well as die." 
 Wretched and old thou givest him ; young and gay 
 He takes; and plunder is a tyrant's joy. 
 What if I prove, " The furthest from the fear, 
 Are often nearest to the stroke of fate?" 
 
 All, more than common, menaces an end. 
 A blaze betokens brevity of life: 
 As if bright embers should emit a flame, 
 Glad spirits sparkled from NARCISSA'S eye, 
 And made youth younger, and taught life to live. 
 As nature's opposites wage endless war, 
 For this 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, reduced 
 By conquest, aggrandizes more his power. 
 But wherefore aggrandized ? By Heaven'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 RELAPSE. 113 
 
 The name and look of life, and dwells among us. 
 He takes all shapes that serve his black designs : 
 Though master of a wider empire far 
 Than that o'er which the Roman eagle flew ; 
 Like Nero, he's a fiddler, charioteer, 
 Or drives his phaeton, in female guise ; 
 Quite unsuspected, till, the wheel beneath, 
 His disarray'd oblation he devours. 
 
 He most aflects 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 heaven, 
 Becomes a mortal, and immortal man. 
 Long on his wiles a piqued and jealous spy, 
 I've seen, or dreamt I saw, the tyrant dress; 
 Lay by his horrors, and put on his smiles. 
 Say, muse, for thou remember'st, call it back, 
 And show LORENZO the surprising scene; 
 If 'twas a dream, his genius can explain. 
 
 'Twas in a circle of the gay I stood. 
 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
 
 114 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V. 
 
 His meagre aspect, and his naked bones ; 
 In gratitude for plumping up his prey, 
 A pamper'd spendthrift ; whose fantastic air, 
 Well-fashion'd figure, and cockaded brow, 
 He took in change, and underneath the pride 
 Of costly linen, tuck'd his filthy shroud. 
 His crooked bow he straighten'd to a cane ; 
 And hid his deadly shafts in MYRA'S eye. 
 
 The dreadful masquerader, thus equipp'd, 
 Out sallies 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 die ; 
 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, aud 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 lire, 
 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
 
 THE RELAPSE. 115 
 
 In soft security, because unknown 
 
 Which moment is cbmmissioii'tl to destroy ? 
 
 In death's uncertainty thy danger lies. 
 
 Is death uncertain ? Therefore thou be fix'd ; 
 
 Fix'd as a sentinel, all eye, all ear, 
 
 All expectation of the coming foe. 
 
 Rouse, stand in arms, nor lean against thy spear; 
 
 Lest slumber steal one moment o'er thy soul, 
 
 And fate surprise thee nodding. Watch, be strong; 
 
 Thus give each day the merit, and renown, 
 
 Of dying well; though 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 : 
 Though fortune too (our third and final theme), 
 As an accomplice, play'd her gaudy plumes, 
 And every glittering 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, conspired 
 To weave a triple wreath of happiness 
 (If happiness on earth) to crown her brow. 
 And could death charge through 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. 
 O how portentous is prosperity ! 
 How, comet-like, it threatens, while it shines !
 
 116 THE COMPLAINT. MfiHT V. 
 
 Few years but yield us proofs 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 every bliss, 
 Set up in ostentation, made the gaze, 
 The gaudy centre of tho.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 dropp'd at once, 
 Our morning's envy ! and our evening's sigh ! 
 As if her bounties were the signal given, 
 The flowery wreath to mark the sacrifice, 
 And call death's arrows on the destined 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 ? 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 denied ? 
 LORENZO ! no : 'tis happiness disdain'd. 
 She comes too meanly dress'd to win our smile : 
 And calls herself Content, a homely name ! 
 Our flame is transport, and content our scorn. 
 Ambition turns, and shuts the door against her, 
 And weds a toil, a tempest, in her stead; 
 A tempest to warm transport near of kin.
 
 THE RELAPSE. 117 
 
 Unknowing what our mortal state admits, 
 Life's modest joys we ruin, while we raise ; 
 And ail 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, sec 
 Gay fortune's, thy vain hopes to reprimand. 
 See, high in air, the sportive goddess hangs, 
 Unlocks her casket, spreads her glittering ware, 
 And calls the giddy winds to puff abroad 
 Her random bounties e'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 adored) to snatch the golden shower. 
 
 Gold glitters most, where virtue shines no more ; 
 As stars from absent suns have leave to shine. 
 O what a precious pack of votaries 
 Unkennel'd from the prisons, and the stews, 
 Pour in, all opening in their idol's praise ; 
 All, ardent, eye each wafture of her hand, 
 And, wide-expanding their voracious jaws, 
 Morsel on morsel swallow down unchew'd, 
 Untasted, through mad appetite for more ; 
 Gorged to the throat, yet lean and ravenous still : 
 Sagacious all, to trace the smallest game, 
 And bold to seize the greatest. If (bless'd chance !) 
 Court-zephyrs sweetly breathe, they launch, they fly, 
 O'er just, o'er sacred, all-forbidden ground, 
 Drunk with the burning scent of place or power, 
 Staunch to the foot of lucre, till they die.
 
 118 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT V, 
 
 Or, if for men you take them, as I mark 
 Their manners, thou their yarious fates survey. 
 With aim mismeasured, and impetuous speed, 
 Some darting, strike their ardent wish far off, 
 Through fury to possess it : some succeed, 
 But stumble, and let fall the taken prize. 
 From some, by sudden blasts, 'tis whirl'd away, 
 And lodged 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, and smiles : 
 Smiles too the goddess ; but smiles most at those, 
 (Just victims of exorbitant desire !) 
 Who perish at their own request, and, whelm'd 
 Beneath her load of lavish grants, expire. 
 Fortune is famous for her number slain: 
 The number small, which happiness can bear. 
 Though various for awhile their fates ; at last 
 One curse involves them all : at death's approach. 
 
 All read their riches backward into loss, 
 
 And mourn, in just proportion to their store. 
 And death's approach (if orthodox my song) 
 
 Is hasten'd by the lure of fortune's smiles. 
 
 And art thou still a glutton of bright gold? 
 
 And art thou still rapacious of thy ruin ? 
 
 Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow ; 
 
 A blow, which, while it executes, alarms ; 
 
 And startles thousands with a single fall. 
 
 As when some stately grow th of oak, or pine,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 119 
 
 Which nods aloft, and proudly spreads her shade, 
 
 The sun's defiance, and the flock's defence; 
 
 By the strong strokes of labouring hinds subdued, 
 
 Loud groans her last, and, rushing from her height, 
 
 In cumbrous 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 heaven'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 through life's tempestuous \vave ; 
 Nor suffer them to strike the common rock, 
 " From greater danger to grow more secure, 
 And, wrapt in happiness, forget their fate." 
 
 LYSANDER, happy past tup common lot, 
 Was warn'd of danger, but too gay to fear. 
 He woo'd the fair ASPASIA: she was kind: 
 In youth, form, fortune, fame, they both were bless'd : 
 All who knew, envied; yet in envy loved. 
 Can fancy form more finish'd happiness ? 
 Fix'd was the nuptial hour. Her stately dome 
 Rose on the sounding beach. The glittering spires 
 Float iu the wave, and break against the shore : 
 So break those glittering shadows, human joys. 
 The faithless morning smiled : 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.
 
 120 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT \ . 
 
 She felt it seen (her heart was apt to feel); 
 And, drown'd, without the 1m ions 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 1 took, to shun, 
 Has thrown me on my fate these died together; 
 Happy in ruin ! undivorced 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 soul 
 Of human joy ; and make it pain to live 
 And is it then to live ? \V hen such friends part, 
 Tis the survivor dies My heart ! no more.
 
 By slow and silent.but resistlefs, sap, 
 In his pale progrefs g-ently g-aininp ground, 
 Death urg-'d IBS deadly sieg-e; 
 
 THE 
 
 NIGHT VI. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHAED WESTALLR-A. ENGRAVED BY J.H.ROB IN SON -. 
 PUBLISHED BV JOHN SttARFE. PICCADIIXY. 
 MARCH 16,1817.
 
 NIGHT THE SIXTH. 
 
 THE 
 
 INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 
 
 3Jn 
 
 CONTAINING THE NATl'RK, PROOF, AND IMPORTANCE 
 OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 WHERE, AMONG OTHER THINGS, 
 
 GLORY AND RICHES ARE PARTICULARLY CONSIDERED. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 FEW ages have been deeper in dispute about religion than this. 
 The dispute about religion, and the practice of it, seldom go 
 together. The shorter, therefore, the dispute, the better. I 
 think it may be reduced to this single question. Is man im- 
 mortal, or is he not? If he is not, all our disputes are mere 
 amusements, or trials of skill. In this case, truth, reason, reli- 
 gion, which give our discourses such pomp and solemnitv, are 
 (as will be shown) mere empty sounds, without anv meaning in 
 them. But if man is immortal, it will behove him to be very 
 serious about eternal consequences ; or, in other words, to lie 
 truly religious. And this great fundamental truth, unesfa- 
 blished or unawakened in the minds of men, is, I conceive, the 
 real source and support of all our infidelity ; how remote 
 soever the particular objections advanced may seem to be from 
 it. 
 
 G
 
 122 PREFACE. 
 
 Sensible appearances affect most men much more than ab- 
 stract reasonings ; and we daily see bodies drop aronnd as, but 
 the soul is invisible. The power which inclination has over 
 the judgment, is greater than can be well conceived bv those 
 that have not had an experience of it ; and of what numbers 
 is it the sad interest that sonls should not survive ! The hea- 
 then world confessed, that they rather hoped than firmly be- 
 lieved immortality ; and how many heathens have we still 
 amongst us ! The sacred page assures us, that life and immor- 
 tality are brought to light by the Gospel : but by bow many is 
 the Gospel rejected or overlooked ! From these considerations, 
 and from my being, accidentally, privy to the sentiments of 
 some particular persons, I have been long persuaded that most, 
 if not all, oar infidels (whatever name they take, and whatever 
 scheme, for argument's sake, and to keep themselves in counte- 
 nance, they patronize) are supported in their deplorable error, 
 by some doubt of their immortality, at the bottom. And I am 
 satisfied, that men once thoroughly convinced of their immor- 
 tality, are not far from being Christians. For it is hard to 
 conceive, that a man fully conscious eternal pain or happiness 
 will certainly be bis lot, should not earnestly and impartially 
 inquire after the surest means of escaping the one, and securing 
 the other. And of s ich an earnest and impartial inquiry, I 
 well know the consequence. 
 
 Here, therefore, in proof of this most fundamental truth, 
 some plain arguments are offered : arguments derived from 
 principles which infidels admit in common with believers : 
 arguments, which appear to me altogether irresistible ; and 
 such as, I am satisfied, will have great weight with all who 
 give themselves the small trouble of looking serious!} 1 into 
 their own bosoms, and of observing, with any tolerable degree 
 of attention, what daily passes round about {hem in the world. 
 If some arguments shall here occur which others have declined, 
 they are submitted, with all deference, to better judgments in 
 this, of all points the most important. For, as to the being of 
 a God, that is no longer disputed ; but it is undisputed for this 
 reason only ; viz. because, where the least pretence to reason 
 is admitted, it must for ever be indisputable. And, of conse- 
 quence, no man can be betrayed into a dispute of that nature 
 by vanity ; which has a principal share in animating oar modern 
 combatants against other articles of our belief.
 
 THE 
 INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 Eigtjt K^onouraMe Jt)enrp 
 
 VIRST LORD COMMISSIONER OF THE TREASURY, ANI 
 CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER. 
 
 SHE * (for I know not yet her name in heaven) 
 Not early, like NARCISSA, left the scene; 
 Nor sudden, like PHILANDER. What avail? 
 This seeming mitigation but inflames ; 
 This fancied med'cine heightens the disease. 
 The longer known, the closer still she grew ; 
 And gradual parting is a gradual death. 
 'Tis the grim tyrant's engine, which extorts, 
 By tardy pressure's still-increasing weight, 
 From hardest hearts, confession of distress. 
 
 O the long, dark approach through years of pain, 
 Death's gallery ! (might I dare to call it so) 
 With dismal doubt, and sable terror, hung ; 
 Sick hope's pale lamp its only glimmering ray : 
 
 * Referring to Night the Fifth. 
 G 2
 
 124 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 There, fate my melancholy walk ordain'd, 
 
 Forbid self-love itself to flatter, there. 
 
 How oft I gazed, prophetically sad ! 
 
 How oft I saw her dead, while yet in smiles ! 
 
 In smiles she sunk her grief, to lessen mine. 
 
 She spoke me comfort, and increased my pain. 
 
 Lake powerful armies trenching at a town, 
 
 By slow, and silent, but resistless sap, 
 
 In his pale progress gently gaining ground, 
 
 Death urged his deadly siege ; in spite of art, 
 
 Of all the balmy blessings nature lends 
 
 To succour frail humanity. Ye stars ! 
 
 (Not now first made familiar to my sight) 
 
 And thou, O moon! bear witness; many a night 
 
 He tore the pillow from beneath my head, 
 
 Tied down my sore attention to the shock, 
 
 By ceaseless depredations on a life 
 
 Dearer than that he left me. Dreadful post 
 
 Of observation ! darker every hour ! 
 
 Less dread the day that drove me to the brink, 
 
 And pointed at eternity below; 
 
 When my soul shudder'd at futurity ; 
 
 When, on a moment's point, th' important die 
 
 Of life and death spun doubtful, ere it fell, 
 
 And turn'd up life ; my title to more woe. 
 
 But why more woe? More comfort let it be. 
 Nothing is dead, but that which wish'd to die ; 
 Nothing is dead, but wretchedness and pain; 
 Nothing is dead, but what encumber'd, gall'd, 
 Block'd up the pass, and barr'd from real life. 
 Where dwells that wish most ardent of the wise? 
 Too dark the sun to see it ; highest stars
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 12o 
 
 Too low to reach it ; death, great death alone, 
 O'er stars and sun, triumphant, lands us there. 
 
 Nor dreadful our transition ; though the mind, 
 An artist at creating self-alarms, 
 Rich in expedients for inquietude, 
 Is prone to paint it dreadful. Who can take 
 Death's portrait true ? The tyrant never sat. 
 Our sketch all random strokes, conjecture all; 
 Close shuts the grave, nor tells one single tale. 
 Death, and his image rising in the brain, 
 Bear faint resemblance ; never are alike ; 
 Fear shakes the pencil ; fancy loves excess ; 
 Dark ignorance is lavish of her shades : 
 And these the formidable picture draw. 
 
 But grant the worst; 'tis past; new prospects rise; 
 And drop a veil eternal o'er her tomb. 
 Far other views our contemplation claim ; 
 Views that o'erpay the rigours of our life ; 
 Views that suspend our agonies in death. 
 Wrapt in the thought of immortality, 
 Wrapt in the single, the triumphant thought ! 
 Long life might lapse, age unperceived come on; 
 And find the soul unsated with her theme. 
 Its nature, proof, importance, fire my song. 
 O that my song could emulate my soul ! 
 Like her immortal. No ! the soul disdains 
 A mark so mean ; far nobler hope inflames ; 
 If endless ages can outweigh an hour, 
 Let not the laurel, but the palm, inspire. 
 Thy nature, immortality ! who knows ? 
 And yet who knows it not? It is but life 
 In stronger thread of brighter colour spun,
 
 126 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 And spun for ever. Dipp'd by cruel fate 
 
 In Stygian dye, how black, bow brittle here ! 
 
 How short our correspondence with the sun ! 
 
 And, while it lasts, inglorious ! Our best deeds, 
 
 How wanting in their weight ! Our highest joys 
 
 Small cordials to support us in our pain, 
 
 And give us strength to suffer. But how great 
 
 To mingle interests, converse, amities, 
 
 With all the sons of reason, scatter'd wide 
 
 Through habitable space, wherever born, 
 
 Howe'er endow'd ! to live free citizens 
 
 Of universal nature ! to lay hold, 
 
 By more than feeble faith, on the Supreme ! 
 
 To call heaven's rich unfathomable mines 
 
 (Mines, which support archangels in their state) 
 
 Our own ! to rise in science, as in bliss, 
 
 Initiate in the secrets of the skies ! 
 
 To read creation ; read its mighty plan 
 
 In the bare bosom of the Deity ! 
 
 The plan, and execution, to collate ! 
 
 To see, before each glance of piercing thought, 
 
 All cloud, all shadow, blown remote ; and leave 
 
 No mystery but that of love divine, 
 
 Which lifts us on the seraph's flaming wing, 
 
 From earth's aceldama, this field of blood, 
 
 Of inward anguish, and of outward ill, 
 
 From darkness, and from dust, to such a scene ! 
 
 Love's element ! true joy's illustrious home ! 
 
 From earth's sad contrast (now deplored) more fair ! 
 
 What exquisite vicissitude of fate ! 
 
 Bless'd absolution of onr blackest hour ! 
 
 LORENZO, these are thoughts that make man man.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 127 
 
 The wise illumine, aggrandize the great. 
 How great (while yet we tread the kindred clod, 
 And every moment fear to sink beneath 
 The clod we tread ; soon trodden by our sons) ; 
 How great, in the wild whirl of time's pursuits, 
 To stop, and pause, involved in high presage, 
 Through the long vista of a thousand years, 
 To stand contemplating our distant selves, 
 As in a magnifying mirror seen, 
 Enlarged, ennobled, elevate, divine ! 
 To prophesy our own futurities ; 
 To gaze in thought on what all thought transcends ! 
 To talk, with fellow candidates, of joys 
 As far beyond conception as desert, 
 Ourselves th' astonish'd talkers, and the tale ! 
 LORENZO, swells thy bosom at the thought? 
 The swell becomes thee : 'tis an honest pride. 
 Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise. 
 His nature no man can o'er-rate ; and none 
 Can under-rate his merit. Take good heed, 
 Nor there be modest, where thou shouldst be proud ; 
 That almost universal error shun. 
 How just our pride, when we behold those heights! 
 Not those ambition paints in air, but those 
 Reason points out, and ardent virtue gains ; 
 And angels emulate ; our pride how just! 
 When mount we? when these shackles cast? when quit 
 This cell of the creation ? this small nest, 
 Stuck in a corner of the universe, 
 Wrapt up in fleecy cloud, and fine-spun air ? 
 Fine-spun to sense ; but gross and feculent 
 To souls celestial ; souls ordain'd to breathe
 
 128 THE COMPLAINT. KIGHT VI. 
 
 Ambrosial gales, and drink a purer sky; 
 Greatly triumphant on time's further shore, 
 Where virtue reigns, enrich'd with full arrears ; 
 While pomp imperial begs an alms of peace. 
 
 In empire high, or in proud science deep, 
 Ye born of earth ! on what can you confer, 
 With half the dignity, with half the gain, 
 The gust, the glow of rational delight, 
 As on this theme, which angels praise and share ! 
 Man's fates and favours are a theme in heaven. 
 
 What wretched repetition cloys us here ! 
 What periodic potions for the sick ! 
 Distemper'd bodies ! and distemper'd minds ! 
 In an eternity, what scenes shall strike ! 
 Adventures thicken ! novelties surprise ! 
 What webs of wonder shall unravel, there ! 
 AVhat full day pour on all the paths of heaven, 
 And light th' Almighty's footsteps in the deep ! 
 How shall the blessed day of our discharge 
 Unwind, at once, the labyrinths of fate, 
 And straighten its inextricable maze ! 
 
 If unextinguishable thirst in man 
 To know ; how rich, how full, our banquet there ! 
 There, not the moral world alone unfolds ; 
 I'll'- world material, lately seen in shades, 
 And, in those shades, by fragments only seen, 
 And seen those fragments by the labouring eye, 
 Unbroken, then, illustrious, and entire, 
 Its ample sphere, its universal frame, 
 In full dimensions, swells to the survey ; 
 And enters, at one glance, the ravish 'd sight. 
 From some superior point (where, who can tell ?
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 129 
 
 Suffice it, 'Us a point where gods reside) 
 How shall the stranger man's illumined eye, 
 In the vast ocean of unbounded space, 
 Behold an infinite of floating worlds 
 Divide the crystal waves of aether pure, 
 In endless voyage, without port! The least 
 Of these disseminated orbs, how great ! 
 Great as they are, what numbers these surpass, 
 Huge, as Leviathan, to that small race, 
 Those twinkling multitudes of little life, 
 He swallows unperceived ! Stupendous these ! 
 Yet what are these stupendous to the whole ? 
 As particles, as atoms ill perceived , 
 As circulating globules in our veins ; 
 So vast the plan. Fecundity divine ! 
 Exuberant source ! perhaps I wrong thee still. 
 
 If admiration is a source of joy, 
 What transport hence ! Yet this the least in heaven. 
 What this to that illustrious robe He wears, 
 Who toss'd this mass of wonders from his hand, 
 A specimen, an earnest of his power ! 
 'Tis to that glory, whence all glory flows, 
 As the mead's meanest flowret to the sun, 
 Which gave it birth. But what, this Sun of heaven? 
 This bliss supreme of the supremely bless'd? 
 Death, only death, the question can resolve. 
 By death, cheap-bought th' ideas of our joy ; 
 The bare ideas ! Solid happiness 
 So distant from its shadow chased below. 
 
 And chase we sfill the phantom through the fire, 
 O'er bog, and brake, and precipice, till death? 
 And toil we still for sublunary pay? 
 G 3
 
 130 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 Defy the dangers of the field and flood, 
 
 Or, spider-like, spin out our precious all, 
 
 Our more than vitals spin (if no regard 
 
 To great futurity) in curious webs 
 
 Of subtle thought, and exquisite design 
 
 (Fine net- work of the brain), to catch a fly! 
 
 The momentary buz of vain renown ! 
 
 A name ! a mortal immortality ! 
 
 Or (meaner still) instead of grasping air, 
 
 For sordid lucre plunge we in the mire ? 
 
 Drudge, sweat, through every shame, for every gain, 
 
 For vile contaminating trash ; throw up 
 
 Our hope in heaven, our dignity with man ; 
 
 And deify the dirt, matured to gold? 
 
 Ambition, avarice ; the two daemons these, 
 
 Which goad through every slough our human herd, 
 
 Hard-travelPd from the cradle to the grave. 
 
 How low the wretches stoop ! how steep they climb ! 
 
 These daemons burn mankind ; but most possess 
 
 LORENZO'S bosom, and turn out the skies. 
 Is it in. time to hide eternity? 
 
 And why not in an atom on the shore 
 
 To cover ocean ? or a mote, the sun ? 
 
 Glory and wealth! have they this blinding pOM'er? 
 
 What if to them I prove LORENZO blind ? 
 
 Would it surprise thee? Be thou then surprised ; 
 
 Thou neither know'st : their nature learn from me. 
 Mark well, as foreign as these subjects seem, 
 
 What close connexion ties them to my theme. 
 
 First, what is true ambition? The pursuit 
 
 Of glory, nothing less than man can share. 
 
 Were they as vain as gaudy-minded man,
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 131 
 
 As flatulent with fumes of sell-applause, 
 
 Their arts and conquests animals might boast, 
 
 And claim their laurel crowns, as well as we; 
 
 But not celestial. Here we stand alone ; 
 
 As in our form, distinct, pre-eminent. 
 
 If prone in thought, our stature is our shame ; 
 
 And man should blush, his forehead meets the skies. 
 
 The visible and present are for brutes, 
 
 A slender portion ! and a narrow bound ! 
 
 These reason, with an energy divine, 
 
 O'erleaps ; and claims the future and unseen ; 
 
 The vast unseen ! the future fathomless ! 
 
 When the great soul buoys up to this high point, 
 
 Leaving gross nature's sediments below; 
 
 Then, and then only, Adam's offspring quits 
 
 The sage and hero of the fields and woods, 
 
 Asserts his rank, and rises into man. 
 
 This is ambition : this is human fire. 
 
 Can parts or place (two bold pretenders!) make 
 LORENZO great, and pluck him from the throng? 
 
 Genius and art, ambition's boasted wings, 
 Our boast but ill deserve. A feeble aid ! 
 Dedalian enginery ! If these alone 
 Assist our flight, fame's flight is glory's fall. 
 Heart-merit wanting, mount we ne'er so high, 
 Our height is but the gibbet of our name. 
 A celebrated wretch when I behold, 
 When I behold a genius bright, and base, 
 Of towering talents, and terrestrial aims; 
 Methinks I see, as thrown from her high sphere, 
 The glorious fragments of a soul immortal, 
 With rubbish mix'd, and glittering in the dust.
 
 132 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT VI. 
 
 Struck at the splendid, melancholy sight, 
 
 At once compassion soft, and envy, rise 
 
 But wherefore envy ? Talents angel-bright, 
 
 If wanting worth, are shining instruments 
 
 In false ambition's hand, to finish faults 
 
 Illustrious, and give infamy renown. 
 
 . Great ill is an achievement of great powers. 
 
 Plain sense but rarely leads us far astray. 
 
 Reason the means, affections choose our end ; 
 
 Means have no merit, if our end amiss. 
 
 If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain: 
 
 What is a PELHAM'S head, to PELHAM'S heart? 
 
 Hearts are proprietors to all applause. 
 
 Right ends, and means, make wisdom: worldly-wise 
 
 Is but half-witted, at its highest praise. 
 
 Let genius then despair to make thee great ; 
 Nor flatter station : what is station high ? 
 Tis a proud mendicant ; it boasts, and begs ; 
 It begs an alms of homage from the throng, 
 And oft the throng denies its charity. 
 Monarchs, and ministers, are awful names; 
 Whoever wear them, challenge our devoir. 
 Religion, public order, both exact 
 External homage, and a supple knee, 
 To beings pompously set up, to serve 
 The meanest slave : all more is merit's due, 
 Her sacred and inviolable right ; 
 Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man. 
 Our hearts ne'er bow but to superior worth ; 
 Nor ever fail of their allegiance there. 
 Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account, 
 And vote the mantle into majesty.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 133 
 
 Let the small savage boast his silver fur; 
 
 His royal robe, unborrow'd, and unbought, 
 
 His own, descending fairly from his sires. 
 
 Shall man be proud to wear his livery, 
 
 And souls in ermine scorn a soul without? 
 
 Can place or lessen us, or aggrandize? 
 
 Pygmies are pygmies still, though perch'd on Alps; 
 
 And pyramids are pyramids in vales. 
 
 Eacli man makes his own stature, builds himself: 
 
 Virtue alone outbuilds the pyramids : 
 
 Her monuments shall last, when Egypt's fall. 
 
 Of these sure truths dost thou demand the cause? 
 The cause is lodged in immortality. 
 Hear, and assent. Thy bosom burns for power; 
 What station charms thee ? I'll install thee there : 
 'Tis thine. And art thou greater than before? 
 Then thou before wast something less than man. 
 Has thy new post betray'd thee into pride ? 
 That treacherous pride betrays thy dignity; 
 That pride defames humanity, and calls 
 The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise, 
 That pride, like hooded hawks, in darkness soars, 
 From blindness bold, and towering to the skies. 
 'Tis born of ignorance, which knows not man: 
 An angel's second; nor his second long. 
 A NERO quitting his imperial throne, 
 And courting glory from the tinkling string, 
 But faintly shadows an immortal soul, 
 With empire's self, to pride, or rapture, fired. 
 If nobler motives minister no cure, 
 Ev'n vanity forbids thee to be vain. 
 
 High worth is elevated place: 'tis more;
 
 134 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 It makes the post stand candidate for thee ; 
 
 Makes more than monarchs, makes an honest man : 
 
 Though no exchequer it commands, 'tis wealth ; 
 
 And though it wears no ribband, 'tis renown ; 
 
 Renown that would not quit thee though disgraced, 
 
 Nor leave thee pendent on a master's smile. 
 
 Other ambition nature interdicts ; 
 
 Nature proclaims it most absurd in man, 
 
 By pointing at his origin and end : 
 
 Milk, and a swathe, at first, his whole demand ; 
 
 His whole domain, at last, a turf, or stone; 
 
 To whom, between, a world may seem too small. 
 
 Souls truly great dart forward on the wing 
 Of just ambition, to the grand result, 
 The curtain's fall. There, see the buskin'd chief 
 Unshod behind this momentary scene ; 
 Reduced to his own stature, low or high, 
 As vice, or virtue, sinks him, or sublimes ; 
 And laugh at this fantastic mummery, 
 This antic prelude of grotesque events, 
 Where dwarfs are often stilted, and betray 
 A littleness of soul by worlds o'er-run, 
 And nations laid in blood. Dread sacrifice 
 To Christian pride ! w^hich had with horror shock'd 
 The darkest Pagans, offerM to their gods. 
 
 O thou most Christian enemy to peace ! 
 Again in arms ? again provoking fate ? 
 That prince, and that alone, is truly great, 
 Who draws the sword reluctant, gladly sheathes; 
 On empire builds what empire far outweighs, 
 And makes his throne a scaffold to the skies. 
 
 Why this so rare? Because forgot of all
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 135 
 
 The day of death ; that venerable day, 
 Which sits as judge; that day, which shall pronounce 
 On all our days, absolve them, or condemn. 
 LORENZO, never shut thy thought against it; 
 Be levees ne'er so full, afford it room, 
 And give it audience in the cabinet. 
 That friend consulted, flatteries apart, 
 Will tell thee fair, if thou art great, or mean. 
 To dote on aught may leave us, or be left, 
 Is that ambition ? Then let flames descend, 
 Point to the centre their inverted spires, 
 And learn humiliation from a soul, 
 Which boasts her lineage from celestial fire. 
 Yet these are they the world pronounces wise ; 
 The world, which cancels nature's right and wrong, 
 And casts new wisdom: ev'n the grave man lends 
 His solemn face, to countenance the coin. 
 Wisdom for parts, is madness for the whole. 
 This stamps the paradox, and gives us leave 
 To call the wisest weak, the richest poor, 
 The most ambitious, unambitious, mean ; 
 In triumph mean, and abject on a throne. 
 Nothing can make it less than mad in man, 
 To put forth all his ardour, all his art, 
 And give his soul her full unbounded flight, 
 But reaching Him, who gave her wings to fly. 
 When blind ambition quite mistakes her road, 
 And downward pores, for that which shines above, 
 Substantial happiness, and true renown; 
 Then, like an idiot, gazing on the brook, 
 We leap at stars, and fasten in the mud; 
 At glory grasp, and sink in infamy.
 
 136 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 Ambition ! powerful source of good and ill ! 
 Thy strength in man, like length of wing in birds, 
 When disengaged from earth, with greater ease 
 And swifter flight transports us to the skies ; 
 By toys entangled, or in guilt bemired, 
 It turns a curse ; it is our chain, and scourge, 
 In this dark dungeon, where confined we lie, 
 Close grated by the sordid bars of sense ; 
 All prospect of eternity shut out; 
 And, but for execution, ne'er set free. 
 
 With error iff ambition justly charged, 
 Find we LORENZO wiser in his wealth ? 
 What if thy rental I reform? and draw 
 An inventory new, to set thee right ? 
 Where thy true treasure? Gold says, "Not in me:" 
 And, " Not in me," the diamond. Gold is poor; 
 India's insolvent : seek it in thyself, 
 Seek in thy naked self, and find it there; 
 In being so descended, form'd, endow'd ; 
 Sky-born, sky-guided, sky-returning race ! 
 Erect, immortal, rational, divine! 
 In senses, which inherit earth, and heavens ; 
 Enjoy the various riches nature yields ; 
 Far nobler! give the 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 powerful charm, 
 I ',;ii 1 h were a rude, uncolour'd chaos still.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 137 
 
 Objects are but th' 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 wonders in himself forgot, 
 
 His admiration waste on objects round, 
 
 When Heaven 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, fired to form a fairer scene 
 Than sense surveys ! in memory's firm record, 
 Which, should it perish, could this world recall 
 From the dark shadows of o'erwhelming years ; 
 In colours fresh, originally bright, 
 Preserve its portrait, and report its fate ! 
 What wealth in intellect, that sovereign power! 
 W 7 hich sense and fancy summons to the bar; 
 Interrogates, approves, or reprehends ; 
 And from the mass those underlings import, 
 From their materials, sifted and refined, 
 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 ere chaos teem'd, plann'd human bliss. 
 
 What wealth in souls that soar, dive, range around,
 
 138 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 Disdaining limit, or from place or time ; 
 And hear at once, in thought extensive, hear 
 TV 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 he ; 
 Commanding, with omnipotence of thought, 
 Creations new in fancy's field to rise ! 
 Souls that can grasp whate'er th' Almighty made, 
 And wander wild through things impossible ! 
 What wealth, in faculties of endless growth, 
 In quenchless passions violent to crave, 
 In liberty to choose, in power to reach, 
 And in duration (how thy riches rise !) 
 Duration to perpetuate boundless bliss ! 
 
 Ask you, what power resides in feeble man 
 That bliss to gain? Is virtue's, then, unknown? 
 "Virtue, our present peace, our future prize. 
 Man's uuprecarious, 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 tired with play, 
 Like rubbish from disploding engines thrown, 
 Our magazines of hoarded trifles fly ; 
 Ely diverse ; fly to foreigners, to foes ; 
 New masters court, and call the former fools, 
 (How justly !) for dependence on their stay. 
 Wide scatter, first, our play-things; then, our dust. 
 
 Dost court abundance for the sake of peace ?
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 13i) 
 
 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 want, 
 Outrageous want ! both Indies cannot cure. 
 
 A competence is vital to content. 
 Much wealth is corpulence, if not disease ; 
 Sick, or encumber'd, is our happiness. 
 A competence is all we can enjoy. 
 O be content, where Heaven 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 flowers ; 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 monkeys at a mirror stand amazed, 
 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 ;
 
 140 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT VI. 
 
 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 power. 
 The man of reason smiles at her, and death. 
 O what a patrimony this! A being 
 Of such inherent strength and majesty. 
 Not worlds possess'd can raise it ; worlds destroy'd 
 Can't injure ; which holds on its glorious course, 
 When thine, O nature ! ends ; too bless'd 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 sovereign 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'erwhclms !
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 141 
 
 No more we slumber on the brink of fate: 
 
 Roused at the sound, th' exulting soul ascends, 
 
 And breathes her native air ; an air that feeds 
 
 Ambitions high, and fans sethereal fires: 
 
 Quick kindles all that is divine within us ; 
 
 Nor leaves one loitering 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 Heaveii ! 
 O vain, vain, vain, all else ! Eternity ! 
 A glorious, and a needful refuge, that, 
 Prom 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 powers : 
 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 ;
 
 142 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 Divinely darting upward every 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 distanced eye 
 Were seen at once, her towering 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, 
 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, 
 Unraptured, unexalted, uninflamed ? 
 What slave unbless'd, who from to-morrow's dawn 
 Expects an empire? He forgets his chain, 
 And, throned 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 prized enough! enough revolved! 
 Are there, who wrap the world so close about them, 
 They see no further than the clouds ? and dance 
 On heedless vanity's fantastic toe ?
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 143 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 through this bosom-barrier burst their way, 
 And, with reversed ambition, strive to sink? 
 Who labour downwards through th' opposing powers 
 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 heaven, and earth, and man. Indulge a few, 
 By nature, as her common habit, worn ;
 
 144 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 So pressing Providence a truth to teach, 
 
 Which truth untaught, all other truths were vain. 
 
 THOU ! whose all-providential eye surveys, 
 Whose hand directs, whose Spirit fills and warms 
 Creation, and holds empire far beyond ! 
 Eternity's Inhabitant august ! 
 Of two eternities amazing Lord ! 
 One past, ere man's, or angel's, had begun ; 
 Aid ! while I rescue from the foe's assault 
 Thy glorious immortality in man : 
 A theme 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, lo man 
 Speaks wisdom ; is his oracle supreme ; 
 And he who most consults her, is most wise. 
 LORENZO, to this heavenly Delphos haste ; 
 And come back all-immortal; all-divine: 
 Look nature through, 'tis revolution all ; 
 All change ; no death. Day follows night; and night 
 The dying day ; stars rise, and set, and rise ; 
 Earth takes th' example. See, the summer gay, 
 With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flowers, 
 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 re-flourish, fades; 
 As in a wheel, all sinks, to reasceud. 
 Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. 
 With this minute distinction, emblems jusf,
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 145 
 
 Nature revolves, but man advances ; both 
 
 Eternal ; that a circle, this a line. 
 
 That gravitates, this soars. Th' aspiring soul, 
 
 Ardent, and tremulous, like flame, ascends ; 
 
 Zeal, and humility, her wings to heaven. 
 
 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 privileged than grain, on which he feeds? 
 Is man, in whom alone is power 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 ? ' , 
 
 It' nature's revolution speaks aloud, 
 In her gradation hear her louder still. 
 Look nature through, '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 glimmering ray ; 
 H
 
 14G THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 Reason shines out in man. Bat how preserved 
 The chain unbroken upward, to the realms 
 Of incorporeal life? those realms of bliss, 
 Where death has 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 pronounced 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 beloved, and run the risk of heaven ? 
 O what indignity to deathless souls ! 
 What treason to the majesty of man ! 
 Of man immortal ! Hear the lofty style : 
 "If so decreed, th' Almighty will be done. 
 Let earth dissolve, yon ponderous orbs descend, 
 And grind us into dust. The soul is safe ; 
 The man emerges ; mounts above the wreck, 
 As towering flame from nature's funeral pyre ; 
 O'er devastation, as a gainer, smiles ; 
 His charter, his inviolable rights, 
 Well-pleased to learn from thunder's impotence, 
 Death's pointless darts, and hell's defeated storms." 
 
 But these chimeras touch not thec, LORENZO ! 
 The glories of the world thy sevenfold shield.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 147 
 
 Other ambition than of crowns in air, 
 
 And superlunary i'elicities, 
 
 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 thy cure. 
 
 Come, my ambitious ! let us mount together 
 (To mount, LORENZO never can refuse) ; 
 And from the clouds, where pride delights to dwell, 
 Look down on earth What seest thou? Wondrous 
 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 ends. 
 Nor can th' eternal rocks his will withstand. 
 What levell'd mountains ! and what lifted vales! 
 O'er vales and mountains sumptuous cities swell, 
 And gild our landscape with their glittering spires. 
 Some 'mid the wondering 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 
 Shows us half heaven beneath its ample bend. 
 High through mid air, here, streams are taught to flow : 
 Whole rivers, there, laid by in basons, sleep. 
 Here, plains turn oceans ; there, vast oceans join, 
 n 2
 
 148 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VI. 
 
 Through kingdoms channel'd deep from shore to shore ; 
 And changed 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, 
 Outspeaks the Deity, and says, " O main ! 
 Thus far, nor further: new restraints obey." 
 Earth's disembowel'd ! measured are the skies ! 
 Stars are detected in their deep recess ! 
 Creation widens ! vanquish'd nature yields ! 
 Her secrets are extorted ! art prevails ! 
 What monument of genius, spirit, power ! 
 
 And now, LORENZO ! raptured at this scene, 
 Whose glories render heaven superfluous ! say, 
 Whose footsteps these? Immortals have been here. 
 Could less than souls immortal this have done ? 
 Earth's cover'd o'er with proofs of souls immortal, 
 And proofs of immortality forgot. 
 
 To flatter thy grand foible, I confess, 
 These are ambition's works : and these are great : 
 But this, the least immortal souls can do ; 
 Transcend them all But what can these transcend? 
 Dost ask me, what? One sigh for the distress'd. 
 What then for infidels? A deeper sigh. 
 Tis moral grandeur makes the mighty man : 
 How little they, who think aught great below ! 
 All our ambitions death defeats, but one ; 
 And that it crowns. Here cease we: but, ere long, 
 More powerful proof shall take the field against thce, 
 Stronger than death, and smiling at the tomb.
 
 NIGHT THE SEVENTH. 
 
 BEING 
 
 THE SECOND PART 
 
 OF 
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED: 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 f)e jSature, ^Jroof, antt importance of Kmmottaliip. 
 
 PRE FACE. 
 
 As we are at war with the power, it were well if we 
 were at war with the manner-, of France. A laud 
 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 im- 
 mortality has been the favourite theme with the serious 
 of all ages. Nor is it strange : it is a subject by far the 
 most interesting and important that can enter the 
 mind of man. Of highest moment this subject always 
 was, and always will be. Yet this its highest moment 
 seems to admit of increase at this day: a sort of 
 occasional importance is superadded to the 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 deplor-
 
 150 PREFACE. 
 
 able error, by some doubts of their immortality at the 
 bottom. And the more I consider this point, the more 
 I am persuaded of the truth of that opinion. Though 
 the distrust of a futurity is a strange error; yet it is 
 an error into which bad men may naturally be dis- 
 tressed. For it is impossible to bid defiance to final 
 ruin, without some refuge in imagination, some pre- 
 sumption of escape. And what presumption is there? 
 There are but two in nature ; but two within the com- 
 pass of human thought. And these are, That either 
 GOD will not, or cannot punish. Considering the divine 
 attributes, the first is too gross to be digested by our 
 strongest wishes. And since omnipotence is as much 
 a divine attribute as holiness, that GOD cannot punish, 
 is as absurd a supposition as the former. GOD cer- 
 tainly can punish as long as wicked men exist. In 
 non-existence, therefore, is their only refuge ; and, con- 
 sequently, non-existence is their strongest wish. And 
 strong wishes have a strange influence on our opi- 
 nions; they bias the judgment in a manner almost 
 incredible. And since on this member of their alter- 
 native, 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 them- 
 selves 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 
 appeared 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 
 immortality, new at least to me, are ventured on in 
 them. There also the writer has made an attempt 
 to set the gross absurdities and 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
 
 PREFACE. 151 
 
 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 contempt and 
 abhorrence would fall to their share, may be conjec- 
 tured by the following matter of fact (in my opinion) 
 extremely memorable. Of all their heathen worthies, 
 Socrates ('tis well known) was the most guarded, dis- 
 passionate, and composed : yet this great master of 
 temper Avas angry; and angry at his last hour; and 
 angry with his friend; and angry for what deserved 
 acknowledgment; angry for a right and tender in- 
 stance 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, per- 
 haps, a too punctilious, regard for immortality; for 
 his friend asking him, with such an affectionate con- 
 cern as became a friend, " Where he should deposit 
 his remains? 1 ' it was resented by Socrates, as imply- 
 ing a dishonourable supposition, that he could be so 
 mean as to have a regard for any thing, even in him- 
 self, 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 
 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 7th, 174*.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF THE SEVENTH NIGHT. 
 
 IN the Sixth Night, arguments were drawn from NATURE in 
 proof of Immortality; here, others are drawn from MAN: 
 from his Discontent from his Passions and Powers from 
 the gradual growth of Reason from his fear of Death from 
 the nature of Hope, and of Virtue from Knowledge and 
 Love, as being the most essential properties of the sonl 
 from the Order of Creation from the nature of Ambition, 
 Avarice, Pleasure. A digression on the grandeur of the 
 Passions. Immortality alone can render our present state intel- 
 ligible. An objection from the Stoics' disbelief of immorta- 
 lity answered. Endless questions unresolvable, but on sup- 
 position of our Immortality. Tlie natural, most inelaucholy, 
 and pathetic complaint of a worthy man, nnder the persuasion 
 of no Futurity. The gross absurdities and horrors of Anni- 
 hilation urged home on LORENZO. The soul's vast Impor- 
 tance from whence it arises. The Difficulty of being an 
 iuh'del the Infamy the Cause, and the Character, of an 
 infidel state. What true free-thinking is. The necessary 
 punishment of the false. Man's ruin is from himself. An 
 Infidel accuses himself of Guilt and Hypocrisy ; and that of 
 the worst sort. His obligation to Christians What danger 
 he incurs by Virtue Vice recommended to him His high 
 pretences to Virtue and Benevolence exploded. The con- 
 clusion, on the nature of Faith, Reason, and Hope ; with an 
 apology for this attempt.
 
 Is it that thing-s terrestrial can't content ? 
 Deep in rich pasture will thy flocks complain : 
 Not so; but to their master is denied 
 To share their sweet serene 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLAIN**. 
 
 NIGHT VH. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALL KA. ENGRAVKD BY CHARLES HUATf 
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCAD1LL.V. 
 
 MARCH 16.1817.
 
 THE 
 
 INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 HEAVEN gives the needful, but neglected, call. 
 
 AVhat 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 couldst make immortals ! art thou dead ? 
 
 I give thee joy : nor will I take my leave ; 
 
 So soon to follow. Man but dives in death ; 
 
 Dives from the sun, in fairer day to rise ; 
 
 The grave, his subterranean road to bliss* 
 
 Yes, infinite indulgence plann'd it so: 
 
 Through various parts our glorious story runs; 
 
 Time gives the preface, endless age unrolls 
 
 The volume (ne'er unroll'd !) of human fate. 
 
 This, earth and skies * already have proclaimed. 
 The world's a prophecy of worlds to come ; 
 And who, what GOD foretells (who speaks in things, 
 
 * Night the Sixth. 
 H 3
 
 15t THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Still louder than in words) shall dare deny? 
 If nature's arguments appear too weak, 
 Turn a new leaf, and stronger read in man. 
 If man sleeps on, untaught by what he sees, 
 Can he prove infidel to what he feels ? 
 He, whose blind thought futurity denies, 
 Unconscious bears, BELLEROPHON! like thee, 
 His own indictment ; he condemns himself: 
 Who reads his bosom, reads immortal life ; 
 Or, nature, there, imposing on her sons, 
 Has written fables ; man was made a lie. 
 
 Why discontent 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 denied 
 To share their sweet serene. Man, ill at ease, 
 In this, not his own place, this foreign field, 
 Where nature fodders him with other food, 
 Than was ordain'd his cravings to suffice, 
 Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast, 
 Sighs on for something more, when most enjoy 'd. 
 
 Is Heaven then kinder to thy flocks than thee I 
 N'ot so ; thy pasture richer, but remote ; 
 In part, remote ; for that remoter part 
 Man bleats from instinct, though, perhaps, debanch'd
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 155 
 
 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 aether, shall the blood of heaven, 
 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, distress'd, 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 powers, 
 Speak the same language ; call us to the skies : 
 L nripcn'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 Heaven ordain' d, 
 Objects that challenge all their fire, and leave 
 No fault, but in defect. TJIcss'd Heavrn ! avert 
 A bounded ardour for unbounded bliss ! 
 O for a bliss unbounded ! Far beneath 
 A soul immortal, is a mortal joy. 
 Nor are our powers to perish immature; 
 But, after feeble effort here, beneath 
 A brighter sun, and in a nobler soil, 
 Transplanted from this sublunary bed, 
 Shall flourish fair, and put forth all their bloom. 
 
 Reason progressive, instinct is complete ;
 
 166 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Swift instinct leaps ; slow reason feebly climbs. 
 Brutes soon their zenith reach ; their little all 
 Flows in at once ; in ages they no more 
 Could know, or do, or covet, or enjoy. 
 Were man to live coeval with the sun, 
 The patriarch-pupil would be learning still ; 
 Yet, dying, leave his lesson half unlcarn'd. 
 Men perish in advance, as if the sun 
 Should set ere noon, in eastern oceans drown'd ; 
 If fit, with dim, illustrious to compare, 
 The sun's meridian with the soul of man. 
 To man, why, stepdame nature ! so severe ? 
 Why thrown aside thy masterpiece 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 J 
 Why cursed 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 aenigmas, human hope ; 
 Of all the darkest, if at death we die. 
 Hope, eager hope, th' assassin of our joy, 
 AH present blessings treading under foot, 
 Is scarce a milder tyrant than despair. 
 With no past toils content, still planning new, 
 Hope turns us o'er to death alone for ease. 
 Possession, why more tasteless than pursuit ' 
 Why is a wish far dearer than a crown ?
 
 THK INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 157 
 
 That wish accomplish'd, why the grave of bliss? 
 Because, in the great future buried deep, 
 Beyond our plans of empire and renown, 
 Lies all that man with 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. 
 Alan'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 possessor. 
 Hence, the world's master, from ambition's spire, 
 In Caprea plunged ; and dived beneath the brute. 
 In that rank sty why wallow'd empire's son 
 Supreme? Because he could no higher fly; 
 His riot was ambition in despair. 
 
 Old Rome consulted birds : LORENZO ! thon, 
 With more success, the flight of hope survey ; 
 Of restless hope, for ever on the wing : 
 High-perch'd o'er every 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 lodged 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? 
 Virtue is true self-interest pursued : 
 What true self-interest of quite-mortal man ? 
 To close with all that makes him happy here.
 
 153 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 If vice (as sometimes) is our friend on earth, 
 Then vice is virtue ; 'tis our sovereign 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 every virtuous joy. 
 
 The rigid guardian of a blameless heart, 
 So long revered, 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? 
 Of gallant enterprise, and glorious death ? 
 Die for thy country ! Thou romantic fool ! 
 Seize, seize the plank thyself, and let her sink : 
 Thy country! what to thee? The Godhead, what? 
 (I speak with awe !) though 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 cost existence, 'tis a crime ; 
 Bold violation of our law supreme, 
 Black suicide ; though nations, which consult 
 Their gain at thy expense, resound applause. 
 
 Since virtue's recompense is doubtful here,,
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 159 
 
 If man dies wholly, well may we demand, 
 Why is man sufler'd to be good in vain ? 
 Why to be good in vain, is man enjoin'd? 
 Why to be good in vain, is man betray'd? 
 Betray'd by traitors lodged in his own breast, 
 By sweet complacencies from virtue felt? 
 Why whispers nature lies on virtue's part? 
 Or if blind instinct (which assumes the name 
 Of sacred conscience) plays the fool in man, 
 Why reason made accomplice in the cheat I" 
 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. 
 
 When to the grave we follow the renown'd 
 For valour, virtue, science, all we love, 
 And all we praise ; for worth, whose noou-tide beanu 
 Enabling us to think in higher style, 
 Mends our ideas of ethereal powers ;
 
 160 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Dream we, that lustre of the moral world 
 Goes out iu stench, aud 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, aud give 
 The skies alarm, lest angels too might die .' 
 
 If human souls, why not angelic too 
 Extiuguish'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 aud worth are sacred names ; revered, 
 Where not embraced ; applauded ; deified ! 
 Why not compassion'd too ? If spirits die, 
 Both are calamities, inflicted both, 
 To make us but more wretched. Wisdom's eye, 
 Acute, for what ? To spy more miseries ; 
 And worth, so recompensed, new points their stings. 
 Or man surmounts the grave, or gain is loss, 
 And worth exalted bumbles us the more. 
 Thou wilt not patronize a scheme that- makes 
 Weakness, and vice, the refuge of mankind. 
 
 " Has virtue, then, no joys?'' Yes, joys dear bought. 
 Talk ne'er so long, in this imperfect state, 
 Virtue and vice are at eternal war. 
 Virtue's a combat ; and who fights for nought ?
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 161 
 
 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 treacheries 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 believed. 
 
 In man the more we dive, the more we see 
 Heaven'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 starved, on earth, our angel appetites ; 
 While brutal are indulged their fulsome fill ? 
 Were then capacities divine conferr'd, 
 As a mock diadem, in savage sport, 
 Rank insult of our pompous poverty, 
 Which reaps but pain, from seeming claims so fair? 
 In future age lies no redress ? and shuts 
 Eternity the door on our complaint? 
 If so, for what strange ends were mortals made ! 
 The worst to wallow, and the best to weep ; 
 The man who merits most, must most complain :
 
 162 THE COMPLAINT. M6HT VII. 
 
 Can we conceive a disregard in Heaven, 
 What the worst perpetrate, or best endure ? 
 
 This cannot be. To love, and know, in man 
 Is boundless appetite, and boundless power ; 
 And these demonstrate boundless objects too. 
 Objects, powers, appetites, Heaven suits in all ; 
 Nor, nature through, e'er violates this sweet, 
 Eternal concord, on her tuneful string. 
 Is man the sole exception from her laws ? 
 Eternity struck off from human hope 
 (I speak with truth, but veneration too), 
 Man is a monster, the reproach of Heaven, 
 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 Heaven ? 
 Or own the soul immortal, or blaspheme. 
 
 Or own the soul immortal, or invert 
 All order. Go, mock-majesty ! go, man! 
 And bow to thy superiors of the stall ; 
 Through every scene of sense superior far: 
 They graze the turf untill'd ; they drink the stream 
 Unbrew'd, and ever full, and unimbitter'd 
 With doubts, fears, fruitless hopes, regrets, despair?, 
 Mankind's peculiar ! reason's precious dower ! 
 No foreign clime they ransack for their robes ; 
 Nor brothers cite to the litigious bar ; 
 Their good is good entire, unmix'd, unmarr'd ; 
 They find a paradise in every field, 
 On boughs forbidden where no curses hang : 
 Their ill, no more than strikes the sense ; unstretch'd.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 163 
 
 By previous dread, or murmur in the rear : 
 When the worst comes, it comes unfear'd ; one stroke 
 Begins, and ends, their woe : they die but once ; 
 Bless'd, 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 ; 
 Restores bright order ; casts the brute beneath ; 
 And reinthrones us in supremacy 
 Of joy, even here. Admit immortal life, 
 And virtue is knight-errantry no more ; 
 Each virtue brings in hand a golden dower, 
 Far richer in reversion : hope exults ; 
 And though much bitter in our cup is thrown, 
 Predominates, and gives the taste of heaven. 
 O wherefore is the DEITY so kind ? 
 Astonishing beyond astonishment ! 
 Heaven our reward for heaven enjoy'd below. 
 
 Still unsubdued thy stubborn heart? for there 
 The traitor lurks who doubts the truth I sing. 
 Reason is guiltless ; will alone rebels. 
 What, in that stubborn heart, if I should find 
 New, unexpected witnesses against thee? 
 Ambition, pleasure, and the love of gain ! 
 Canst thou suspect that these, which make the soul 
 The slave of earth, should own her heir of heaven?
 
 164 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 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 unextinguishable 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, 
 Though for best deeds, and from the best of men. 
 And why ? Because immortal. Art divine 
 Has made the body tutor to the soul ; 
 Heaven kindly gives our blood a moral flow, 
 lliils it ascend the glowing cheek, and there 
 Upbraid that little heart's inglorious aim, 
 Which stoops to court a character from man ; 
 W 7 hile o'er us, in tremendous judgment, sit 
 Far more than man, with endless praise and blame. 
 
 Ambition's boundless appetite outspeaks 
 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 interest in hereafter ; 
 But our blind reason sees not where it lies ; 
 Or, seeing, gives the substance for the shade. 
 
 .Fame is the shade of immortality,
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 165 
 
 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?" cried C.ESAR at his height, 
 Disgusted. This third proof ambition brings 
 Of immortality. The first in fame, 
 Observe him near, your envy will abate : 
 Shamed 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 o'erlook'd by some reputed wise. 
 Though disappointments in ambition pain, 
 And though success disgusts; yet still, LORENZO, 
 In vain we strive to pluck it from our hearts ; 
 By nature planted for the noblest ends. 
 Absurd the famed advice to PYRRHUS given, 
 More praised, 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 ; 
 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!"
 
 166 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT VII. 
 
 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 Heaven. 
 
 Nor absolutely vain is human praise, 
 When human is supported by divine. 
 I'll introduce LORENZO to himself. 
 Pleasure and pride (bad masters!) share our heart? 
 As love of pleasure is ordain'd to guard 
 And feed our bodies, and extend our race ; 
 The love of praise is planted to protect, 
 And propagate the glories of the mind. 
 What is it, but the love of praise, inspires, 
 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 men not proud, what merit should we miss ! 
 Pride made the virtues of the Pagan world. 
 Praise is the salt that seasons right to man, 
 And whets his appetite for moral good. 
 Thirst of applause is virtue's second guard ; 
 Reason, her first; but reason wants an aid: 
 Our private reason is a flatterer ; 
 Thirst of applause calls public judgment in, 
 To poise our own, to keep an even scale, 
 And give endanger'd virtue fairer play. 
 
 Here a fifth proof arises, stronger still : 
 Why this so nice construction of our hearts?
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 167 
 
 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 misspent were all these stratagems, 
 
 By skill divine inwoven in our frame ! 
 
 Where are Heaven's holiness and mercy fled ? 
 
 Laughs Heaven, at once, at virtue, and at man ? 
 
 If not, why that discouraged, this destroy'd ? 
 
 Thus far ambition. What says avarice 1 
 This her chief maxim, which lias long been thine : 
 "The wise and wealthy are the same." I grant it. 
 To store up treasure with incessant toil, 
 This is man's province, this his highest praise. 
 To this great end keen instinct stings him on, 
 To guide that instinct, reason ! is thy charge ; 
 Tis thine to tell us where true treasure lies : 
 But, reason failing to discharge her trust, 
 Or to the deaf discharging it in vain, 
 A blunder follows ; and blind industry, 
 GalPd by the spur, but stranger to the course 
 (The course where stakes of more than gold are won), 
 O'erloading, with the cares of distant age, 
 The jaded spirits of the present hour, 
 Provides for an eternity below. 
 
 "Thou shalt not covet," is a wise command; 
 But bounded to the wealth the sun surveys:
 
 168 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Look further, the command stands quite reversed, 
 
 And avarice 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 unextinguishable thirst of gain ? 
 
 From unextinguishable 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 poisonous 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, though 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, 
 Burn us with blushes, and rebuke our pride ? 
 Those heaven-born blushes tell us, man descends, 
 E'en in the zenith of his earthly bliss : 
 Should reason take her infidel repose, 
 This honest instinct speaks our lineage high ; 
 This instinct calls on darkness to conceal 
 Oar rapturous relation to the stalls.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 169 
 
 Our glory covers us with noble shame, 
 And he that's uncoufounded, 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, 
 And opens all the mysteries 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 blessing-s infinite : 
 What less than infinite, makes unabsurd 
 Passions, which all on earth but more inflames ? 
 Fierce passions, so mismeasured to this scene, 
 Stretch'd out, like eagles' wings, beyond our nest, 
 Far, far beyond the worth of all below, 
 For earth too large, presage a nobler flight, 
 And evidence our title to the skies." 
 
 Ye gentle theologues, of calmer kind ! 
 Whose constitution dictates to your pen ; 
 Who, cold yourselves, think ardour comes from hell ! 
 Think not our passions from corruption sprung, 
 i
 
 170 THE COMPLAINT. NIOHT VII. 
 
 Though to corruption now they lend their wings; 
 
 That is their mistress, not their mother. All 
 
 (And justly) reason deem divine: I see, 
 
 I feel a grandeur in the passions too, 
 
 Which speaks their high descent, and glorious end; 
 
 Which speaks them rays of an eternal fire. 
 
 In Paradise itself they burn'd as strong, 
 
 Ere ADAM fell; though wiser in their aim. 
 
 Like the proud Eastern, struck by Providence, 
 
 What though our passions are run mad, and stoop 
 
 With low, terrestrial appetite, to graze 
 
 On trash, on toys, dethroned from high desire? 
 
 Yet still, through their disgrace, no feeble ray 
 
 Of greatness shines, and tells us whence they fell : 
 
 But these (like that fall'n monarch when reclaim'd), 
 
 When reason moderates the rein aright, 
 
 Shall reascend, remount their former sphere, 
 
 Where once they soar'd illustrious ; ere seduced 
 
 By wanton Eve's debauch, to stroll on earth, 
 
 And set the sublunary world on fire. 
 
 But grant their frenzy lasts ; their frenzy fails 
 To disappoint one providential end, 
 For which Heaven blew up ardour in our hearts : 
 Were reason silent, boundless passion speaks 
 A future scene of boundless objects too, 
 And brings glad tidings of eternal day. 
 Eternal day ! 'tis that enlightens all ; 
 And all, by that enlighten'd, proves it sure. 
 Consider man as an immortal being, 
 Intelligible all; and all is great; 
 A crystalline transparency prevails,
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 171 
 
 And strikes full lustre through the human sphere: 
 
 Consider inan as mortal, all is dark, 
 
 And wretched ; reason weeps at the survey. 
 
 The learn 'd LORENZO cries, "And let her weep, 
 Weak modern reason : ancient times were wise. 
 Authority, that venerable guide, 
 Stands on my part; the famed Athenian porch 
 (And who for wisdom so renown'd as they ?) 
 Denied this immortality to man." 
 I grant it, but affirm, they proved it too. 
 A riddle, this? Have patience; I'll explain. 
 
 What noble vanities, what moral flights, 
 Glittering through their romantic wisdom's page, 
 Make us at once despise them, and admire ? 
 Fable is flat to these high-season'd sires ; 
 They leave th' extravagance of song below. 
 " Flesh shall not feel ; or, feeling, shall enjoy 
 The dagger, or the rack ; to them, alike 
 A bed of roses, or the burning bull." 
 In men exploding all beyond the grave, 
 Strange doctrine, this! As doctrine it was strange; 
 But not, as prophecy; for such it proved, 
 And, to their own amazement, was fulfill 'd : 
 They feign'd a firmness Christians need not feign. 
 The Christian truly triumph'd in the flame : 
 The Stoic saw, in double wonder lost, 
 Wonder at them, and wonder at himself, 
 To find the bold adventures of his thought 
 Not bold, and that he strove to lie in vain. 
 
 Whence, then, those thoughts? those towering 
 
 thoughts, that flew 
 
 Such monstrous heights ? From instinct,and from pride, 
 i 2
 
 172 THE COMPLAINT. MGHT VII. 
 
 The glorious instinct of a deathless soul, 
 Confusedly conscious of her dignity, 
 Suggested truths they could not understand. 
 In lust's dominion, and in passion's storm, 
 Truth's system broken, scatter'd fragments lay, 
 As light in chaos, glimmering through the gloom: 
 Siuit with the pomp of lofty sentiments, 
 Pleased pride proclaim'd, what reason disbelieved. 
 Pride, like the Delphic priestess, with a swell, 
 Raved nonsense, destined to be future sense, 
 When life immortal, in full day, should shine; 
 And death's dark shadows fly the Gospel sun. 
 They spoke, what nothing but immortal souls 
 Could speak ; and thus the truth they question'd, prov'd. 
 
 Can then absurdities, as well as crimes, 
 Speak man immortal ? All things speak him so. 
 Much has been urged ; and dost thou call for more ? 
 Call ; and with endless questions be distress'd, 
 All unresolvable, if earth is all. 
 
 "Why life, a moment? infinite, desire? 
 Our wish, eternity? our home, the grave? 
 Heaven's promise dormant lies in human hope ; 
 Who wishes life immortal, proves it too. 
 Why happiness pursued, though never found? 
 Man's thirst of happiness declares it is 
 ( For nature never gravitates to nought) ; 
 That thirst, unqnench'd, declares it is not here. 
 My LUCIA, thy CLARISSA call to thought; 
 Why cordial friendship rivetted so deep, 
 As hearts to pierce at first, at parting, rend, 
 If friend, and friendship, vanish in an hour? 
 Is not this torment in the mask of joy ?
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 1 ' 3 
 
 Why by reflection marr'd the joys of sense ? 
 Why past, and future, preying on our hearts, 
 And putting all our present joys to death? 
 Why labours reason? Instinct were as well ; 
 Instinct far better; what can choose, can err: 
 O how infallible tho thoughtless brute! 
 Twere well his Holiness were half as sure. 
 Reason with inclination, why at war? 
 Why sense of guilt? why conscience up in arras?" 
 
 Conscience of guilt, is prophecy of pain, 
 And bosom-counsel to decline the blow. 
 Reason with inclination ne'er had jarr'd, 
 If nothing future paid forbearance here: 
 Thus on these, and a thousand pleas uncall'd, 
 All promise, some ensure, a second scene; 
 Which, were it doubtful, would be dearer far 
 Than all things else most certain; were it false, 
 \\ hat truth on earth so precious as the lie? 
 This world it gives us, let what will ensue ; 
 This world it gives, in that high cordial, hope : 
 The future of the present is the soul. 
 How this life groans, when sever'd from the next! 
 Poor mutilated wretch, that disbelieves ! 
 By dark distrust his being cut in two, 
 In both parts perishes ; life void of joy, 
 Sad prelude of eternity in pain ! 
 
 Couldst thou persuade me, the next life could foil 
 Our ardent wishes ; how should I pour out 
 My bleeding heart in anguish, new, as deep ! 
 Oh ! with what thoughts, thy hope, and my despair. 
 Abhorr'd ANNIHILATION! blasts the soul, 
 And wide extends the bounds of human woe!
 
 174 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIJ. 
 
 Could I believe LORENZO'S system true, 
 In tliis black channel would my ravings run: 
 
 " Grief from the future borrow'd peace, erewhile. 
 The future vanish'd ! and the present pain'd ! 
 Strange import of unprecedented ill ! 
 Fall, how profound ! Like LUCIFER'S the fall ! 
 Unequal fate ! his fall, without his guilt ! 
 From where fond hope built her pavilion high, 
 The gods among, hurl'd headlong, hurl'd at once 
 To night! to nothing! darker still than night! 
 If 'twas a dream, why wake me, my worst foe, 
 LORENZO, boastful of the name of friend ! 
 O for delusion ! O for error still ! 
 Could vengeance strike much stronger, than to plant 
 A thinking being in a world like this, 
 Not over-rich before, now beggar'd quite ; 
 More cursed than at the fall? The sun goes out! 
 The thorns shoot up ! what thorns in every thought! 
 Why sense of better ? It imbitters worse. 
 Why sense? why life? if but to sigh, then sink 
 To what I was? Twice nothing! and much woe! 
 Woe, from Heaven's bounties ! woe from what was 
 To flatter most, high intellectual powers ! [wont 
 
 "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 
 That shocking science, parent of despair ! 
 Avert thy mirror: if I see, I die. 
 
 "Know my Creator! climb his bless'd abode 
 By painful speculation, pierce the veil,
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 175 
 
 Dive in his nature, read his attributes, 
 
 And gaze in admiration on a foe, 
 
 Obtruding life, withholding happiness ! 
 
 From the full rivers that surround his throne, 
 
 Not 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 leagued with furies, and with thce*, against me. 
 
 " Know his achievements ! study his renown ! 
 Contemplate this amazing universe, 
 Dropp'd from his hand, with miracles replete ! 
 For what? 'Mid miracles of nobler name, 
 To find one miracle of misery ? 
 To find the being, which alone can know 
 And praise his works, a blemish on his praise ? 
 Through nature's ample range, in thought, to stroll, 
 And start at man, the single mourner there, 
 Breathing high hope, chaiti'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 every vice, and swept to brutal dust ? 
 Merit is madness ; virtue is a crime ; 
 A crime to reason, if it costs us pain 
 
 * LORENZO.
 
 '76 THE COMPLAINT. KIGHT VII. 
 
 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 favourites of the skies : 
 
 Ye towering hopes ! abortive energies ! 
 
 That toss, and struggle, in my lying breast, 
 
 To scale the skies, and build presumptions there, 
 
 As I were heir of an eternity. 
 
 Vain, vain ambitions ! trouble me no more. 
 
 Why travel far in quest of sure defeat ? 
 
 As bounded as my being, be my wish. 
 
 All is inverted; wisdom is a fool. 
 
 Sense ! take the rein ; blind passion ! drive us on ; 
 
 And ignorance ! befriend us on our way; 
 
 Ye new, but truest patrons of our peace ! 
 
 Yes; give the pulse full empire; live the brute, 
 
 Since, as the brute, we die. The sum of man, 
 
 Of godlike 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 \ain : 
 Tis man alone expostulates with Heaven ; 
 His, all the power, and all the cause, <o mourn.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 177 
 
 Shall human eyes alone dissolve in tears? 
 
 And bleed, in anguish, none but human hearts? 
 
 The wide-stretch'd realm of intellectual woe, 
 
 Surpassing sensual far, is all our own. 
 
 In life so fatally distinguish'd, why 
 
 Cast in one lot, confounded, lump'd, 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 power. 
 
 "And why see that? Why thought? To toil and oat, 
 Then make our bed in darkness, needs no thought. 
 What superfluities are reasoning souls ! 
 Oh, give eternity ! or thought destroy ! 
 But without thought, our curse were half unfelt ; 
 Its blunted edge would spare the throbbing heart; 
 And, therefore, 'tis bestow'd. I thank thee, reason ! 
 For aiding life's too small calamities, 
 And giving being to the dread of death. 
 Such are thy bounties ! Was it then too much 
 For me, to trespass on the brutal rights ? 
 Too much for Heaven to make one emmet more? 
 Too much for chaos to permit my mass 
 A longer stay with essences uuwrought, 
 Unfashion'd, untormented into man ? 
 Wretched preferment to this round of pains! 
 Wretched capacity of frenzy, thought ! 
 I 3
 
 178 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 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 changed its nature too: O death ! 
 Come to my bosom, thou best gift of Heaven ! 
 Best friend of man ! since man is man no more. 
 Why in this thorny wilderness so long, 
 Since there's no promised land's ambrosial bower, 
 To pay me with its honey for my stings ? 
 If needful to the selfish schemes of Heaven 
 To sting us sore, why mock'd our misery ? 
 Why this so sumptuous insult o'er our heads? 
 Why this illustrious canopy display'd ? 
 Why so magnificently lodged despair? 
 At stated periods, sure-returning, roll 
 These glorious orbs, that mortals may compute 
 Their length of labours, and of pains; nor lose 
 Their misery's full measure ? Smiles with flowers, 
 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 ! Bless'd 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,
 
 THE IXF1DEL RECLAIMED. 179 
 
 Which prompts proud thought, and kindles high desire ; 
 
 If, from her humble chamber iu the dust, 
 
 While proud thought swells, and high desire inflames, 
 
 The poor worm calls us for her inmates there ; 
 
 And, round us, death's inexorable hand 
 
 Draws the dark curtain close ; undrawn no more. 
 
 "Undrawn no more! Behind the cloud of death, 
 Once, I beheld a sun ; a sun which gilt 
 That sable cloud, and turn'd it all to gold. 
 How the grave's alter'd! fathomless, as hell! 
 A real hell to those who dreain'd of heaven. 
 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, 
 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 powers, 
 For ever is extinguished. Horror ! death ! 
 Death of that death I fearless once survey'd ! 
 When horror universal shall descend, 
 And heaven's dark concave urn all human race, 
 On that enormous, unrefunding tomb, 
 How just this verse ! this monumental sigh !" 
 
 Beneath the lumber of demolish'*! worlds, 
 
 Deep in the rubbish of the general wreck, 
 
 Swept ignominious to the common mass 
 
 Of matter, never dignified with life, 
 
 Here lie proud rationals ; the sons of Heaven ! 
 
 The lords of earth ! the property of worms ! 
 
 Beings of j-esterdav, and no to-morrow !
 
 lyO THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Who lived in terror, and in pangs expired ! 
 All gone to rot in chaos ; or, to make 
 Their liappy transit into blocks, or brutes, 
 Nor longer sully their Creator's name. 
 
 LORENZO ! hear, pause, wonder, and pronounce. 
 Just is this history? If such is man, 
 Mankind's historian, though divine, might weep. 
 And dares LORENZO smile ! I know thee proud ; 
 For once let pride befriend tbee : 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 .' 
 And nothing? less than nothing? To have been, 
 And not to be, is lower than unborn. 
 Art thou ambitious? Why then make the worm 
 Thine equal ? Runs thy taste of pleasure higli ? 
 Why patronise sure death of every joy? 
 Charm riches ? Why choose beggary in the grave,. 
 Of every hope a bankrupt ! and for ever? 
 Ambition, pleasure, avarice, persuade thee 
 To make that world of glory, rapture, wealth, 
 They* lately proved, thy soul's supreme desire. 
 
 What art thou made of? Rather, how unmade? 
 Great nature's master-appetite destroy'd ! 
 Is endless. life, and happiness, despised? 
 Or both wish'd here, where neither can be found? 
 Such man's perverse, eternal war with Heaven ! 
 Darest thou persist ? and is there nought on earth v 
 Rai a long train of transitory forms, 
 Rising, and breaking, millions in an hour ? 
 
 * In tbe Sixth Night.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 181 
 
 Bubbles of a fantastic deity, blown up 
 In sport, and then iu cruelty destroyed? 
 Oh ! for what crime, unmerciful LORENZO! 
 Destroys thy scheme the whole of human race? 
 Kind is fell LUCIFER, compared to thee: 
 Oh! spare this waste of being half divine; 
 And vindicate th' oeconomy of Heaven. 
 
 Heaven is all love; all joy in giving joy; 
 It never had created, but to bless : 
 And shall it, then, strike off the list of life, 
 A being bless'd, or worthy so to be? 
 Heaven starts at an annihilating GOD. 
 
 Is that, all nature starts at, thy desire ? 
 Art such a clod, to wish thyself all clay? 
 What is that dreadful wish ? The dying groan 
 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, endless happiness ; 
 Annihilation is an after-thought, 
 A monstrous wish, unborn till virtue dies. 
 And, oh ! what depth of horror lies enclosed! 
 For non-existence 110 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 biack a scheme
 
 182 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Of hopes abortive, faculties half blown, 
 And deities begun, reduced to dust ? 
 
 There's nought (thou say'st) but one eternal flux 
 Of feeble essences, tumultuous driven 
 Through time's rough billows into night's abyss. 
 Say, in this rapid tide of human ruin, 
 Is there no rock, on which man's tossing thought 
 Can rest from terror, dare his fate survey, 
 And boldly think it something to be born ? 
 Amid such hourly wrecks of being fair, 
 Is there no central, all-sustaining base, 
 All-realizing, all-connecting power, 
 Which, as 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 outstretch'd arm, 
 When ripening time calls forth th' appointed hour, 
 Pluck'd from foul devastation's famish'd maw, 
 Binds present, past, and future, to his throne ? 
 His throne, how glorious, thus divinely graced, 
 By germinating beings clustering round ! 
 A garland worthy the Divinity ! 
 A throne, by Heaven's omnipotence in smiles, 
 Built (like a Pharos towering 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
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 183 
 
 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? AVhen the trumpet's call, 
 
 As sounding brass, collects us, round Heaven's throne 
 
 Conglobed, we bask in everlasting day, 
 
 (Paternal splendour !) and adhere for ever. 
 
 Had not the soul this outlet to the skies, 
 
 In this vast vessel of the universe, 
 
 How should we gasp, as in an empty void ! 
 
 How in the pangs of famish'd hope expire? 
 
 How bright my prospect shines ! how gloomy, thine ! 
 A trembling world ! and a devouring god ! 
 Earth, but the shambles of omnipotence ! 
 Heaven's face all staiu'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 ; 
 Glittering a moment, nor that moment sure;
 
 184 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT Vlf. 
 
 '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 dared the DEITY dethrone ? 
 How dared indict him of a world like this ? 
 If such the world, creation was a crime ; 
 For what is crime, but cause of misery ? 
 Retract, blasphemer ! and unriddle this, 
 Of endless arguments, above, below, 
 
 Without us, and within, the short result 
 
 " If man's immortal, there's a Gob in heaven." 
 
 But wherefore such redundancy.? such w aste 
 Of argument? One sets my soul at rest! 
 One obvious, and at hand, and, oh! at heart : 
 So just the skies, PHILANDER'S life so pain'd, 
 His heart so pure ; that, or succeeding scenes 
 Have palms to give, or ne'er had he been born. 
 
 " What an old tale is this !" LORENZO cries. 
 I grant this argument is old ; but truth 
 No years impair : and had not this been true, 
 Thou never hadst despised it for its age. 
 Truth is immortal as thy soul ; and fable 
 As fleeting as thy joys. Be wise, nor make 
 Heaven's highest blessing, vengeance ; O be wise ! 
 Nor make a curse of immortality. 
 
 Say, know'st thou what it is, or what thou art ? 
 Know'st thou th' importance of a soul immortal .' 
 Behold this midnight glory : worlds on worlds ! 
 Amazing pomp ! redouble this amaze ; 
 Ten thousand add ; and twice ten thousand more ; 
 Then weigh the whole : one soul outweighs them all ;
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 185 
 
 And calls th' astonishing magnificence 
 Of unintelligent creation, poor. 
 
 For this, believe not ine ; 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; 
 I'or whom Omnipotence has waked so long : 
 Has waked, and work'd for ages ; from the birth 
 Of nature, to this unbelieving hour. 
 
 In this small province of His vast domain, 
 (All nature bow, while I pronounce His name !) 
 What has GOD done, and not for this sole end, 
 To rescue souls from death ? The soul's high price 
 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 every deed divine : 
 That, is the chain of ages, which maintains 
 Their obvious correspondence, and unites 
 Most distant periods in one bless'd design : 
 That, is the mighty hinge, on which have turn'd 
 All revolutions, whether we regard 
 The natural, 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
 
 186 THE COMPLAINT. KJGHT VII. 
 
 Tb' ALMIGHTY, rising, his long sabbath broke ! 
 The world was made; was ruin'd; was restored ; 
 Laws from the skies were publish'd ; were repeai'd ; 
 On earth, kings, kingdoms, rose ; kings, kingdoms, fell ; 
 Famed sages lighted up the Pagan world ; 
 Prophets from Sion darted a keen glance 
 Through distant age ; saints travel'd ; martyrs bled ; 
 By wonders sacred nature stood control'd ; 
 The living were translated ; dead were raised ; 
 Angels, and more than angels, came from heaven ; 
 And, oh ! for this, descended lower still ! 
 Gilt was hell's gloom ; astonish'd at his guest, 
 For one short moment LUCIFER adored: 
 LORENZO ! and wilt thou do less ? For this, 
 That hallow'd page, fools scoff at, was inspired, 
 Of all these truths thrice-venerable code ! 
 Deists ! perform your quarantine ; and then 
 Fall prostrate, ere you touch it, lest you die. 
 
 Nor less intensely bent infernal powers 
 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-hovering 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 interest blows the flame ; 
 His the sole stake ; his fate the trumpet sounds,
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 187 
 
 Which kindles war immortal. How it burns ! 
 
 Tumultuous swarms of deities in arms ! 
 
 Force, force opposing, till the waves run high, 
 
 Aud tempest nature's universal sphere. 
 
 Such opposites eternal, stedfast, stern, 
 
 Such foes implacable, are Good and 111; [them. 
 
 Yet man, vain man, would mediate peace between 
 
 Think not this fiction. " There was war iu heaven." 
 From heaven's high crystal mountain, where it hung, 
 Th' ALMIGHTY'S outstretch'd arm took downhisbow, 
 And shot his indignation at the deep : 
 
 ile-thunder'd hell, and darted all her fires 
 
 And seems the stake of little moment still? 
 And slumbers man, who singly caused the storm? 
 He sleeps. And art thou shock'd at mysteries? 
 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 wondrous view supports 
 My former argument ! How strongly strikes 
 Immortal life's full demonstration, here ! 
 Why this exertion ? Why this strange regard 
 From heaven's Omnipotent indulged to man? 
 Because, in man, the glorious, dreadful power, 
 Extremely to be pain'd, or bless'd, 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 indulged 
 This strange regard of deities to dust.
 
 188 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Hence, heaven looks down on earth with all her eyes : 
 Hence, the soul's mighty moment in her sight : 
 Hence, every soul has partisans above, 
 And every thought a critic in the skies: 
 Hence, clay, vile clay ! has angels for its guard. 
 And every 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 shaken basis, own'd the present GOD: 
 Witness, ye billows ! whose returning tide, 
 Breaking the chain that fasten'd it in air, 
 Swept Egypt, and her menaces, to hell : 
 Witness, ye flames ! tli' Assyrian tyrant blew 
 To sevenfold rage, as impotent, as strong: 
 And thou, earth! witness, whose expanding jaws 
 Closed o'er presumption's sacrilegious sons *. 
 Has not each element, in turn, subscribed 
 The soul's high price, and sworn it to the wise? 
 Has not flame, ocean, aether, earthquake, strove 
 To strike this truth through adamantine man ? 
 If not all-adamant, LORENZO ! hear : 
 All is delusion; nature is wrapt up, 
 In tenfold night, from reason's keenest eye ; 
 
 * KoRAH, &C.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 189 
 
 There's no consistence, meaning, plan, or end, 
 
 In all beneath the sun, in all above 
 
 (As far as man can penetrate), or heaven 
 
 Is an immense, inestimable prize: 
 
 Or all is nothing, or that prize is all. 
 
 And shall each toy be still a match for heaven, 
 
 And full equivalent for groans below ? 
 
 Who would not give a trifle to prevent, 
 
 What he would give a thousand worlds to cure? 
 
 LORENZO ! thou hast seen (if thine to see) 
 All nature, and her GOD (by nature's course, 
 And nature's course control'd), declare for me: 
 The skies above proclaim, " Immortal man !" 
 And, "Man immortal!" all below resounds. 
 The world's a system of theology, 
 Read by the greatest strangers to the schools : 
 If honest, learn'd ; and sages o'er a plough. 
 Is not, LORENZO, then, imposed on thee 
 This hard alternative; or, to renounce 
 Thy reason, and thy sense ; or, to believe ? 
 What then is unbelief? 'Tis an exploit; 
 A strenuous enterprize : to gain it, man 
 Must burst through every bar of common senss, 
 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, every weakness, every guilt ; 
 -A nd strong temptation ripens it to birth.
 
 190 THE COMPLAINT.' NIGHT VII. 
 
 If this life's gain invites him to the deed, 
 Why not his country sold, his father slain ? 
 Tis virtue to pursue* our good supreme ; 
 And his supreme, his only good, is here. 
 Ambition, avarice, by the wise disdain'd, 
 Is perfect wisdom, while mankind are fools, 
 And think a turf, or tombstone, 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 Heaven. 
 Would Heaven quite beggar virtue, if beloved ? 
 
 " Has virtue charms ?" I grant her heavenly fair j 
 But if unportion'd, all will interest wed ; 
 Though 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 adored ; 
 And hopes and fears give conscience all her power. 
 As in the dying parent dies the child, 
 Virtue, with immortality, expires. 
 Who tells me he denies his soul immortal, 
 Whate'er his boast, has told me, he's a knave. 
 His duty 'tis, to love himself alone ; 
 Nor care though mankind perish, if he smiles. 
 Who thinks ere long the man shall wholly die, 
 Is dead already ; nought but brute survives. 
 
 And are there such? Such candidates there arc 
 For more than death ; for utter loss of being ; 
 Being, the basis of the DEITY !
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 191 
 
 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 ! 
 Fallen 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 pify, 
 Far more undone ! O ye most infamous 
 Of beings, from superior dignity ! 
 Deepest in woe, from means of boundless bliss J 
 Ye cursed by blessings infinite ! because 
 Most highly favour'd, most profoundly lost ! 
 Ye motley mass of contradiction strong ! 
 And are you, too, convinced, your souls fly off 
 In exhalation soft, and die in air, 
 From the full flood of evidence against you ? 
 In the coarse drudgeries, and sinks of sense, 
 Your souls have quite worn out the make of Heaveu. 
 By vice new-cast, and creatures of your own : 
 But though you can deform, you can't destroy ; 
 To curse, not uncreate, is all your power. 
 
 LORENZO ! this black brotherhood renounce; 
 Renounce St. Evremont, and read St. Paul.
 
 192 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Ere rapt by miracle, by reason wing'd, 
 
 His mounting mind made long abode in heaven. 
 
 This is freethinking, unconfined to parts, 
 
 To send the soul, on curious travel bent, 
 
 Through all the provinces of human thought ; 
 
 To dart her flight, through the whole sphere of man ; 
 
 Of this vast universe to make the tour ; 
 
 In each recess of space, and time, at home ; 
 
 Familiar with their wonders: diving deep ; 
 
 And like a prince of boundless interests 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 enlighten'd, and sustain'd, afford 
 
 An arch-like, strong foundation, to support 
 
 Th' incumbent weight of absolute, complete 
 
 Conviction : here, the more we press, we stand 
 
 More firm ; who most examine, most believe. 
 
 Parts, like half-sentences, confound ; the whole 
 
 Conveys the sense, and GOD is understood ; 
 
 Who not in fragments writes to human race : 
 
 Read his whole volume, sceptic ! then reply. 
 
 This, this, is thinking free, a thought that grasps 
 Beyond a grain, and looks beyond an hour. 
 Turn up thine eye, survey this midnight scene: 
 What are earth's kingdoms, to yon boundless orbs, 
 Of human souls, one day, the destined range ! 
 And what yon boundless orbs, to godlike man? 
 Those numerous worlds that throng the firmament, 
 And ask more space in heaven, can roll at large 
 In man's capacious thought, and still leave room 
 For ampler orbs ; for new creations, there.
 
 THE INHDEL RECLAIMED. 193 
 
 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 oped 
 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 every wind; 
 Eye thy great Pole-star ; make the land of life. 
 
 Two kinds of life has double-natured man, 
 And two of death ; the last far more severe. 
 Life animal is nurtured by the sun ; 
 Thrives on his bounties, triumphs in his beams. 
 Life rational subsists on higher food, 
 Triumphant in His beams, who made the day. 
 When we leave that sun, and are left by this 
 (The fate of all who die in stubborn guilt), 
 'Tis utter darkness ; strictly double death. 
 We sink by no judicial stroke of Heaven, 
 But nature's course ; as sure as plummets fall. 
 K
 
 194 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Since GOD, or man, must alter, ere they meet 
 (For light and darkness blend not in one sphere), 
 Tis manifest, LORENZO, who must change. 
 
 If, then, that doable death should prove thy lot, 
 Blame not the bowels of the DEITY : 
 Man shall be bless'd, as far as man permits. 
 Not man alone, all rational*, heaven arms 
 With an illustrious, but tremendous power 
 To counteract its own most gracious ends ; 
 And this, of strict necessity, not choice: 
 That power denied, men, angels, were no more 
 But passive engines, void of praise, or blame. 
 A nature rational, implies the power 
 Of being bless'd, 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. 
 Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom ; 
 Invites us ardently, but not compels. 
 Heaven 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 : 
 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.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 195 
 
 " Thus infidelity our guilt betrays." 
 
 Nor that the sole 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, 
 Affords 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. 
 
 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, 
 K 2
 
 196 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Is nature's unavoidable ascent; 
 
 An honest deist, where the Gospel shines, 
 
 Matured to nobler, in the Christian ends. 
 
 When that bless'd change arrives, e'en cast aside 
 
 This song superfluous ; life immortal strikes 
 
 Conviction, in a flood of light divine. 
 
 A Christian dwells, like URIEL, in the sun*; 
 
 Meridian evidence puts doubt 1o flight ; 
 
 And ardent, hope anticipates the skies. 
 
 Of that bright sun, LORENZO ! scale the sphere ; 
 
 Tis easy ! it invites thee ; it descends 
 
 From heaven to woo, and waft thee whence it came : 
 
 Read and revere the sacred page ; a page 
 
 Where triumphs immortality ; a page 
 
 Which not the whole creation could produce ; 
 
 Which not the conflagration shall destroy ; 
 
 'Tis printed in the mind of gods for ever : 
 
 In nature's ruins not one letter lost. 
 
 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 ; 
 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, 
 
 * MILTON.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 19? 
 
 Take heed; stand fast; be sure to be a knave; 
 
 A knave in grain ! ne'er deviate to the right : 
 
 Shouldst thou be good how infinite thy loss ! 
 
 Guilt only makes annihilation gain. 
 
 Bless'd 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 jour lofty boast 
 
 Of zeal for virtue, and of love to man ? 
 
 Annihilation ! 1 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 Heaven, and triumph in your praise. 
 But since so pestilential your disease, 
 Though sovereign is the medicine I prescribe, 
 As yet, I'll neither triumph, nor despair: 
 But hope, ere long, my midnight dream will wake 
 Your hearts, and teach your \\isdom-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; 
 Increase, and enter on the joys of heaven : 
 Thus shall my title pass a sacred seal, 
 Receive an imprimatur from above, 
 While angels shout An infidel reclaim'd ! 
 
 To close, LORENZO. Spite of all my pains, 
 Still seems it strange, that thou shouldstlive for ever? 
 
 The Infidel Reclaimed.
 
 198 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 Is it less strange that thou shouldst live at all ? 
 This is a miracle ; and that no more. 
 Who gave beginning, can exclude an end. 
 Deny thou art: then, doubt if thou shalt be. 
 A miracle with miracles enclosed, 
 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 uncaused ! 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. 
 Reason is man's peculiar ; sense, the brute's. 
 The present is the scanty realm of sense ; 
 The future, reason's empire unconfined : 
 On that expending all her godlike power, 
 She plans, provides, expatiates, triumphs, there ; 
 There, builds her blessings; there, expects her praise; 
 And nothing asks of fortune, or of men.
 
 THE INFIDEL RECLAIMED. 109 
 
 And what is reason ? Be she thus defined : 
 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, 
 Though 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 power to paint it; time's, to close! 
 
 This hope is earth's most estimable prize : 
 This is man's portion, while no more than man : 
 Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here ; 
 Passions of prouder name befriend us less. 
 Joy has her tears ; and transport has her death : 
 Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though 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 chastised delight ! 
 Like the fair summer evening, mild, and sweet ! 
 'Tis man's full cup ; his paradise below !
 
 200 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII. 
 
 A bless'd 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, 
 Though quite forgotten half jour 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.
 
 Prayr ardent opens Heaven, lets down a stream 
 Of glory on the consecrated hour 
 Of man in audience with the Deity. 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLAINT. 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALLRA.ENGRAVKD BY EDWARD Pi'i 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE. PICCADILLY. 
 MARCH 15.1811.
 
 NIGHT THE EIGHTH. 
 
 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, espoused my part? 
 Have I bribed heaven, and earth, to plead against thee ? 
 And is thy soul immortal? What remains? 
 All, all, LORENZO ! Make immortal, bless'd. 
 Unbless'd, 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 thon proud of that inglorious style? 
 Proud of reproach J for a reproach it was, 
 In ancient days; and CHRISTIAN, in an age, 
 When men were men, and not ashamed of heaven, 
 Fired their ambition, as it crown'd their joy. 
 Sprinkled with dews from the Castaliau font, 
 Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer 
 A purer spirit, and a nobler name. 
 
 Thy fond attachments, fatal, and inflamed, 
 
 K3
 
 202 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIIT. 
 
 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 
 Unnumber'd suns (for all things, as they are, [shine 
 The bless'd 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 towering hopes, what sallies from the sun. 
 What grand surveys of destiny divine, 
 And pompous presage of unfathom'd fate, 
 Should roll in bosoms, where a spirit burns, 
 Bound for eternity ! in bosoms read 
 By Him, who foibles in archangels sees ! . 
 On human hearts He bends a jealous eye, 
 And marks, and in heaven's register inrolls, 
 The rise, and progress, of each option there ;
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 203 
 
 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 tired, 
 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 Adored 
 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 prepared, 
 Intoxicates, but not composes ; fills 
 The visionary mind with gay chimaeras, 
 All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest; 
 What unfeign'd travel, and what dreams of joy ! 
 
 How frail, men, things! How momentary, both ! 
 Fantastic chase of shadows, hunting shades ! 
 The gay, the busy, equal, though unlike ; 
 Equal in w isdom, differently wise ! 
 Through flowery meadows, and through dreary wastes. 
 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 business tell us "What are men;"
 
 204 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VII!. 
 
 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 wondrous prize has kindled this career, 
 Stuns with the din, and chokes us with the dust, 
 On life's gay stage, one inch above the grave ? 
 The proud run up and down, in quest of eyes ; 
 The sensual, in pursuit of something worse ; 
 The grave, of gold ; the politic, of power ; 
 And all, of other butterflies, as vain ! 
 As eddies draw things frivolous, and light, 
 How is man's heart by vanity drawn in ; 
 On the swift circle of returning toys, 
 Whirl'd,straw-like, round and round,and then ingul f '<!, 
 Where gay delusion darkens to despair ! 
 
 "This is a beaten track." Is this a track 
 Should not be beaten ? Never beat enough, 
 Till enough learn'd the truths it would inspire. 
 Shall truth be silent, because folly frowns? 
 Turn the world's history ; what find we there, 
 But fortune's sports, or nature's cruel claims. 
 Or woman's artifice, or man's revenge, 
 And endless inhumanities on man ? 
 Fame's trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knoll, 
 It brings bad tidings : how it hourly blows 
 Man's misadventures round the listening 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
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 205 
 
 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 as ; 
 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'erwise, 
 Who dares to trust them ; and laugh round the year 
 At still-confiding, still-confounded, man, 
 Confiding, though confounded; hoping on, 
 Untaught by trial, unconvinced by proof, 
 And ever-looking for the never-seen. 
 Life to the last, like hardeu'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 ; 
 Night, darker than what, now, involves the pole. 
 
 O THOU, who dost permit these ills to fall, 
 For gracious ends, and wouldst that man should 
 
 mourn! 
 
 O THOU, whose hands this goodly fabric framed, 
 Who know'st it best, and wouldst that man should 
 What is this sublunary world ? A vapour! [know ! 
 A vapour all it holds; itself a vapour, 
 From the damp bed of chaos, by thy beam 
 Exhaled, ordain'd to swim its destined hour 
 In ambient air, then melt, and disappear. 
 Earth's days are uumber'd, nor remote her doom ; 
 As mortal, though less transient than her sons;
 
 206 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 Yet they dote on her, as the world and they 
 Were both eternal, solid ; THOU, a dream. 
 
 They dote, on what ? Immortal views apart, 
 A region of ontsides ! a land of shadows ! 
 A fruitful field of flowery 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, 
 AH restless, anxious ; toss'd with hopes and fears, 
 In calmest skies ; obnoxious all to storm ; 
 And stormy the most general 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 : 
 AH, more or less, capricious fate lament, 
 Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb'd, 
 And further from their wishes than before: 
 All, more or less, against each other dash, 
 To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven, 
 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 
 (Though lately feasted high at Albion's cost*), 
 Wide opening, and loud roaring still for more ! 
 Too faithful mirror ! how dost thou reflect 
 
 * Admiral BALC HI N, cvc.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 207 
 
 The melancholy face of human life ! 
 The strong resemblance tempts me further 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, unexperienced, 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 enterprise 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 procf, 
 Full against wind and tide, some win their way; 
 And when strong effort has deserved the port, 
 And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won ! 'tis lost ! 
 Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate : 
 They strike ; and, while they triumph, they expire. 
 In stress of weather, most; some sink outright; 
 O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close ; 
 To-morrow knows not they were ever born. 
 Others a short memorial leave behind, 
 Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulf 'd ; 
 It floats a moment, and is seen no more : 
 One CESAR lives ; a thousand are forgot. 
 How few, beneath auspicious planets born, 
 (Darlings of Providence! fond Fate's elect!) 
 With swelling sails make good the promised port, 
 With all their wishes freighted ! Yet, even these, 
 Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain:
 
 208 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 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 victors' 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 treacherous blessings, at the day of need, 
 Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting: 
 Then, what provoking indigence in wealth ! 
 What aggravated impotence in power ! 
 High titles, then, what insult of their pain ! 
 If that sole anchor, equal to the waves, 
 Immortal hope ! defies not the rude storm, 
 Takes comfort from the foaming billow's rage, 
 And makes a welcome harbour of the tomb. 
 
 Is this a sketcu 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
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 209 
 
 The best that can befall the best on earth ; 
 
 The boy has virtue by his mother's side : 
 
 Yes, on FLORELLO look: a lather's heart 
 
 Is tender, though the man's is made of stone ; 
 
 The truth, through such a medium seen, may make 
 
 Impression deep, and fondness prove thy friend, 
 
 FLORELLO, lately cast on this rude coast, 
 A helpless infant ; now a heedless child : 
 To poor CLARISSA'S throes, thy care succeeds; 
 Care full of love, and yet severe as hate ! 
 O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns ! 
 Needful austerities his will restrain; 
 As thorns fence in the tender plant from harm. 
 As yet, his reason cannot go alone ; 
 But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on. 
 His little heart is often terrified ; 
 The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale; 
 Its pearly dew-drop trembles in his eye ; 
 His harmless eye ! and drowns an angel there. 
 Ah! what avails his innocence? The task 
 Enjoiu'd, must discipline his early powers; 
 He learns to sigh, ere he is known to sin ; 
 Guiltless, and sad ! a wretch before the fall ! 
 How cruel this ! more cruel to forbear. 
 Our nature such, with necessary pains, 
 We purchase prospects of precarious peace: 
 Though not a father, this might steal a sigh. 
 
 Suppose him disciplined aright (if not, 
 'Twill sink our poor account to poorer still); 
 Ripe from the tutor, proud of liberty, 
 He leaps enclosures, bounds into the world! 
 The world is taken, after ten years' toil,
 
 210 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII 
 
 Lake 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 !) inspired. 
 
 For who receives him into public life ? 
 Men of the world, the terrae-filial breed, 
 Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere 
 (Which glitter'd long, at distance, in his sight), 
 And, in their hospitable arms enclose : 
 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 subdued ; 
 Men, that would blush at being thought sincere, 
 And feign, for glory, the few faults they want ; 
 That love a lie, where truth would pay as well ; 
 As if, to them, vice shone her own reward. 
 
 LORENZO! canst thou bear a shocking sight? 
 Such, for FLORELLO'S sake, 'twill now appear : 
 See the steel'd files of season'd veterans, 
 Train'd to the world, in burnish'd falsehood bright ; 
 Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace ; 
 All soft sensation, in the throng, rubb'd off; 
 All their keen purpose, in politeness sheath'd ; 
 His friends eternal during interest ; 
 His foes implacable when worth their while ; 
 At war with every welfare, but their own ; 
 As wise as LUCIFER; and half as good ; 
 And by whom none, but LUCIFER, can gain 
 Naked, through these (so common fate ordains), 
 Naked of heart, his cruel course be runs,
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 211 
 
 Stung out of all, most amiable in life, 
 
 Prompt truth, and open thought, and smiles unfeign'd, 
 
 Affection, as his species, wide diffused; 
 
 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 
 Through serpentine obliquities of life, 
 And the dark labyrinth of human hearts. 
 And happy ! if the clue shall come so cheap: 
 For, while we learn to fence with public guilt, 
 Full oft we feel its foul contagion too, 
 If less than heavenly virtue is our guard. 
 Thus, a strange kind of cursed necessity 
 Brings down the sterling temper of his soul, 
 By base alloy, to bear the current stamp, 
 Below call'd wisdom ; sinks him into safety ; 
 And brands him into credit with the world; 
 Where specious titles dignify disgrace, 
 And nature's injuries are arts of life ; 
 Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes ; 
 And heavenly talents make infernal hearts ; 
 That unsurmountable 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 practised, long before 'twas writ. 
 The world's all title-page ; there's no contents : 
 The world's all face ; the man who shows his heart,
 
 212 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn 'd. 
 
 A man I knew, who lived upon a smile ; 
 
 And well it fed him ; he look'd plump and fair ; 
 
 While rankest venom foam'd through every vein. 
 
 LORENZO ! what I tell thee, take not ill : 
 
 Laving, he fawn'd on every fool alive ; 
 
 And, dying, cursed the friend on whom he lived. 
 
 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 neciomantics of their art, 
 
 Playing the game of faces on each other ; 
 
 Making court sweet-meats of their latent gall, 
 
 In foolish hope to steal each other's trust ; 
 
 Both cheating, both exulting, both deceived ; 
 
 And, sometimes, both (let earth rejoice) undone ! 
 
 Their parts we doubt not ; but be that their shame : 
 
 Shall men of talents, fit to rule mankind, 
 
 Stoop to mean wiles, that would disgrace a fool ; 
 
 And lose the thanks of those few friends they serve? 
 
 For who can thank the man, he cannot see? 
 
 Why so much cover ? It defeats itself. 
 Ye that know all things! know ye not, men's hearts 
 Are therefore known, because they are conceal'd ? 
 For why conceal'd ? The cause they need not tell. 
 I give him joy, that's awkward at a lie ; 
 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 ?
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 213 
 
 Ilowe'er, I grant it some small sign of grace, 
 To strain at an excuse. And wouldst thou then 
 Escape that cruel need ? Thou inay'st, with ease: 
 Thiuk 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 110 neuter; it will wound, or save ; 
 Or virtue quench, or indignation fire. 
 You say, The world, well known, will make a man. 
 The world, well known, will give our hearts to heaven, 
 Or make us daemons, long before we die. 
 
 To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shines, 
 Take either part, sure ills attend t ; :e choice; 
 Sure, though not equal, detriment ensues. 
 Not virtue's self is deitied 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 sigji, 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? 
 W T here much, much patience, the most envied 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,
 
 214 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 LORENZO smartly, with a smile, replies : 
 
 " Thus far thy song is right ; and all must owii, 
 
 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 ; 
 Of these, each following age had much to say : 
 Yet, unexhausted, still, the needful theme. 
 Who talks of these, to mankind all at once 
 He talks ; for where the saint from either free ? 
 Are these thy refuge ? No : these rush upon thee ; 
 Thy vitals seize, and, vulture-like, devour. 
 I'll try, if I can pluck thee from thy rock, 
 PROMETHEUS ! from this barren ball of earth : 
 If reason can unchain thee, thou art free. 
 
 And, first, thy Caucasus, ambition, calls ; 
 Mountain of torments ! eminence of woes ! 
 Of courted woes ! and courted through mistake? 
 'Tis not ambition charms thee ; 'tis a cheat 
 
 Will make thee start, as H at his Moor. 
 
 Dost grasp at greatness? First, know 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,
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 215 
 
 Is glory lodged : 'tis lodged 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, 
 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 fluttering, and the soul forgot. 
 Thy greatest glory when disposed to boast, 
 Boast that aloud, in which thy servants share. 
 
 We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy: 
 Judge we, in their caparisons, of men? 
 It nought avails thee, where, but what, thou art; 
 All the distinctions of this little life 
 Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man, 
 When, through death's streights, earth's subtle ser- 
 pents 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.
 
 216 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT Ml!. 
 
 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 tbou 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, 
 Illustrious, might aflbid but few grandees. 
 
 The Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveys 
 Nought greater, than an honest, humble heart ; 
 An bumble heart, His residence! pronounced 
 His second seat ; and rival to the skies. 
 The private path, the secret acts of men, 
 If noble, far the noblest of our lives ! 
 How far above LORENZO'S glory sits 
 Tli" illustrious master of a name unknown? 
 Whose worth unrivaU'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. 
 
 Eut thy great soul this skulking glory scorns. 
 LORENZO'S sick, but when LORENZO'S seen ; 
 And, when he shrugs at public business, lies. 
 Denied the public eye, the public voice, 
 As if he liv'd on others' breath, he dies. 
 Fain would he make the world his pedestal; 
 Mankind, the gazers ; the sole figure, he.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 217 
 
 Knows he, that mankind praise against their will, 
 
 And mix as much detraction as they can? 
 
 Knows he, that faithless fame her whisper has, 
 
 As well as trumpet? that his vanity 
 
 Is so much tickled, from not hearing all ? 
 
 Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise, 
 
 Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines, 
 
 Taking his country by five hundred ears, 
 
 Senates at once admire him, and despise, 
 
 With modest laughter lining loud applause, 
 
 Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame? 
 
 His fame, which (like the mighty C/ESAR), 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, though fancied, 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 pursued. 
 Who court applause, oblige the world in this ; 
 They gratify man's passion to refuse. 
 Superior honour, when assumed, is lost; 
 E'en good men turn banditti, and rejoice, 
 Like KOULI-KAN, in plunder of the proud. 
 
 Though somewhat disconcerted, steady still 
 To the world's cause, w ith half a face of joy, 
 LORENZO cries " Be, then, ambition cast ; 
 L
 
 218 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT Vlll. 
 
 Ambition's dearer far stands uuimpeach'd, 
 
 Gay pleasure ! Proud ambition is her slave ; 
 
 For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill ; 
 
 For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes ; 
 
 And paves his way with crowns, to reach her smile : 
 
 Who can resist her charms ?" Or, should? LORENZO ! 
 
 What mortal shall resist, where angels yield? 
 
 Pleasure's the mistress of ethereal powers; 
 
 For her contend the rival gods above : 
 
 Pleasure's the mistress of the world below; 
 
 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, through every vein, 
 
 Throws motion, warmth ; and shuts out death from life. 
 
 Though various are the tempers of mankind, 
 Pleasure's gay family holds all in chains : 
 Some most affect the black ; and sonie, 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.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 219 
 
 Whate'er the motive, pleasure is the mark : 
 
 For her, the black assassin draws his sword ; 
 
 For her, dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp, 
 
 To which no single sacrifice may fall : 
 
 For her, the saint abstains ; the miser starves ; 
 
 The Stoic proud, for pleasure, pleasure scorn 'd : 
 
 For her, affliction's daughters grief indulge, 
 
 And find, or hope, a luxury in tears: 
 
 For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy ; 
 
 And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death. 
 
 Thus universal her despotic power ! 
 
 And as her empire wide, her praise is just. 
 Patron of pleasure ! doter on delight ! 
 I am thy rival ; pleasure I profess ; 
 Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song. 
 Pleasure is nought but virtue's gayer name : 
 I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low ; 
 Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flower ; 
 And honest EPICURUS' foes were fools. 
 
 But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence ; 
 If o'erstrain'd wisdom still retains the name. 
 How knits austerity her cloudy brow, 
 And blames, as bold and hazardous, the praise 
 Of pleasure, to mankind, u upraised, too dear ! 
 Ye modern Stoics ! hear my soft reply ; 
 Their senses men will trust : we can't impose ; 
 Or, if we could, is imposition right? 
 Own honey sweet ; but, owning, add this sting ; 
 " When mix'd with poison, it is deadly too." 
 Truth never was indebted to a lie. 
 Is nought but virtue to be praised, as good ? 
 Why then is health preferr'd before disease .' 
 L 2
 
 220 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT Mil. 
 
 What nature loves is good, without our leave. 
 And where no future drawback cries, " Beware ;" 
 Pleasure, though not from virtue, should prevail. 
 Tis balm to life, and gratitude to Heaven ; 
 How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy'd ! 
 The love of pleasure is man's eldest-born, 
 Born in his cradle, living to his tomb ; 
 Wisdom, her younger sister, though more grave, 
 Was meant to minister, and not to mar, 
 Imperial pleasure, queen of human hearts. 
 LORENZO ! thou, her majesty's renown'd, 
 Though uucoift, counsel, learned in the world ! 
 Who thiuk'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 ? 
 Attend my song, and thou shalt know them all; 
 And know thyself; and know thyself to be 
 (Strange truth !) the most abstemious man alive. 
 Tell not CALISTA : she will laugh thee dead ; 
 
 Or send thee to her hermitage with L , 
 
 Absurd presumption ! thotf who never knew'st 
 
 A serious thought ! shalt thou dare dream of joy ? 
 
 No man e'er found a happy life by chance ; 
 
 Or yawn'd it into being, with a wish ; 
 
 Or, with the snout of groveling appetite, 
 
 E'er smelt it out, and grubb'd it from the dirt. 
 
 An art it is, and must be learn'd ; and learn'd 
 
 With unremitting effort, or be lost ; 
 
 And leave us perfect blockheads, in our bliss. 
 
 The clouds may drop down titles and estates ; 
 
 Wealth may seek us ; but wisdom must be sought ;
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 221 
 
 Sought before all ; but (how unlike all else 
 
 We seek on earth!) 'tis never sought in vain. [see. 
 
 First, pleasure's birth, rise, strength, and grandeur, 
 Brought forth by wisdom, nursed by discipline, 
 By patience taught, by perseverance crown'd, 
 She rears her head majestic ; round her throne, 
 Erected in the bosom of the just, 
 Each virtue, 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 tiioet indulge, who most obey. 
 
 Of pleasure, next, the final cause explore; 
 Its mighty purpose, its important end. 
 Not to turn human brutal, but to build 
 Divine on human, pleasure came from heaven. 
 In aid to reason was the goddess sent ; 
 To call up all its strength by such a charm. 
 Pleasure, first, succours virtue ; in return, 
 Virtue gives pleasure an eternal reign. 
 What, but the pleasure of food, friendship, faith, 
 Supports life natural, civil, and divine? 
 'Tis from the pleasure of repast, we live ; 
 Tis from the pleasure of applause, we please ; 
 Tis from the pleasure of belief, we pray 
 (All prayer would cease, if unbelieved the prize): 
 It serves ourselves, our species, and our GOD;
 
 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 And to serve more, is past the sphere of man. 
 Glide, then, for ever, pleasure's sacred stream ! 
 Through Eden as Euphrates ran, it runs, 
 And fosters every 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 M ; 
 Already sung her origin, and ends. 
 Those glorious ends, by kind, or by degree, 
 When pleasure violates, 'tis then a vice, 
 A vengeance too ; it hastens into pain. 
 From due refreshment, life, health, reason, joy; 
 From wild excess, pain, grief, distraction, death ; 
 Heaven'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, ungauged 
 By temperance, by reason unrefined ? 
 A thousand daemons lurk within the lee. 
 Heaven, others, and ourselves ! uninjured these, 
 Drink deep ; the deeper, then, the more divine : 
 Angels are angels, from indulgence there ; 
 Tis unrepenting pleasure makes a god. 
 
 Dost think thyself a god from other joys? 
 A victim, rather ! shortly sure to bleed. 
 The wrong must mourn : can Heaven's appointments 
 Can man outwit Omnipotence ? strike out [fail ? 
 A self-wrought happiness unmeant by Him 
 Who made us, and the world we would enjoy ? 
 Who forms an instrument, ordains from whence 
 Its dissonance, or harmony, shall rise.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 223 
 
 Heaven bid the soul this mortal frame inspire ; 
 
 Bid virtue's ray divine inspire the soul 
 
 With unprecarious flows of vital joy : 
 
 And, without breathing, man as well might hope 
 
 For life, as without piety, for peace. 
 
 "Is virtue, then, and piety the same?" 
 No ; piety is more : 'tis virtue's source ; 
 Mother of every 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 power. 
 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 heaven ; 
 Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life, 
 The w r hirls of passion, and the strokes of heart. 
 A Deity believed, is joy begun ; 
 A Deity adored, is joy advanced ; 
 A Deity beloved, is joy matured. 
 Each branch of piety delight inspires : 
 Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next,
 
 224 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides : 
 Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, 
 That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still : 
 Prayer ardent opens heaven, 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 heaven, and sets his foot on hell. 
 
 LORENZO! when wast thou at church before? 
 Thou think'st the service long: but is it just.' 
 Though just, unwelcome: thou badst rather tread 
 Unhaliow'd ground; the muse, to win thine ear, 
 Must take au air less solemn. She complies. 
 Good conscience ! at the sound the world retires ; 
 Verse disaflects it, and LORF.NZO 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. " Go, fix some weighty truth ; 
 Chain down some passion ; do some generous 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; 
 Though 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 disra>< . 
 Laughter, though never censured yet as sin 
 (Pardon a thought that only seems severe),
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 225 
 
 If half-immoral. Is it much indulged ? 
 
 By venting spleen, or dissipating thought, 
 
 It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool ; 
 
 And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves. 
 
 'Tis pride, or emptiness, applies the straw, 
 
 That tickles little minds to mirth effuse ; 
 
 Of grief approaching, the portentous sign J, 
 
 The house of laughter makes a house of woe. 
 
 A man triumphant is a monstrous sight ; 
 
 A man dejected is a sight as mean. 
 
 What cause for triumph, where such ills abound? 
 
 What for dejection, where presides a Power, 
 
 Who call'd us into being to be bless'd ? 
 
 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 sovereign aid to peace; 
 Ah ! do not prize them less, because inspired, 
 As thou, and thine, are apt and proud to do. 
 If not inspired, 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; 
 What man of taste for genius, wisdom, truth, 
 Though tender of thy fame, could interpose! 
 
 L3
 
 226 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT Vllt. 
 
 Believe me, sense, here, acts a double part, 
 And the true critic is a Christian too. 
 
 But these, thou think'st, are gloomy paths to joy. 
 True joy in sunshine ne'er was found at first; 
 They, first, themselves offend, who greatly please ; 
 And travel only gives us sound repose. 
 Heaven 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 mis-timed fondness, is undone. 
 A man of pleasure, is a man of pains. 
 Thou wilt not take the trouble to be bless'd. 
 False joys, indeed, are born from want of thought ; 
 From thought's full bent, and energy, the true ; 
 And that demands a mind in equal poise, 
 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 threatening death, and not turn pale ? 
 In such a world, and such a nature, these 
 Are needful fundamentals of delight : 
 These fundamentals give delight indeed : 
 Delight, pure, delicate, and durable; 
 Delight, unshaken, masculine, divine; 
 A constant, and a sound, but serious joy.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 
 
 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 for ever !" nature cries, " Rejoice ;" 
 And drinks to man in her nectareous cup, 
 Mix'd up of delicates for every 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 ; 
 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 aggrandized, the smallest thing we do ! 
 Thus, nothing is insipid to the wise : 
 To thee, insipid all, but what is mad ; 
 Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt. 
 " Mad ! (thou repliest, with indignation fired) 
 Of ancient sages proud to tread the steps, 
 I follow nature." Follow nature still, 
 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.
 
 228 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 When, spite of conscience, pleasure is pursued, 
 Man's nature is unnaturally pleased : 
 And what's unnatural, is painful too 
 At intervals, and must disgust e'en thee ! 
 The fact thou know'st; but not, perhaps, the cause. 
 Virtue's foundations with the world's were laid ; 
 Heaven mix'd her with our make, and twisted close 
 Her sacred interests with the strings of life. 
 Who break's 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 spared? 
 The pains of mind surpass the pains of sense : 
 Ask, then, the gout, what torment is in guilU 
 The joys of sense to mental joys are mean i 
 Sense on the present only feeds ; the soul 
 On past, and future, forages for joy. 
 'Tis hers, by retrospect, through 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, 
 Lured by the beating of his pulse, to list 
 With every lust, that wars against his peace, 
 And sets him quite at variance with himself. 
 Thyself, first, know ; then love : a self there is 
 Of virtue fond, that kindles at her charms. 
 A self there is, as fond of every vice, 
 While every virtue wounds it to the hoart :
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 229 
 
 Humility degrades it, justice robs, 
 
 Bless'd 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 Power,. 
 From whom herself, and all she can enjoy. 
 Other self-love is but disguised self-hate j 
 More mortal than the malice of our foes ; 
 A self-hate, now, scarce felt ; then felt full sore, 
 When being, cursed ; extinction, loud implored ; 
 And every 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 afield: 
 The future pleases : why ? The present pains. 
 " But that's a secret." Yes, which all men know; 
 And know from thee, discover'd unawares. 
 Thy ceaseless agitation, restless roll 
 From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause ; 
 What is it? 'Tis the cradle of the soul, 
 From instinct seut, to rock her in disease,
 
 230 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 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 e\er wills the same ; 
 Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing. 
 Sick of herself, is folly's character; 
 As wisdom's is, a modest self-applause. 
 A change of evils is thy good supreme ; 
 Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest. 
 Man's greatest strength is shown in standing still. 
 The first sure symptom of a mind in health, 
 Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home. 
 False pleasure from abroad her joys imports; 
 Rich from within, and self-sustain'd, the true. 
 The true is fix'd, and solid as a rock ; 
 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, 
 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. Though tempest frowns.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 231 
 
 Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven ! 
 To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean ! 
 With inward eyes, and silent as the grave, 
 They stand, collecting every 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, heaven. 
 Hence, are they studious of sequestered scenes; 
 While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee. 
 
 Were all men happy, revellings would cease, 
 That opiate for inquietude within. 
 LORENZO ! never man was truly bless'd, 
 But it composed, 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 rapturous exultation, swelling high ; 
 Which, like land floods, impetuous pour awhile, 
 Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire. 
 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 fix'd state ; a tenure, not a start. 
 Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss : 
 That is the gem : sell all, and purchase that. 
 Why go a begging to contingencies, 
 Not gain'd with ease, nor safely loved, if gain'd ? 
 At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause ;
 
 232 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 Suspect it: what thou canst ensure, enjoy; 
 And nought but what thou givest thyself, is sure. 
 Reason perpetuates joy that reason gives, 
 And makes it as immortal as herself: 
 To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth. 
 
 Worth, conscious worth ! should absolutely reign ; 
 And other joys ask leave for their approach ; 
 Nor, unexamin'd, ever leave obtain. 
 Thou art all anarchy ; a mob of joys 
 Wage war, and perish in intestine broils : 
 Not the least promise of internal peace ! 
 No bosom comfort, or unborrow'd bliss ! 
 Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward-bound, 
 'Mid sands,and rocks,and storms to cruise for pleasure ; 
 If gain'd, dear bought; and better miss'd than gaiu'd. 
 Much pain must expiate, what much pain procured. 
 Fancy, and sense, from an infected shore 
 Thy cargo bring ; and pestilence the prize. 
 Then, such thy thirst, (insatiable thirst ! 
 By fond indulgence but inflamed the more !) 
 Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tired. 
 
 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:
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 233 
 
 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 ! Though the price was paid, 
 
 That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome, 
 
 Whose foot (ye gods!), though cloven, must be kiss'd, 
 
 Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian shore ; 
 
 (Such is the fate of honest Protestants !) 
 
 And poor magnificence is starved to death. 
 
 Hence just resentment, indignation, ire ! 
 
 Be pacified : if outward things are great, 
 
 'Tis magnanimity great things to scorn ; 
 
 Pompous expenses, and parades august, 
 
 And courts, that insalubrious soil to peace. 
 
 True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye : 
 
 True happiness resides in things unseen. 
 
 No smiles of fortune ever bless'd the bad, 
 
 Nor can her frowns rob innocence of joys; 
 
 That jewel wanting, triple crowns arc poor: 
 
 So tell his Eioliness, and be revenged. 
 
 Pleasure, we both agree, is man's chief good : 
 Our only contest, what deserves the name. 
 Give pleasure's name to nought, but what has pass'd 
 Th' authentic seal of reason (which, like YORKE, 
 Demurs on what it passes), and defies 
 The tooth of time ; when past, a pleasure still ; 
 Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age, 
 And doubly to be prized, as it promotes 
 Our future, while it forms our present, joy. 
 Some joys the future overcast; and some
 
 234 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 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 whole existence, and be safe: 
 That oracle will put all doubt to flight. 
 Short is the lesson, though my lecture long : 
 Be good and let Heaven 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: e'en the best must own, 
 Patience, and resignation, are the pillars 
 Of human peace on earth. The pillars, these : 
 But those of SETH not more remote from thee, 
 Till this heroic lesson thou hast learn'd, 
 To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain. 
 Fired at the prospect of unclouded bliss, 
 Heaven in reversion, like the sun, as yet 
 Beneath th' horizon, cheers us in the 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 Heaven pushes through 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 chimaera turns the truth. 
 Nothing romantic has the muse prescribed.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 235 
 
 ' Above, LORENZO saw the man of earth, 
 
 The mortal man ; and wretched was the sight. 
 
 To balance that, to comfort, and exalt, 
 
 Now see the man immortal : him, I mean, 
 
 Who lives as such ; whose heart, full bent on heaven, 
 
 Leans all that way, his bias to the stars. 
 
 The world's dark shades, in contrast set, shall raise 
 
 His lustre more ; though 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 angei can exceed, 
 A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 
 Like ships in sea, while in, above the world. 
 
 W r ith aspect mild, and elevated eye, 
 Behold him seated on a mount serene, 
 Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm ; 
 All the black cares, and tumults, of this life, 
 Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, 
 Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 
 Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave, 
 A mingled mob ! a wandering herd ! he sees, 
 Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unh'ke! 
 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. 
 
 * In a former Night.
 
 236 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII 
 
 Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities ; 
 His, the composed possession of the true. 
 Alike throughout is his consistent peace ; 
 Ail 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 pun" of fortune blows 
 The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 
 
 He sees with other eyes than theirs. Where they 
 Behold a sun, he spies a Deity : 
 What makes them only smile, makes him adore. 
 Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees : 
 An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain. 
 They things terrestrial worship, as divine ; 
 His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust, 
 That dims his sight, and shortens his survey, 
 Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. 
 Titles and honours (if they prove his fate), 
 He lays aside, to mid 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 interest, to neglect 
 Another's welfare, or his right invade: 
 Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey. 
 They kindle at the shadow of a wrong: 
 Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven, 
 Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe; 
 Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace. 
 A coverM heart their character defends ;
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 237 
 
 A cover'd heart deiiies 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, though they danger brave, 
 And show no fortitude, -but in the field: 
 If there they show it, 'tis for glory shown ; 
 Nor will that cordial always man their hearts. 
 A cordial his sustains, that cannot fail : 
 By pleasure unsubdued, 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 nobler recompense, above applause ; 
 Which owes to man's short out-look all its charms. 
 
 Backward to credit what he never felt, 
 LORENZO cries, "Where shines this miracle? 
 From what root rises this immortal man?" 
 A root that grows not in LORENZO'S ground ; 
 The root dissect, nor wonder at the flower. 
 
 He follows nature (not like thee *), and shows us 
 
 * See page 227, line 28.
 
 238 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 An uninverted system of a man. 
 
 His appetite wears reason's golden chain, 
 
 And finds, in due restraint, its luxury. 
 
 His passion, like an eagle well reclaim 'd, 
 
 Is taught to fly at nought, but infinite. 
 
 Patient his hope, unanxious is his care, 
 
 His caution fearless, and his grief (if grief 
 
 The gods ordain) a stranger to despair. 
 
 And why ? Because affection, more than meet, 
 
 His wisdom leaves not disengaged from heaven. 
 
 Those secondary goods that smile on earth, 
 
 He, loving in proportion, loves in peace. 
 
 They most the world enjoy, who least admire. 
 
 His understanding 'scapes the common cloud 
 
 Of fumes, arising from a boiling breast. 
 
 His head is clear, because bis heart is cool, 
 
 By worldly competitions uninflamed. 
 
 The moderate movements of his soul admit 
 
 Distinct ideas, and matured debate, 
 
 An eye impartial, and an even scale; 
 
 Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice. 
 
 Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise; 
 
 On its own dunghill, wiser than the world. 
 
 What, then, the world? It must be doubly weak: 
 
 Strange truth! as soon would they believe 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 think earth all, or (what weighs just the same) 
 Who care no further, must prize what it yields ; 
 Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 239 
 
 Who thinks earth nothing, can't its charms admire ; 
 
 He cau't a foe, though 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 : 
 
 For, may not he invade their good supreme, 
 
 Where the least jealousy turns love to gall? 
 
 All shines to them, that tor a season shines: 
 
 Each act,each thought,he questions, " What its weight, 
 
 Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?" 
 
 And what it there appears, he deems it now. 
 
 Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul. 
 
 The godlike man has nothing to conceal. 
 
 His virtue, constitutionally deep, 
 
 Has habit's firmness, and affection's flame : 
 
 Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire ; 
 
 And death, which others slays, makes him a god. 
 
 And now, LORENZO, bigot of this world! 
 W r ont to disdain poor bigots caught by Heaven ! 
 Stand by thy scorn, and be reduced 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.
 
 240 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 Canst thou be silent? No ; for wit is tbine ; 
 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 raised. 
 
 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 : 
 Passion can give it; sometimes Mine inspires 
 The lucky lash ; 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 exposed, and let her down to thce. 
 But wisdom, awful wisdom ! which inspects, 
 Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers, 
 Seizes the right, and holds it to the last ; 
 How rare ! In senates, synods, sought in vain ; 
 Or, if there found, 'tis sacred to the few ; 
 While a lewd prostitute to multitudes, 
 Frequent, as fatal, wit. In civil life, 
 Wit makes an enterprizer ; sense, a man : 
 Wit hates authority ; commotion loves, 
 And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOOY. 'HI 
 
 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 diamond, weighty, solid, sound : 
 
 When cut by w it, it casts a brighter beam ; 
 
 Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still. 
 
 AVit, widow'd of good sense, is worse than nought ; 
 
 It hoists more sail to run against a rock. 
 
 Thus, a half-CHESTERFiELD is quite a fool; 
 
 Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit. 
 How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun, 
 
 Where Sirens sit, to sing thee to thy fate! 
 
 A joy, in which our reason bears no part, 
 
 Is but a sorrow, 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: 
 She gives but little, nor that little, long. 
 There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse; 
 A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy, 
 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, through the well-toned tubes well strain'd ; 
 A nice machine! scarce ever tuned aright; 
 And when it jars thy Sirens sing no more, 
 Thy dance is done ; the demi-god is thrown 
 M
 
 2-12 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 (Short apotheosis !) beneath the man, 
 
 In coward gloom immersed, or fell despair. 
 
 Art tliou yet dull enough despair to dread, 
 And startle at destruction ? If tliou 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 ! every good pertains 
 To one of these : but prize not all alike : 
 The goods of fortune to thy body's health, 
 Body to soul, and soul submit to GOD." 
 Wouldst thou build lasting happiness ? do this : 
 Th' inverted pyramid can never stand. 
 
 Is this truth doubtful ? It outshines the sun ; 
 Nay, the sun shines not, but to show us this, 
 The single lesson of mankind on earth. 
 And yet Yet, what? No news! mankind is mad ! 
 Such mighty numbers list against the right, 
 (And what can't numbers, when bewitch'd, achieve !) 
 They talk themselves to something like belief, 
 That all earth's joys are theirs : as Athens' fool 
 Grinn'd from the port, on every sail his own. 
 
 They grin ; but wherefore? and how long the laugh .' 
 Half ignorance, their mirth ; and half, a lie : 
 To cheat the world, and cheat themselves, they smile. 
 Hard either task ! The most abandon'd own, 
 That others, if abandon'd, are undone : 
 Then, for themselves, the moment reason wakes 
 (And Providence denies it long repose), 
 O how laborious is their gaiety ! 
 They scarce can swallow their ebullient spleen,
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 243 
 
 Scarce muster patience to support the farce, 
 And pump sad laughter till the curtain falls. 
 Scarce, did I say? Some cannot sit it out; 
 Oft their own daring hands the curtain draw, 
 And show us what their joy, by their despair. 
 
 The clotted hair! gored breast! blaspheming eye! 
 Its impious fury still alive in death ! 
 Shut, shut the shocking scenes. But Heaven denies 
 A cover to such guilt ; and so should man. 
 Look round, LORENZO ! see the reeking blade, 
 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 bless'd : 
 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, exercised 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-privileged from chance, time, death ! 
 A joy, which death shall double, judgment crown ! 
 Crown'd higher, and still higher, at each stage, 
 
 M2
 
 244 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIII. 
 
 Through bless'd 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. 
 Nor need you blush (though sometimes your designs 
 May shun the light) at your designs on heaven: 
 Sole point ! where over-bashful is your blame. 
 Are you not wise? You know you are : yet hear 
 One truth, amid your numerous 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 ?
 
 VIRTUE'S APOLOGY. 21o 
 
 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 ventured into light ; well pleased the verse 
 Should be forgot, if you the truths retain ; 
 And crown her with your welfare, not your praise. 
 But praise she need not fear: I see my fate; 
 And headlong leap, like CURTIUS, down the gulf. 
 Since many an ample volume, mighty tome, 
 Must die ; and die unwept ; O thou minute, 
 Devoted page ! go forth among thy foes ; 
 Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth, 
 And die a double death. Mankind incensed, 
 Denies thee long to live : nor shalt thou rest, 
 When thou art dead: in Stygian shades arraign'd 
 By LUCIFER, as traitor to his throne; 
 And bold blasphemer of his friend, the WORLD: 
 The world, whose legions cost him slender pay, 
 And volunteers around his banner swarm: 
 Prudent, as PRUSSIA, in her zeal for GAUL. 
 
 "Are all, then, fools?" LORENZO cries. Yes, all, 
 But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee) ; 
 "The mother of true wisdom, is the will:" 
 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 aad science, like thy wealth, will leave thee,
 
 246 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT VIIT. 
 
 And make tbee 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 miser eartlis Iris treasure, and the thief, 
 Watching- the mole.half-'beggars "him ere noon. 
 
 THE 
 
 MIGHT XX. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALL R.A ENGRAVED FT F.ENGI,; 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY. 
 MARCH 1S>: 1817.
 
 NIGHT THE NINTH AND LAST. 
 
 THE 
 
 CONSOLATION: 
 
 CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, 
 
 t, A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURXAL HEAVENS. 
 H. A NIGHT-ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 TO 
 
 It0 race tf>e Duke of Jftefcicagtlc, 
 
 ONE OF iiis MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATI;. 
 
 . Kalis 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 ;
 
 248 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray, 
 At length have housed me in an humble shed ; 
 Where, future wandering banish'd from my thought, 
 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 embraced at 
 
 heart, 
 
 Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade, 
 Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire ; 
 Canst tbou, O Night! indulge one labour more? 
 One labour more indulge ! then sleep, my strain ! 
 Till, haply, waked by RAPHAEL'S golden lyre, 
 Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow cease; 
 
 To bear a part in everlasting lays ; 
 
 Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust, 
 
 Symphonioiis to this humble prelude here. 
 Has not the muse asserted pleasures pure, 
 
 Like those above; exploding other joys? 
 
 Weigh what was urged, 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; 
 
 And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well. 
 
 To know ourselves diseased, is half our cure. 
 
 When nature's blush by custom is wiped off, 
 
 And conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, 
 
 Has into manners naturalized our crimes ;
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 249 
 
 The curse of curses is, our curse to love ; 
 To triumph in the blackness of our guilt 
 (As Indians glory in the deepest jet), 
 And throw aside our senses with our peace. 
 
 But, grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy; 
 Grant joy and glory quite unsullied shone; 
 Yet, still, it ill deserves LORENZO'S heart. 
 No joy, no glory, glitters in thy sight, 
 But, through the thin partition of an hour, 
 I see its sables wove by destiny ; 
 And that in sorrow buried; this, in shame; 
 While howling furies ring the doleful knell ; 
 And conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst 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 proclaim'd 
 A truce, and hung his sated lance on high? 
 Tis brandish'd still ; nor shall the present year 
 Be more tenacious of her human leaf, 
 Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall. 
 
 But needless monuments to wake the thought; 
 Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality ;. 
 Though 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 canvass, or the featured stone? 
 Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene : 
 Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead. 
 
 " Profest diversions! cannot these escape?'' 
 M 3
 
 250 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Far from it : these present us with a shroud ; 
 And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave. 
 As some bold plunderers, for buried wealth, 
 We ransack tombs for pastime ; from the dust 
 Call up the sleeping hero ; bid him tread 
 The scene for our amusement: how like gods 
 We sit ; and, wrapt in immortality, 
 Shed generous 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 ! 
 Lake 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 cieling of her sleeping sons. 
 O'er devastation we blind revels keep ; 
 While buried towns support the dancer's heel. 
 The moist of human frame the s\in exhales ; 
 Winds scatter, through the mighty void, the dry ; 
 Earth repossesses part of what she gave, 
 And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire ; 
 Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils ; 
 As nature, wide, our niins spread : man's death 
 Inhabits all things, but the thought of man.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 251 
 
 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; 
 Though half our learning is their epitaph. 
 When down thy vale, unlock'd by midnight thought, 
 That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, 
 
 death ! I stretch my view ; what visions rise ! 
 What triumphs ! toils imperial ! arts divine ! 
 
 In wither'd laurels glide before my sight ! 
 
 What lengths of far-famed ages, billow'd high 
 
 With human agitation, roll along 
 
 In unsubstantial images of air ! 
 
 The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, 
 
 Whispering 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 
 
 1 see the mighty shadow : oozy wreath 
 
 And dismal sea-weed crown her ; o'er her urn 
 Reclined, she weeps her desolated realms, 
 And bloated sons ; and, weeping, prophecies 
 Another's dissolution, soon, in flames. 
 But, like CASSANDRA, prophecies in vain ; 
 In vain, to many ? not, I trust, to thee. 
 
 For, know'st thou not, or art thou loth to know, 
 The great decree, the counsel of the skies ? 
 Deluge and conflagration, dreadful powers !
 
 252 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT 
 
 Prime ministers of vengeance ! chaiu'd in caves 
 Distinct, apart the giant furies roar ; 
 Apart ; or, such their horrid rage for ruin, 
 In mutual conflict would the}' rise, and wage 
 Eternal war, till one was quite devourM. 
 But not for this, ordain'd their boundless rage : 
 When Heaven'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 destined hour, 
 By the lond 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. 
 
 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 ploughshare o'er creation ! while aloft, 
 More than astonishment ! if more can be !
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 253 
 
 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 at Bethle'm ! how unlike the Man, 
 
 That groan'd on Calvary ! Yet He it is ; 
 
 That man of sorrows! O how changed! What pomp! 
 
 In grandeur terrible, all heaven 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 removed, heaven's own pure day, 
 
 Full on the confines of our aether, flames: 
 
 While (dreadful contrast!) far, how far beneath! 
 
 Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, 
 
 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. 
 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 presumed, this pomp will burst
 
 254 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT JX. 
 
 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, aroinid, 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 thon 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 ; 
 For which earth rose from chaos, man from earth ; 
 And an eternity, the date of gods, 
 Descended on poor earth-created man ! 
 Great day of dread, decision, and despair ! 
 At thought of thee, each sublunary wish 
 Lets go its eager grasp, and drops the world ; 
 And catches at each reed of hope in heaven. 
 At thought of thee ! And art thou absent, then ? 
 LORENZO ! no ; 'tis here ; it is begun ; 
 Already is begun the grand assize, 
 In thee, in all. Deputed conscience scales 
 The dread tribunal, and forestalls our doom : 
 Forestalls; and, by forestalling, proves it sure. 
 Why on himself should man void judgment pass ?
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 255 
 
 Is idle nature laughing at her sons? 
 
 Who conscience sent, her sentence will support ; 
 
 And Gon above assert that God in man. 
 
 Thrice happy they! that enter now the court 
 Heaven opens in their bosoms. But, how rare, 
 Ah me ! that magnanimity, how rare ! 
 What hero, like the man who stands himself; 
 Who dares to meet his naked heart alone; 
 Who hears, intrepid, the full charge it brings, 
 Resolved 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 heaven ! 
 
 Shall all, but man, look out with ardent eye, 
 For that great day, which was 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. 
 Angels look out for thee; for thee, their LORD, 
 To vindicate his glory ; and for thee, 
 Creation universal calls aloud, 
 To disinvolve the moral world, and give 
 To nature's renovation brighter charms. 
 
 Shall man alone, whose fate, whose final fate, 
 Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thought ?
 
 256 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 I think of nothing else ; I see ! I feel it ! 
 
 All nature, like au earthquake, trembling round! 
 
 All deities, like summer swarms, on wing! 
 
 All basking in the full meridian blaze! 
 
 I see the JUDGE enthroned! the flaming guard! 
 
 The volume open'd ! open'd every heart ! 
 
 A sunbeam pointing out each secret thought ! 
 
 No patron ! intercessor none ! now past 
 
 The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour ! 
 
 For guilt no plea ! to pain no pause ! no bound ! 
 
 Inexorable, all ! and all, extreme h 
 
 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 !-r-and yet, where is it? 
 Angels can't tell me ; angels cannot guess 
 The period ; from created beings lock'd 
 In darkness. But the process, and the place, 
 Are less obscure; for these may man inquire. 
 Say, thou great close of human hopes and fears ! 
 Great key of hearts ! great finisher of fates ! 
 Great end ! and great beginning ! say, where art thou ? 
 Art thou in time, or in eternity ? 
 Nor in eternity, nor time, I find tfaee. 
 These, as two monarchs, on their borders meet, 
 (Monarchs of all elapsed, or unarrived !) 
 As in debate, how best their powers allied,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 257 
 
 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 oue bed, 
 Press'd in one crowd, appall'd with one amaze, 
 He turns them o'er, Eternity ! to thee. 
 Then (as a king deposed disdains to live), 
 He falls on his own scythe; nor falls alone j 
 His greatest foe falls with him : Time, and he 
 Who murder'd all time's offspring, Death, expire. 
 
 Time was! Eternity now reigns alone: 
 Awful Eternity! offended queen! 
 And her resentment to mankind, how just! 
 With kind intent, soliciting access, 
 How often has she knock'd at human hearts I 
 Rich to repay their hospitality ; 
 How often call'd ! and with the voice of GOD ! 
 Yet bore repulse, excluded as a cheat! 
 A dream ! while foulest foes found weteome 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 powers^ 
 Of light, of darkness ; in a middle field,
 
 258 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 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, through a length 
 Of ages, ripening to this grand result ; 
 Ages, as yet unnumber'd, but by GOD ; 
 Who, now, pronouncing sentence, vindicates 
 The rights of virtue, and his own renown. 
 
 Eternity, the various sentence past, 
 Assigns the sever'd throng distinct abodes, 
 Sulphureous, or ambrosial. What ensues ? 
 The deed predominant ! the deed of deeds ! 
 Which makes a hell of hell, a heaven of heaven. 
 The goddess, with determined aspect, turns 
 Her adamantine key's enormous size 
 Through destiny's inextricable wards, 
 Deep driving every bolt, on both their fates : 
 Then, from the crystal battlements of heaven, 
 Down, down she hurls it through the dark profoum 
 Ten thousand thousand fathom ; there to rust, 
 And ne'er unlock her resolution more. 
 The deep resounds; and hell, through all her gloom; 
 Returns, in groans, the melancholy roar. 
 
 O how unlike the chorus of the skies ! 
 O how unlike those shouts of joy, that shake 
 The whole ethereal ! How the concave rings ! 
 Nor strange ! when deities their voice exalt ; 
 And louder far, than when creation rose, 
 To see creation's godlike aim, and end, 
 So well accomplish'd ! so divinely closed! 
 To see the mighty Dramatist's last act 
 (As meet), in glory rising o'er the rest.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 2.>.0 
 
 No fancied 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, resumed the friends He gave .' 
 And have I been complaining, then, so long? 
 Complaining of his favours ; pain, and death ? 
 Who, without pain's advice, would e'er be good ? 
 Who, without death, but would be good in vain? 
 Pain is to save from pain ; all punishment, 
 To make for peace ; and death, to save from death ; 
 And second death, to guard immortal life ; 
 To rouse the careless, the presumptuous awe, 
 And turn the tide of souls another way: 
 By the same tenderness divine ordain'd, 
 That planted Eden, and high-bloom'd for man, 
 A fairer Eden, endless, in the skies. 
 
 Heaven 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.
 
 260 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 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, corroborates, exalts; 
 
 Tis joy and conquest ; joy and virtue too. 
 
 A noble fortitude in ills, delights 
 
 Heaven, earth, ourselves ; 'tis duty, glory, peace. 
 
 Affliction is the good man's shining scene : 
 
 Prosperity conceals his brightest ray : 
 
 As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man. 
 
 Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm, 
 
 And virtue in calamities, admire. 
 
 The crown of manhood is a winter-joy ; 
 
 An evergreen, that stands the northern blast, 
 
 And blossoms in the 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 w ish to live, [lost ?'' 
 
 What spoke proud passion? "*Wish my being 
 
 Referring to the Firt Night.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 261 
 
 i '; i sumptuous ! 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 
 
 lu golden veins, through all eternity! 
 
 Ages, and ages, and succeeding still 
 
 New ages, whore this phantom of an hour, 
 
 Which courts, each night, dull slumber, for repair, 
 
 Shall wake, and wonder, and exult, and praise, 
 
 And fly through infinite, and all unlock ; 
 
 And (if deserved), by Heaven'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 flower, 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, uninspired, 
 
 Has ever yet conceived, or ever shall. 
 
 How kind is GOD, how great (if good) is man. 
 
 No man too largely from Heaven's love can hope, 
 
 If, what is hoped., he labours to secure. 
 
 Ills? there are none: All-gracious! none from Thee; 
 From man full many ! Numerous is the race 
 Of blackest ills, and those immortal too, 
 Begot by madness, on fair liberty; 
 Heaven's daughter, hell-debauch'd ! her hand alone 
 Unlocks destruction to the sons of men, 
 First 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;
 
 2G2 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Whose threats are mercies ; whose injunctions, guides, 
 
 Assisting, not restraining, reason's choice; 
 
 Whose sanctions, unavoidable results 
 
 From nature's course, indulgently reveal'd ; 
 
 If unreveal'd more dangerous, nor less sure. 
 
 Thus, an indulgent father warns his sons, 
 
 "Do this; fly that" nor always tells the cause; 
 
 Pleased to reward, as duty to bis will, 
 
 A conduct needful to their own repose. 
 
 Great GOD of wonders ! (if, thy love survey'd, 
 Aught else the name of wonderful retains) 
 What rocks are these, on which to build our trust ! 
 Thy ways admit no blemish ; none I find ; 
 Or this alone "That none is to be found." 
 Not one, to soften censure's hardy crime ; 
 Not one, to palliate peevish grief's complaint, 
 Who, like a daemon, murm'ring from the dust, 
 Dares into judgment call her Judge. SUPREME ! 
 For all I bless thee ; most, for the severe ; 
 *Her death my own at hand the fiery gulf, 
 That flaming bound of wrath omnipotent ! 
 It thunders; but it thunders to preserve; 
 It strengthens what it strikes ; its wholesome dread 
 Averts the dreaded pain ; its hideous groans 
 Join heaven'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. 
 
 * LUCIA.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 263 
 
 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 puril)ing storms. 
 
 The dread volcano ministers to good : 
 
 Its smother'd flames might undermine the world. 
 
 Loud JEtnas fulminate in love to man! 
 
 Comets good omens are, when duly scanu'd; 
 
 And, in their use, eclipses learn to shine. 
 
 Man is responsible for ills received ; 
 Those we call wretched are a chosen band, 
 Compell'd to refuge in the right, for peace. 
 Amid my list of blessings infinite, 
 Stand this the foremost, " That my heart has bled." 
 'Tis Heaven's fast effort of good will to man : 
 When pain can't bless, Heaven quits us in despair. 
 Who fails to grieve, when just occasion calls, 
 Or "grieves too much, deserves not to be bless'd; 
 Inhuman, or effeminate, his heart : 
 Reason absolves the grief, which reason ends. 
 May Heaven ne'er trust my friend with happiness, 
 Till it has taught him how to bear it well, 
 By previous pain ; and made it safe to smile ! 
 Such smiles are mine, and such may they remain ; 
 Nor hazard their extinction, from excess. 
 My change of heart, a change of style demands; 
 The CONSOLATION cancels the COMPLAINT, 
 And makes a convert of my guilty song. 
 
 As when o'erlabour'd, and inclined to breathe, 
 A panting traveller, some rising ground, 
 Some small ascent, has gain'd, he turns him round,
 
 2G4 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT I\. 
 
 And measures with his eye the various \ale, 
 The fields, woods, meads, and rivers, be has pass'd; 
 And, satiate of his journey, thinks of home, 
 Endear'd by distance, nor affects more toil ; 
 Thus I, though small, indeed, is that ascent 
 The muse has gaiu'd, review the paths she trod; 
 Various, extensive, beaten but by few ; 
 And, conscious of her prudence in repose, 
 Pause ; and with pleasure meditate an end, 
 Though still remote ; so fruitful is my theme. 
 Through 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 deceased full heartily she wept ; 
 Of love divine the wonders she display'd ; 
 Proved man immortal ; show'd the source of joy ; 
 The grand tribunal raised ; assign'd the bounds 
 Of human grief: in few, to close the whole* 
 The moral muse has shadow'd out a sketch, 
 Though not in form, nor with a K \pH.AEL-stroke, 
 Of most our weakness needs believe, or do, 
 In this our land of travel, and of hope, 
 For peace on earth, or prospect of the skies. 
 
 What then remains? Much ! much ! a mighty debt 
 To be discharged: these thoughts, 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 ?
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 265 
 
 Immoral silence ! Where 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 adorns, 
 An azure zone, thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's loom 
 Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 
 In ample folds of drapery divine, 
 Thy flowing mantle form ; and, heaven throughout, 
 Voluminously pour thy pompous train. 
 Thy gloomy grandeurs (nature's most august, 
 Inspiring aspect !) claim a grateful verse ; 
 And, like a sable curtain starrM 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 heaven? 
 Creation, of archangels is the theme ! 
 What, to be sung, so needful? What so well 
 Celestial joys prepares us to sustain? 
 The soul of man, His face 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 that 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 enlarged on earth, 
 The deeper draught shall they receive of heaven.
 
 266 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Heaven's KING ! whose face unveil'd consummates 
 
 bliss ,- 
 
 Redundant bliss ! which fills that mighty void, 
 The whole creation leaves in human hearts ! 
 THOU, who didst touch the lip of JESSE'S son, 
 Rapt in sweet contemplation of these fires, 
 And set his harp in concert with the spheres ! 
 While of thy works material the supreme 
 1 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 
 Through provinces of thought yet unexplored ; 
 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 prosperous gale. 
 Gainful thy voyage through 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 through nature's universal orb. 
 Nature delineates her whole chart at large,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 2C7 
 
 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, 
 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 misconstrued omens of the sky, 
 Far-travell'd comets' calculated blaze ; 
 Elance thy thought, and think of more than man. 
 Thy soul, till now, contracted, wither'd, shrunk, 
 Blighted by blasts of earth's unwholesome air, 
 Will blossom here ; spread all her faculties 
 To these bright ardours ; every power unfold, 
 And rise into sublimities of thought. 
 Stars teach, as well as shine. At nature's birth, 
 Thus their commission ran " Be kind to man." 
 Where art thou, poor benighted traveller? 
 The stars will light thee ; though the moon should fail. 
 Where art thou, more benighted ! more astray ! 
 
 Night the Eighth. 
 N2
 
 268 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 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 every 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; 
 Little, perhaps, expected in her school, 
 Nor thought to grow on planet, or on star. 
 Bulls, lions, scorpions, monsters, here we feign ; 
 Ourselves more monstrous, not to see what here 
 Exists indeed; a lecture to mankind. 
 
 What read we here? Th' existence of a GOD ? 
 Yes ; and of other beings, man above ; 
 Natives of ether ! sons of higher climes ! 
 And, what may move LORENZO'S wonder more, 
 Eternity is written in the skies. 
 And M'hose eternity? LORENZO, thine; 
 Mankind's eternity. Nor faith alone ; 
 Virtue grows here : here springs the sovereign cure 
 Of almost every vice ; but chiefly thine ; 
 Wrath, pride, ambition, and impure desire. 
 
 LORENZO ! thou canst wake at midnight too, 
 Though not on morals bent : ambition, pleasure ! 
 Those tyrants I for thee so lately fought*, ' 
 Afford their harass'd slaves but slender rest. 
 
 Night the Eighth.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 269 
 
 Thou, to whom midnight is immoral noon, 
 
 Acd the sun's noon-tide 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 injured Heaven), 
 
 To yonder stars : for other ends they shine, 
 
 Than to light travellers from shame to shame, 
 
 And, thus, be made accomplices in guilt. 
 
 Why from yon arch, that infinite of space, 
 With infinite* of lucid orbs replete, 
 Which set the living firmament on fire, 
 At the first glance, in such an overwhelm 
 Of wonderful, on man's astonish'd sight, 
 Rushes OMNIPOTENCE? To curb our pride; 
 Our reason rouse, and lead it to that Power, 
 Whose love lets down these silver chains of light, 
 To draw up man's ambition to Himself, 
 And bind our chaste affections to his throne. 
 Thus the three virtues, least alive on earth, 
 And welcomed on heaven's coast with most applause, 
 An humble, pure, and heavenly-minded heart, 
 Are here inspired. And canst thou gaze too long? 
 
 Nor stands thy wrath deprived of its reproof, 
 Or unupbraided by this radiant choir. 
 The planets of each system represent 
 Kind neighbours : mutual amity prevails ; 
 Sweet interchange of rays, received, return'd; 
 Enlightening, and enlighten'd ! All, at once, 
 Attracting, and attracted ! Patriot-like,
 
 270 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 None sins against the welfare of the whole ; 
 
 But their reciprocal, unse!6sh 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 
 As rightly set, as are the starry spheres ; 
 Tis nature's structure, broke by stubborn will, 
 Breeds all that uncelestial discord there* 
 Wilt thou not feel the bias nature gave ? 
 Canst thou descend from converse with the skies, 
 And seize thy brother's throat? For what? a clod? 
 An inch of earth? The planets cry, "Forbear:" 
 They chase our double darkness, nature's gloom ; 
 And (kinder still!) our intellectual night. 
 
 And see, Day's amiable sister sends 
 Her invitation, in the softest rays 
 Of mitigated lustre ; courts thy sight, 
 Which suffers from her tyrant-brother's blaze. 
 Night grants thee the full freedom of the skies, 
 Nor rudely reprimands thy lifted eye ; 
 With gain, and joy, she bribes thee to be wise. 
 Night opes the noblest scenes, and sheds an aw c, 
 Which gives those venerable scenes full weight, 
 And deep reception, in th' intender'd heart : 
 While light peeps through the darkness, like a spy : 
 And darkness shows its grandeur by the light. 
 Nor is the profit greater than the joy,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 271 
 
 If human hearts at glorious objects glow, 
 And admiration can inspire delight. 
 
 What speak I more, than I, this moment, feel? 
 With pleasing stupor first the soul is struck : 
 (Stupor ordain'd to make her truly wise !) 
 Then into transport starting from her trance, 
 With love, and admiration, how she glows ! 
 This gorgeous apparatus ! this display ! 
 This ostentation of creative power ! 
 This theatre ! what eye can take it in ? 
 By what divine enchantment was it raised, 
 For minds of the first magnitude to launch 
 In endless speculation, and adore? 
 One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine ; 
 And light us deep into the DEITY, 
 
 How boundless in magnificence and might ! 
 
 O what a confluence of ethereal fires, 
 
 From urns uuuumber'd, down the steep of heaven, 
 
 Streams to a point, and centres in my sight ! 
 
 Nor tarries there ; I feel it at my heart. 
 
 My heart, at once, it humbles and exalts ; 
 
 Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies. 
 
 Who sees it unexalted? or unawed? 
 
 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 denied 
 
 Thy praise divine '.But though man, drown'd in sleep, 
 
 Withholds his homage, not alone I wake : 
 
 Bright legions swarm unseen, and sing, unheard 
 
 13y mortal ear, the glorious Architect,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 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 undercut astronomer is mad. 
 True ; all things speak a GOD : but in the small. 
 Men trace out Him ; in great, He seizes man ; 
 Seizes, and elevates, and raps, and fills 
 With new inquiries, 'mid associates new. 
 Tell me, ye stars ! ye planets ! tell me, all 
 Ye starr'd, and planeted inhabitants ! what is it ? 
 What are these sons of wonder? Say, proud arch 
 (Within whose azure palaces they dwell), 
 Built with divine ambition ! in disdain 
 Of limit built ! built in the taste of heaven ! 
 Vast concave ! ample dome ! wast thou design'd 
 A meet apartment for the DEITY ? 
 Not so ; that thought alone thy state impairs, 
 Thy lofty sinks, and shallows thy profound, 
 And straightens thy diffusive ; dwarfs the whole, 
 And makes an universe an orrery. 
 
 But when I drop mine eye, and look on man. 
 Thy right regain'd, thy grandeur is restored, 
 O nature! wide flies off th' expanding round. 
 As when whole magazines, at once, are fired, 
 The smitten air is hollow'd by the blow ; 
 The vast displosion dissipates the clouds ; 
 Shock'd ether's billows dash the distant skies ; 
 Thus (but far more) th' expanding round flies ofl". 
 And leaves a mighty void, a spacious womb,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 273 
 
 Might teem with new creation ; reinflamed 
 
 Thy luminaries triumph, and assume 
 
 Divinity themselves. Nor was it strange, 
 
 Matter high-wrought to such surprising pomp, 
 
 Such godlike glory, stole the style of gods, 
 
 From ages dark, obtuse, and steep'd in sense ; 
 
 For, sure, to sense, they truly are divine, 
 
 And half absolved 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 adored. 
 
 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 \vide extremes), 
 Deep in the bosom of his universe, 
 Dropp'd down that reasoning mite, that insect, man, 
 
 To crawl, and gaze, and wonder at the scene ? 
 
 That man might ne'er presume to plead amazement 
 
 For disbelief of wonders in Himself. 
 
 Shall GOD be less miraculous, than what 
 
 His hand has form'd ? Shall mysteries descend 
 
 From unmysterious ? things more elevate, 
 
 Be more familiar ? uncreated lie 
 
 More obvious than created, to the grasp 
 
 N3
 
 274 THE CONSOLATION; NIGHT ix. 
 
 Of human thought? The more of wonderful 
 Is heard in Him, the more we should assent. 
 Could we conceive him, GOD he could not be ; 
 Or he not GOD, or we could not be men. 
 A GOD alone can comprehend a GOD : 
 Man's distance how immense ! On such a theme, 
 Know this, LORENZO ! (seem it ne'er so strange) 
 Nothing can satisfy, but what confounds ; 
 Nothing, but what astonishes, is true. 
 The scene thou seest, attests the truth I sing ; 
 And every star sheds light upon thy creed. 
 These stars, this furniture, this cost of heaven, 
 If but reported, thou hadst 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, opening at this scene, imbibes 
 
 The moral emanations of the skies ; 
 
 While nought, perhaps, LORENZO less admires ! 
 
 Has the Great Sovereign 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 niaguific embassy 
 
 A moment's audience ? Turn we, nor will hear 
 
 From whom they come, or what they would impart 
 
 For man's emolument ; sole cause that stoops 
 
 Their grandeur to man's eye? LORENZO ! rouse; 
 
 Let thought, awakeu'd, take the lightning's w ing, 
 
 And glance from east to west, from pole to pole. 
 
 Who sees, but is confounded, or convinced ? 
 
 Renounces reason, or a GOD adores?
 
 THE CONSOLATION'. 275 
 
 Mankind was sent into the world to see : 
 
 Sight gives the science needful to their peace ; 
 
 That obvious science asks small learning's aid. 
 
 Wouldst thon on metaphysic pinions soar? 
 
 Or wound thy patience amid logic thorns ? 
 
 Or travel history's enormous round ? 
 
 Nature no such hard task enjoins : she gave 
 
 A make to man directive of his thought ; 
 
 A make set upright, pointing to the stars, 
 
 As who should say, " Read thy chief lesson there." 
 
 Too late to read this manuscript of heaven, 
 
 When, like a parchment-scroll, shrunk up by flames, 
 
 It folds LORENZO'S lesson from his sight. 
 
 Lesson how various! Not the GOD alone; 
 I see his ministers ; I see, diffused 
 In radiant orders, essences sublime, 
 Of various offices, of various plume, 
 In heavenly liveries, distinctly clad, 
 Azure, green, purple, pearl, or downy gold, 
 Or all commix'd ; they stand, with wings outspread, 
 Listening to catch the Master's least command, 
 And fly through nature, ere the moment ends ; 
 Numbers innumerable! Well conceived 
 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 trusts unknown. For who can see 
 Such pomp of matter, and imagine, mind, 
 For which alone inanimate was made, 
 More sparingly dispensed ? that nobler son, 
 Far liker the great SIRE ! Tis thus the skies 
 Inform us of superiors numberless,
 
 276 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 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: 
 Perhaps, a thousand demigods descend 
 On every 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, unimplored, 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, 
 E'en these an aggrandizing impulse give ; 
 Of solemn thought enthusiastic heights 
 E'en these infuse. But what of vast in these? 
 Nothing; or we must own the skies forgot. 
 Much less in art. Vain Art ! thou pigmy power ! 
 How dost thou swell and strut, with human pride, 
 To show thy littleness ! What childish toys, 
 Thy watery columns squirted to the clouds ! 
 Thy basou'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 ; 
 Gazing on miracles by mortals wrought,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 277 
 
 Arches triumphal, theatres immense, 
 
 Or nodding gardens pendent in mid air! 
 
 Or temples proud to meet their gods half-way ! 
 
 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, though 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 abandoned, " 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 trembJing stars 
 See crimes gigantic, stalking through 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 treasure ; and the thief, 
 Watching the mole, half beggars him ere morn. 
 Now plots, and foul conspiracies, awake; 
 And, muffling up their horrors from the moon, 
 Havoc and devastation they prepare, 
 And kingdoms tottering in the field of blood. 
 Now sons of riot in mid revel rage. 
 What shall I do? suppress it? or proclaim?
 
 278 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Why sleeps the thunder? Now, LORENZO! now, 
 His best friend's couch the rauk adulterer 
 Ascends secure ; and laughs at gods and men. 
 Preposterous madmen, void of fear or shame, 
 Lay their crimes bare to these chaste eyes of heaven ; 
 Yet shrink, and shudder, at a mortal's sight. 
 Were moon, and stars, for villains only made; 
 To guide, yet screen them, with teuebrious 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 lived 
 Of stronger wing, of aquiliue ascent 
 In theory sublime. O how unlike 
 Those vermin of the night, this moment sung, 
 Who crawl on earth, and on her veuom 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 Stagirite, 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, through 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,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 279 
 
 More worth to men, more joyous to themselves. 
 Through various virtues, they, with ardour, ran 
 The zodiac of their learn'd, illustrious lives. 
 
 In Christian hearts, O for a Pagan zeal ! 
 A needful, but opprobrious prayer! 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 givest thy praise, give credit too. 
 These doctors ne'er were pension'd to deceive thee ; 
 And Pagan tutors are thy taste. They taught, 
 That, narrow views betray to misery : 
 That, wise it is to comprehend the whole : 
 That, virtue rose from nature : ponder'd well, 
 The single base of virtue built to heaven : 
 That, GOD and nature our attention claim: 
 That, nature is the glass reflecting GOD, 
 As, by the sea, reflected is the sun, 
 Too glorious to be gazed on in his sphere : 
 That, mind immortal loves immortal aims : 
 That, boundless mind affects a boundless space : 
 That, vast surveys, and the sublime of things, 
 The soul assimilate, and make her great: 
 That, therefore, heaven 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, disencumber'd from her chains, the ties
 
 280 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Of toys terrestrial, she can rove at large ; 
 
 There, freely can respire, dilate, extend, 
 
 In full proportion let loose all her powers ; 
 
 And, undeluded, grasp at something great. 
 
 Nor, as a stranger, does she wander there ; 
 
 But, wonderful herself, through wonders strays ; 
 
 Contemplating their grandeur, finds her own ; 
 
 Dives deep in their oeconomy divine, 
 
 Sits high in judgment on their various laws, 
 
 And, like a master, judges not amiss. 
 
 Hence greatly pleased, 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 expatiates, strengthens, and exults, 
 And riots through 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
 
 1'HE CONSOLATION. 281 
 
 Bloodshed, and havoc, on embattled realms, 
 And rescued monarchs from so black a guilt ! 
 BOURBON! this wish how generous 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 what it is : how great, 
 How glorious,' then, appears the mind of man, 
 When in it all the stars, and planets, roll ! 
 And what it seems, it is : great objects make 
 Great minds, enlarging as their views enlarge; 
 Those still more 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 every 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, lie 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 towers : 
 Wisdom and choice, their well-known characters
 
 282 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Here deep impress ; and claim it for their own. 
 
 Though splendid all, no splendour void of use : 
 
 Use rivals beauty ; art contends with power ; 
 
 No wanton waste, amid effuse expense ; 
 
 The great (ECONOMIST adjusting all 
 
 To prudent pomp, magnificently wise. 
 
 How rich the prospect ! aud for ever new ! 
 
 And newest to the man that views it most ; 
 
 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, enclosed ! 
 
 Wheel, within wheel: EZEKIEL, like to thine ! 
 
 Like thine, it seems a vision or a dream ; 
 
 Though seen, 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 woudrous space through which they 
 
 At once it quite ingulfs all human thought ; [roll ? 
 
 Tis comprehension's absolute defeat. 
 
 Nor think thou seest a wild disorder here: 
 Through this illustrious chaos to the sight, 
 Arrangement neat, and chastest order, reign. 
 The path prescribed, inviolably kept, 
 Upbraids, the lawless sallies of mankind. 
 Worlds, ever thwarting, never interfere : 
 W 7 hat knots are tied ! how soon are they dissolved, 
 And set the seeming married planets free ! 
 They rove for ever, without error rove ;
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 283 
 
 Confusion uuconfused ! Nor less admire 
 This tumult untumultuous; all on wing! 
 In motion, all ! yet what profound repose \ 
 What fervid action, yet no noise ! as awed 
 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 caerulean 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 power. 
 Mark how the labyrinthiau turns they take, 
 The circles intricate, and mystic maze, 
 Weave the grand cipher 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 ponderous orbs sustains ? 
 Who would not think them hung in golden chains? 
 And so they are ; in the high will of Heaven, 
 Which fixes all ; makes adamant of air, 
 Or air of adamant; makes all of nought, 
 Or nought of all ; if such the dread decree. 
 
 Imagine from their deep foundations torn 
 The most gigantic sons of earth, the broad 
 And towering Alps, all toss'd into the sea; 
 And, light as down, or volatile as air,
 
 284 THE CONSOLATION. MGHT IX. 
 
 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 heaven, 
 At certain periods, as the SOVEREIGN nods, 
 Discharge high trusts of vengeance, or of love ; 
 To clothe, in outward grandeur, grand design, 
 And acts most solemn still more solemnize ? 
 
 Ye citizens of air ! what ardent thanks, 
 What full effusion of the grateful heart, 
 
 Is due from man, indulged 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, through which these rovers take 
 Their restless roam, suggests the sister thought 
 Of boundless time. Thus, by kind nature's skill, 
 To man unlabour'd, that important guest, 
 Eternity, finds entrance at the sight : 
 And an eternity, for man ordain'd ; 
 Or these his destined midnight counsellors,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 285 
 
 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 the 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; 
 Here, unendanger'd in health, wealth, or fame, 
 Range, through the fairest, and the Sultan scorn. 
 He, wise as thou, no crescent holds so fair, 
 As that, which on his turban awes a world ; 
 And thinks the moon is proud to copy him. 
 Look on her, and gain more than worlds can give, 
 A mind superior to the charms of power. 
 Thou muffled in delusions of this life ! 
 Can yonder moon turn ocean in his bed, 
 From side to side, in constant ebb and flow, 
 And purify from stench his watery realms ? 
 And fails her moral influence? wants she power 
 To turn LORENZO'S stubborn tide of thought 
 From stagnating on earth's infected shore, 
 And purge from nuisance his corrupted heart ? 
 Fails her attraction, when it draws to heaven ? 
 Nay, and to what thou valuest more, earth's joy? 
 Minds elevate, and panting for unseen, 
 And defecate from sense, alone obtain 
 Full relish of existence undeflower'd,
 
 286 THE CONSOLATIOJC. MIGHT IX. 
 
 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 wilderM here; 
 In mid-way flight imagination tires ; 
 Yet soon reprunes her wing to soar anew, 
 Her point unable to forbear, or gain ; 
 So great the pleasure ! so profound the plan ! 
 A banquet, this, where men and angels meet, 
 Eat the same manna, mingle earth and heaven. 
 How distant some of these nocturnal suns ! 
 So distant (says the sage), 'twere not absurd 
 To doubt, if beams, set out at nature's birth, 
 Are yet arrived at this so foreign world ; 
 Though 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, 
 Perhaps a seraph's computatiou 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 tottering 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,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 287 
 
 "hs 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 power, 
 
 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 evening ray ? 
 
 Or bid the moon, as with her journey tired, 
 
 On Ajalon's soft, flowery vale repose? 
 
 Great things are these ; still greater, to create. 
 
 From AD AM'S bower look down through the whole train 
 
 Of miracles; resistless is their power? 
 
 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. 
 
 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
 
 288 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 In motion, and wound up the vast machine? 
 Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs ? 
 Who bowl'd them flaming through the dark profound, 
 Numerous as glittering 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 
 (Forstarshave fought their battles, leagued with[man), 
 "Who marshals this bright host? enrolls their names? 
 Appoints their posts, their marches, and returns, 
 Punctual, at stated periods? who disbands 
 These veteran troops, their final duty done, 
 If e'er disbanded?" He, whose potent word, 
 Like the loud trumpet, levied first their powers 
 In night's inglorious empire, where they slept 
 In beds of darkness ; arm'd them with fierce flames, 
 Arrang'd, and disciplined, and clothed in gold ; 
 And call'd them out of chaos to the field, 
 Where now they war with vice and unbelief. 
 O let us join this army ! Joining these, 
 Will give us hearts intrepid, at that hour, 
 When brighter flames shall cut a darker night ; 
 When these strong demonstrations of a GOD 
 Shall hide their heads, or tumble from their spheres. 
 And one eternal curtain cover all ! 
 
 Struck at that thought, as new awaked, I lift 
 A more enlighten'd eye, and read the stars, 
 To man still more propitious ; and their aid 
 (Though guiltless of idolatry) implore, 
 Nor longer rob them of their noblest name. 
 O \c dividers of my time ! ye bright
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 289 
 
 Accountants of my days, and months, and years, 
 In your fair calendar distinctly mark'd ! 
 Since that authentic, radiant register, 
 Though man inspects it not, stands good against him; 
 Since you, and years, roll on, though man stands still ; 
 Teach me my days to number, and apply 
 My trembling heart to wisdom; now beyond 
 All shadow of excuse for fooling on. 
 Age smooths our path to prudence ; sweeps aside 
 The snares keen appetite, and passion, spread 
 To catch stray souls : and woe to that grey head, 
 Whose folly would undo, what age has done! 
 Aid then, aid, all ye stars ! Much rather, THOU, 
 Great ARTIST ! THOU, whose finger set aright 
 This exquisite machine, with all its wheels, 
 Though intervolved, exact ; and pointing out 
 Life's rapid, and irrevocable flight, 
 With such an index fair, as none can miss, 
 Who lifts an eye, nor sleeps till it is closed. 
 Open mine eye, dread DEITY ! to read 
 The tacit doctrine of thy works ; to see 
 Things as they are, unalter'd through the glass 
 Of worldly wishes. Time ! Eternity ! 
 (Tis these mismeasured, ruin all mankind), 
 Set them before me ; let me lay them both 
 In equal scale, and learn their various weight. 
 Let time appear a moment, as it is ; 
 And let eternity's full orb, at once, 
 Turn on my soul, and strike it into heaven. 
 When shall I see far more than charms me now '. 
 Gaze on creation's model in Thy breast 
 Uayeil'd, nor wonder at the transcript more ! 
 o
 
 290 THE COSONLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 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 bless'd embrace, 
 Obtain her apotheosis in THEE ? 
 
 Dost think, LORENZO, this is wandering 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 heaven, 
 And antidote the pestilential earth ! 
 In every storm, that either frowns, or falls, 
 What an asylum has the soul in prayer ! 
 And what a fane is this, in which to pray ! 
 And what a GOD must dwell in such a fane ! 
 O what a genius must inform the skies ! 
 And is LORENZO'S salamander heart 
 Cold, and untonch'd, amid these sacred fires ? 
 O ye nocturnal sparks ! ye glowing embers, 
 On heaven's broad earth ! 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 possess'd ; 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 straight, aught great, or generous, to receive ! 
 
 * Page 268.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 291 
 
 Fill'd with an atom ! fill'd, and foul'd, with self! 
 
 And self mistaken; self, that lasts an hoar! 
 
 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 an approach to woe : 
 Open thy bosom, set thy wishes wide, 
 And let in manhood ; let in happiness; 
 Admit the boundless theatre of thought 
 From nothing, up to GOD ; which makes a man. 
 Take GOD from nature, nothing great is left; 
 Man's mind is in a pit, and nothing sees ; 
 Man's heart is in a jakes, and loves the mire. 
 Emerge from thy profound ; erect thine eye; 
 See thy distress ! How close art thou besieged ! 
 Besieged by nature, the proud sceptic's foe ! 
 Enclosed 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! 
 o2
 
 292 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 From this thy bless'd captivity, what art, 
 What blasphemy to reason, sets thee free ! 
 This scene is Heaven'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 imposed, and press'd on man? 
 Barest tbou still litigate thy desperate cause, 
 Spite of these numerous, 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: Goo by man 
 As much is seen, as man a GOD can see. 
 In these astonishing exploits of power, 
 What order, beauty, motion, distance, size ! 
 Concertion of design, how exquisite ! 
 How complicate, in their divine police ! 
 Apt means! great ends! consent to general good! 
 Each attribute of these material gods, 
 So long (and that with specious pleas) adored, 
 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, 
 UnskiU'd, or disinclined, to read it there ? 
 Since 'tis the basis, and all drops without it,
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 293 
 
 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 
 
 Imagination's airy wing repress ; [home ; 
 
 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? why not human race? 
 And ADAM'S ancestors without an end? 
 That's hard to be conceived ; since every link 
 Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail : 
 Can every part depend, and not the whole? 
 Yet grant it true ; new difficulties rise ; 
 I'm still quite out at sea ; nor see the shore. 
 Whence earth, and these bright orbs ? eternal too ? 
 Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs 
 Would want some other father ; much design 
 Is seen in all their motions, all their makes: 
 Design implies intelligence, and art : 
 That can't be from themselves or man ; that art 
 Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow ? 
 And nothing greater, yet allow'd, than man. 
 Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, 
 Shot through vast masses of enormous weight .'
 
 2M THE CONSOLATION. KISHT IX. 
 
 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. 
 
 Has matter none? Then, whence these glorious forms 
 
 And boundless flights, from shapeless, and reposed I 
 
 Has matter more than motion? Has it thought, 
 
 Judgment, and genius ? Is it deeply learn'd 
 
 In mathematics? Has it framed such laws, 
 
 Which, but to guess, a NEWTON made immortal J 
 
 If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, 
 
 Who think a clod inferior to a man ! 
 
 If art, to form ; and counsel, to conduct ; 
 
 And that with greater far, than human skill; 
 
 Resides not in each block ; a GODHEAD reigns. 
 
 Grant, then, invisible, eternal, Mind ; 
 
 That granted, all is solved. But, granting that, 
 
 Draw I not o'er me a still darker cloud ? 
 
 Grant I not that which I can ne'er conceive ? 
 
 A being without origin, or end ! 
 
 Hail, human liberty ! There is no GOD 
 
 Yet, why ? On either scheme that knot subsists ; 
 
 Subsist it must, in GOD, or human race; 
 
 If in the last, how many knots beside, 
 
 Indissoluble all ? Why choose it there, 
 
 Where, chosen, still subsist ten thousand more ? 
 
 Reject it, where, that chosen, all the rest 
 
 Dispersed, leave reason's whole horizon clear ? 
 
 This is not reason's dictate : reason says, 
 
 Close with the side where one grain turns the scale. 
 
 What vast preponderance is here ! Can reason 
 
 With louder voice exclaim Believe a GOD ?
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 295 
 
 And reason heard, is the sole mark of man. 
 What things impossible must man think true, 
 On any other system ! and, how strange 
 To disbelieve, through mere credulity !" 
 
 If, in this chain, LORENZO finds no flaw, 
 Let it for ever bind him to belief. 
 And where the link, in which a flaw he finds? 
 And, if a Goo there is, that GOD how great ! 
 How great that Power, whose providential care 
 Through these bright orbs' dark centres darts a ray ! 
 Of nature universal threads the whole ! 
 And hangs creation, like a precious gem, 
 Though little, on the footstool of his throne ! 
 
 That little gem, how large ! A weight let fall 
 From a fix'd star, in ages can it reach 
 This distant earth ? Say, then, LORENZO ! where, 
 Where ends this mighty building? Where begin 
 The suburbs of creation? Where the wall, 
 Whose battlements look o'er into the vale 
 Of non-existence ? Nothing's strange abode ! 
 Say, at what point of space JEHOVAH dropp'd 
 His slacken'd line, and laid his balance by ; 
 Weigh'd worlds, and measured infinite, no more ? 
 Where rears his terminating pillar high 
 Its extramundane head ? and says, to gods, 
 In characters illustrious as the sun, 
 
 I stand, the plan's proud period ; I pronounce 
 
 The work accomplish'd ; the creation closed : 
 
 Shout, all ye gods! nor shout, ye gods alone ; 
 
 Of all that lives, or, if devoid of life, 
 
 That rests, or rolls, ye heights, and depths, resound ! 
 
 Resound ! resound ! ye depths, and heights, resound !
 
 296 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Hard are those questions? Answer harder still. 
 Is this the sole exploit, the single birth, 
 The solitary son, of Power Divine? 
 Or has th' Almighty Father, with a breath, 
 Impregnated the womb of distant space ? 
 Has He not bid, in various provinces, 
 Brother-creations the dark bowels burst 
 Of night primaeval ; barren, now, no more ? 
 And He the central sun, transpiercing all 
 Those giant-generations, which disport, 
 And dance, as motes, in his meridian ray ; 
 That ray withdrawn, benighted, or absorb 'd, 
 In that abyss of horror, whence they sprung ; 
 While Chaos tiiumphs, repossess'd of all 
 Rival creation ravish'd from his throne ? 
 Chaos ! of nature both the wouib, and grave ! 
 
 Think'st thou my scheme, LORENZO, spreads (<><> 
 Is this extravagant? No; this is just; [wide .' 
 
 Just, in conjecture, though 'twere false in fact. 
 If 'tis an error, 'tis an error sprang 
 From noble root, high thought of the Most High. 
 But wherefore error? Who can prove it such ? 
 He that can set Omnipotence a bound. 
 Can man conceive beyond what GOD can do ? 
 Nothing, but quite impossible, is hard. 
 He summons into being, with like ease, 
 A whole creation, and a single grain. 
 Speaks he the word? a thousand worlds are born ! 
 A thousand worlds? there's space for millions more; 
 And in what space can his great fiat fail ? 
 Condemn me not, cold critic ! but indulge 
 The warm imagination : why condemn ?
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 297 
 
 Why not indulge such thoughts, as swell our hearts 
 
 With fuller admiration of that Power, 
 
 Who gives our hearts with such high thoughts to swell ? 
 
 Why not indulge in His augmented praise ? 
 
 Darts not His glory a still brighter ray, 
 
 The less is left to Chaos, and the realms 
 
 Of hideous Night, where fancy strays aghast ; 
 
 And, though most talkative, makes no report? 
 
 Still seems my thought enormous ? Think again ; 
 Experience 'self shall aid thy lame belief. 
 Glasses (that revelation to the sight!) 
 Have they not led us deep in the disclose 
 Of fine-spun nature, exquisitely small ; 
 And, though demonstrated, still ill conceived? 
 If, then, on the reverse, the mind would mount 
 In magnitude, what mind can mount too far, 
 To keep the balance, and creation poise? 
 Defect alone can err on such a theme: 
 What is too great, if we the Cause survey? 
 Stupendous ARCHITECT! Thou, Thou art all! 
 My soul flies up and down in thoughts of Thee, 
 And finds herself but at the centre still! 
 I AM, thy name ! Existence, all thine own ! 
 Creation's nothing; llatter'd much, if styled 
 "The thin, the fleeting atmosphere of GOD." 
 
 O for the voice of what? of whom? What voice 
 Can answer to my wants, in such ascent, 
 As dares to deem one universe too small? 
 Tell me, LORENZO ! (for now fancy glows, 
 Fired in the vortex of Almighty Power) 
 Is not this home creation, in the map 
 Of universal nature, as a speck, 
 o 3
 
 '^yS THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Like fair BRITANNIA in our little ball; 
 Exceeding fair, and glorious for its size, 
 But, elsewhere, far out measured, far outshone ? 
 In fancy (for the fact beyond us lies), 
 Canst thou not figure it, an isle, almost 
 Too small for notice, in the vast of being ; 
 Sever'd by mighty seas of unbuilt space 
 From other realms ; from ample continents 
 Of higher life, where nobler natives dwell ; 
 Less northern, less remote from DEITY, 
 Glowing beneath the line of the SUPREME ; 
 Where souls in excellence make haste, put forth 
 Luxuriant growths ; nor the late autumn wait 
 Of human worth, but ripen soon to gods ? 
 
 Yet why drown fancy in such depths as these? 
 Return, presumptuous rover ! and confess 
 The bounds of man; nor blame them, as too small. 
 Enjoy we not full scope in what is seen ? 
 Full ample the dominions of the sun ! 
 Full glorious to behold ! How far, how wide, 
 The matchless monarch, from his flaming throne, 
 Lavish of lustre, throws his beams about him, 
 Further, and faster, than a thought can fly, 
 And feeds his planets with eternal fires ! 
 This Heliopolis, by greater far, 
 Than the proud tyrant of the Nile, was built; 
 And He alone, who built it, can destroy. 
 Beyond this city, why strays human thought? 
 One wonderful, enough for man to know ! 
 One infinite, enough for man to range ! 
 One firmament, enough for man to read ! 
 O what voluminous instruction here !
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 2 
 
 What page of wisdom is denied liim? None; 
 If learning his chief lesson makes him wise. 
 Nor is instruction, here, our only gain ; 
 There dwells a noble pathos in the skies, 
 Which warms our passions, proselytes our hearts. 
 How eloquently shines the glowing pole ! 
 With what authority it gives its charge, 
 Remonstrating great truths in style sublime, 
 Though silent, loud! heard earth around; above 
 The planets heard ; and not unheard in hell : 
 Hell has her wonder, though too proud to praise. 
 Is earth, then, more infernal ? Has she those, 
 Who neither praise (LORENZO !) nor admire ? 
 
 LORENZO'S admiration, pre-engaged, 
 Ne'er ask'd the moon one question ; never held 
 Least correspondence with a single star; 
 Ne'er rear'd an altar to the queen of heaven 
 Walking in brightness ; or her train adored. 
 Their sublunary rivals have long since 
 Engross'd his whole devotion ; stars malign, 
 Which made their fond astronomer run mad ; 
 Darken his intellect, corrupt his heart ; 
 Cause him to sacrifice his fame and peace 
 To momentary madness, call'd Delight: 
 Idolater, more gross than ever kiss'd 
 The lifted hand to LUNA, or pour'd out 
 The blood to JOVE ! O THOU, to whom belongs 
 All sacrifice! O thou Great JOVE unfeign'd! 
 Divine Instructor ! thy first volume, this, 
 For man's perusal; all in capitals! 
 In moon, and stars (heaven's golden alphabet!) 
 Emblazed to seize the sight ; who runs may read ;
 
 300 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Who reads, can understand. Tis uncon6ned 
 
 To Christian land, or Jewry ; fairly writ, 
 
 In language universal, to mankind : 
 
 A language, lofty to the learn'd ; yet plain 
 
 To those that feed the flock, or guide the plough, 
 
 Or, from its husk, strike out the bounding grain. 
 
 A language, worthy the Great Mind that speaks ! 
 
 Preface, and comment, to the sacred page ! 
 
 Which oft refers its reader to the skies, 
 
 As presupposing his first lesson there, 
 
 And Scripture 'self a fragment, that unread. 
 
 Stupendous book of wisdom, to the wise ! 
 
 Stupendous book ! and open'd, Night ! by thee. 
 
 By thee much open'd, I confess, O Night ! 
 Yet more I wish ; but how shall I prevail ? 
 Say, gentle Night! whose modest, maiden beams 
 Give us a new creation, and present 
 The world's great picture soften'd to the sight ; 
 Nay, kinder far, far more indulgent still, 
 Say, thou, whose mild dominion's silver key 
 Unlocks our hemisphere, and sets to view 
 Worlds beyond number ; worlds conceal'd by da y, 
 Behind the proud and envious star of noon ! 
 Canst thou not draw a deeper scene ? and show 
 The mighty POTENTATE, to whom belong 
 These rich regalia, pompously displayed 
 To kindle that high hope ? Like him of Uz, 
 I gaze around ; I search on every side 
 O for a glimpse of HIM my soul adores! 
 As the chased hart, amid the desert waste, 
 Pants for the living stream; for HIM who made her, 
 So pants the thirsty soul, amid the blank
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 301 
 
 Of sublunary joys. Say, goddess! where? 
 Where, blazes His bright court? Where burns His 
 
 throne? 
 
 Thou know'st ; for tliou art near Him; by thee, round 
 His grand pavilion, sacred fame reports 
 The sable curtain drawn. If not, can none 
 Of thy fair daughter-train, so swift of wing, 
 Wlio travel far, discover where He dwells ? 
 A star His dwelling pointed out below. 
 Ye Pleiades ! Arcturus ! Mazaroth ! 
 And thou, Orion ! of still keener eye ! 
 Say ye, who guide the wilder'd in the waves, 
 And bring them out of tempest into port ! 
 On which hand must I bend my course to find Him? 
 These courtiers keep the secret of their KING ; 
 I wake whole nights, in vain, to steal it from them. 
 
 I wake; and, waking, climb Night's radiant scale, 
 From sphere to sphere ; the steps by nature set 
 For man's ascent ; at once to tempt, and aid ; 
 To tempt his eye, and aid his towering thought ; 
 Till it arrives at the great goal of all. 
 
 In ardent contemplation's rapid car, 
 From earth, as from my barrier, I set out. 
 How swift I mount ! Diminish'd earth recedes ; 
 I pass the moon ; and, from her further side, 
 Pierce heaven's blue curtain; strike into remote; 
 Where, with his lifted tube, the subtile sage 
 His artificial, airy journey takes, 
 And to celestial lengthens human sight. 
 I pause at every planet on my road, 
 And ask for HIM who gives their orbs to roll, 
 Their foreheads fair to shine. From SATURN'S ring,
 
 302 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 In which, of earths an army might be lost, 
 
 With the bold comet, take my bolder flight, 
 
 Amid those sovereign glories of the skies, 
 
 Of independent, native lustre proud ; 
 
 The souls of systems ! and the lords of life, 
 
 Through their wide empires ! What behold I now ? 
 
 A wilderness of wonders burning round ; 
 
 Where larger suns inhabit higher spheres ; 
 
 Perhaps the villas of descending gods ! 
 
 Nor halt I here; my toil is but begun ; 
 
 Tis but the threshold of the DEITY ; 
 
 Or, far beneath it, I am grovelling still. 
 
 Nor is it strange ; I built on a mistake ! 
 
 The grandeur of his works, whence folly sought 
 
 For aid, to reason sets his glory higher ; 
 
 Who built thus high for worms (mere worms to Him); 
 
 O where, LORENZO ! must the BUILDER dwell .' 
 
 Pause, then ; and, for a moment, here respire 
 If human thought can keep its station here. 
 Where am I? Where is earth? Nay, where art tliou, 
 O sun? Is the sun turn'd recluse ? And are 
 His boasted expeditions short to mine? 
 To mine, how short ! On nature's Alps I stand, 
 And see a thousand firmaments beneath ! 
 A thousand systems, as a thousand grains ! 
 So much a stranger, and so late arrived, 
 How can man's curious spirit not inquire, 
 What are the natives of this world sublime, 
 Of this so foreign, unterrestrial sphere, 
 Where mortal, untranslated, never stray'd? 
 
 " O ye, as distant from my little home, 
 As swiftest sun-beams in an age can fly !
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 303 
 
 Far from my native element I roam, 
 
 In quest of new, and wonderful, to man. 
 
 What province this, of His immense domain, 
 
 Whom all obey? Or mortals here, or gods? 
 
 Ye borderers on the coast of bliss! what are you? 
 
 A colony from heaven ? or, only raised, 
 
 By frequent visit from heaven's neighbouring realms, 
 
 To secondary gods, and half divine? 
 
 Whate'er your nature, this is past dispute, 
 
 Far other life you live, far other tongue 
 
 You talk, far other thought, perhaps, you think, 
 
 Than man. How various are the works of GOD ! 
 
 But say, What thought? Is reason here enthroned, 
 
 And absolute? or sense in arms against her? 
 
 Have you tw o lights ? or need you no reveal'd ? 
 
 Enjoy your happy realms their golden age ? 
 
 And had your Eden an abstemious EVE ? 
 
 Our EVE'S fair daughters prove their pedigree, 
 
 And ask their ADAMS ' Who would not be wise ?' 
 
 Or, if your mother fell, are you redeem'd ? 
 
 And if redeem'd is your Redeemer scorn'd? 
 
 Is this your final residence ? If not, 
 
 Change you your scene, translated? or by death ? 
 
 And if by death; what death? Know you disease? 
 
 Or horrid war .' With war, this fatal hour, 
 
 EUROPA groans (so call we a small field, 
 
 Where kings run mad). In our world, death deputes 
 
 Intemperance to do the work of age; 
 
 And, hanging up the quiver nature gave him, 
 
 As slow of execution, for dispatch 
 
 Sends forth imperial butchers ; bids them slay 
 
 Their sheep (the silly sheep they fleeced before),
 
 304 THE CONSOLATION. MGHT JX. 
 
 And toss him twice ten thousand at a meal. 
 
 Sit all your executioners on thrones ? 
 
 With you, can rage for plunder make a god ? 
 
 And bloodshed wash out every other slain ? 
 
 But yon, perhaps, can't bleed : from matter gross 
 
 Your spirits clean, are delicately clad 
 
 In fine-spun ether, privileged to soar, 
 
 Unloaded, uniufected; how unlike 
 
 The lot of man ! How few of human race 
 
 By their own mud unmurder'd ! How we wage 
 
 Self-war eternal ! Is your painful day 
 
 Of hardy conflict o'er? or, are you still 
 
 Raw candidates at school? And have you those 
 
 Who disaflect reversions, as with us? 
 
 But what are we? You never heard of man ; 
 
 Or earth, the Bedlam of the universe ! 
 
 Where reason (undiseased with you) runs mad, 
 
 And nurses folly's children as her own ; 
 
 Fond of the foulest. In the sacred mount 
 
 Of holiness, where reason is pronounced 
 
 Infallible, and thunders, like a god ; 
 
 E'en there, by saints, the daemons are outdone ; 
 
 What these think wrong, our saints refine to right ; 
 
 And kindly teach dull hell her own black arts : 
 
 SATAN, instructed, o'er their morals smiles. 
 
 But this, how strange to you, who know not man ! 
 
 Has the least rumour of our race arrived ? 
 
 Call'd here ELIJAH in his flaming car. 1 
 
 Pass'd by you the good ENOCH, on his road 
 
 To those fair fields, whence LUCIFER was hurl'd; 
 
 Who brush'd, perhaps, your sphere in his descent, 
 
 Stain'd your pure crystal ether, or let fall
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 306 
 
 A short eclipse from his portentous shade ? 
 O, that that fiend had lodged on some broad orb 
 Athwart his way ; nor reach'd his present home, 
 Then blacken'd earth with footsteps foul'd in hell, 
 Nor wash'd in ocean, as from ROME he pass'd 
 To BRITAIN'S isle; too, too conspicuous there!" 
 
 But this is all digression. Where is He, 
 That o'er heaven's battlements the felon burl'd 
 To groans, and chains, and darkness? Where is He, 
 Who sees creation's summit in a vale? 
 He, whom, while man is man, he can't but seek ; 
 And if he finds, commences more than man? 
 O for a telescope his throne to reach ! 
 Tell me, ye learn'd on earth, or bless'd above ! 
 Ye searching, ye Newtonian angels tell, 
 Where, your great MASTER'S orb ? his planets, where ? 
 Those conscious satellites, those morning stars, 
 First-born of DEITY ! from central love, 
 By veneration most profound, thrown off; 
 By sweet attraction, no less strongly drawn ; 
 Awed, and yet raptured; raptured, yet serene; 
 Past thought illustrious, but with borrow'd beams ; 
 In still approaching circles, still remote, 
 Revolving round the sun's eternal SIRE? 
 Or sent, in lines direct, on embassies 
 To nations in what latitude ? Beyond 
 Terrestrial thought's horizon ! And on what 
 High errands sent ? Here human effort ends ; 
 And leaves me still a stranger to His throne. 
 
 Full well it might! I quite mistook my road; 
 Born in an age, more curious than devout ; 
 More fond to fix the place of heaven, or hell,
 
 306 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT JX. 
 
 Than studious this to shun, or that secure. 
 
 "I'is not the curious, but the pious path, 
 
 That leads me to my point: LORENZO ! know, 
 
 Without or star, or angel, for their guide, 
 
 Who worship GOD, shall find him. Humble love, 
 
 And not proud reason, keeps the door of heaven ; 
 
 Love finds admission, where proud science fails. 
 
 Man's science is the culture of his heart; 
 
 And not to lose his plummet in the depths 
 
 Of nature, or the more profound of GOD. 
 
 Either to know, is an attempt that sets 
 
 The wisest on a level with the fool. 
 
 To fathom nature, (ill attempted here !) 
 
 Past doubt, is deep philosophy above ; 
 
 Higher degrees in bliss archangels take, 
 
 As deeper learn'd ; the deepest, learning still. 
 
 For, what a thunder of Omnipotence 
 
 (So might I dare to speak) is seen in all ! 
 
 In man! in earth ! in more amazing skies ! 
 
 Teaching this lesson, pride is loth to learn 
 
 "Not deeply to discern, not much to know; 
 Mankind was born to wonder, and adore." 
 
 And is there cause for higher wonder still, 
 Thau that which struck us from our past surveys ? 
 Yes ; and for deeper adoration too. 
 From my late airy travel uuconfined, 
 Have I learn'd nothing? Yes, LORENZO ; this : 
 Each of these stars is a religious house; 
 I saw their altars smoke, their incense rise ; 
 And heard hosannas ring through every sphere, 
 A seminary fraught with future gods. 
 Nature, all o'er, is consecrated ground,
 
 IHE CONSOLATION. 307 
 
 Teeming with growths immortal, and divine. 
 The- great PROPRIETOR'S all-bounteous hand 
 Leaves nothing waste ; but sows these fiery fields 
 With seeds of reason, which to virtues rise 
 Beneath his genial ray ; and, if escaped 
 The pestilential blasts of stubborn will, 
 When grown mature, are gather'd for the skies. 
 And is devotion thought too much on earth, 
 When beings, so superior, homage boast, 
 And triumph in prostrations to THE THRONE. 
 But wherefore more of planets, or of stars? 
 Ethereal journeys, and, discover'd there, 
 Ten thousand worlds, ten thousand ways devout, 
 All nature sending incense to the Throne, 
 Except the bold LORENZOS of our sphere? 
 Opening the solemn sources of my soul, 
 Since I have pour'd, like feign'd ERIDANUS, 
 My flowing- numbers o'er the flaming skies, 
 Nor see, of fancy, or of fact, what more 
 
 Invites the muse here turn we, and review 
 
 Our past nocturnal landscape wide : then say, 
 
 Say, then, LORENZO ! with what burst of heart, 
 
 The whole, at once, revolving in his thought, 
 
 Must man exclaim, adoring, and aghast? 
 
 " O what a root ! O what a branch, is here ! 
 
 O what a Father ! what a family ! 
 
 Worlds ! systems ! and creations ! and creations, 
 
 In one agglomerated cluster, hung. 
 
 Great Vine * ! on Thee, on Thee the cluster hangs ; 
 
 The filial cluster ! infinitely spread 
 
 * John xv. l.
 
 308 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 In glowing globes, with various being fraught ; 
 And drinks (nectareous draught!) immortal life. 
 Or, shall I say, (for who can say enough ?) 
 A constellation of ten thousand gems, 
 (And, O! of what dimensions! of what weight!) 
 Set in one signet, flames on the right hand 
 Of Majesty Divine ! the blaziug seal, 
 That deeply stamps, on all-created mind, 
 Indelible, his sovereign attributes, 
 Omnipotence, and love ! that, passing bound ; 
 And this, surpassing that. Nor stop we here, 
 For want of power in GOD, but thought in man. 
 E'en this acknowledged, leaves us still in debt: 
 If greater aught, that greater all is tbine, 
 Dread SIRE ! Accept this miniature of Thee ; 
 And pardon an attempt from mortal thought, 
 In which archangels might have fail'd, unblamcd." 
 
 How such ideas of th' ALMIGHTY'S power, 
 And such ideas of th' ALMIGHTY'S plan 
 (Ideas not absurd), distend the thought 
 Of feeble mortals ! Nor of them alone ! 
 The fulness of the DEITY breaks forth 
 In inconceivables to men, and gods. 
 Think, then, O think ! nor ever drop the thought; 
 How low must man descend, when gods adore ! 
 Have I not, then, accomplished my proud boast ? 
 Did I not tell thee, " We would mount, LORENZO ! 
 And kindle our devotion at the stars*?" 
 
 And have I fail'd ? and did I flatter thee ? 
 And art all adamant ? And dost confute 
 
 See page 267.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 309 
 
 All urged, with one irrefragable smile? 
 
 LORENZO! mirth how miserable here? , 
 
 Swear by the stars, by HIM who made them, swear, 
 
 Thy heart, henceforth, shall be as pure as they: 
 
 Then thou, like them, shall shine ; like them, shall rise 
 
 From low to lofty ; from obscure to bright ; 
 
 By due gradation, nature's sacred law. 
 
 The stars, from whence? Ask Chaos he can tell. 
 
 These bright temptations to idolatry, 
 
 From darkness; and confusion, took their birth ; 
 
 Sons of deformity ! from fluid dregs 
 
 Tartarean, first they rose to masses rude ; 
 
 And then, to spheres opaque; then dimly shone; 
 
 Then brighten'd; then blazed out in perfect day. 
 
 Nature delights in progress ; in advance 
 
 From worse to better: but, when minds ascend, 
 
 Progress, in part, depends upon themselves. 
 
 Heaven aids exertion ; greater makes the great ; 
 
 The voluntary little lessens more. 
 
 O be a man ! and thou shall be a god ! 
 
 And half self-made! Ambition how divine! 
 
 O thou, ambitious of disgrace alone ! 
 Still undevout? unkindled? Though high taught, 
 School'd by the skies, and pupil of the stars ; 
 Rank coward to the fashionable world ! 
 Art thou ashamed to bend thy knee to Heaven ? 
 Cursed fume of pride, exhaled from deepest hell ! 
 Pride in religion, is man's highest praise. 
 Bent on destruction ! and in love with death ! 
 Not all these luminaries, quench'd at once, 
 Were half so sad, as one benighted mind, 
 Which gropes for happiness, and meets despair
 
 310 THE CONSOLATION. SIGHT IX. 
 
 How, like a widow in her weeds, the Night, 
 Amid her glimmering tapers, silent sits ! 
 How sorrowful, how desolate, she weeps 
 Perpetual dews, and saddens nature's scene ! 
 A scene more sad sin makes the darken'd soul, 
 All comfort kills, nor leaves one spark alive. 
 
 Though blind of heart, still open is thine eye : 
 Why such magnificence in all thou seest ? 
 Of matter's grandeur, know, one end is this, 
 To tell the rational, who gazes on it 
 "Though that immensely great, still greater he, 
 Whose breast capacious, can embrace, and lodge, 
 Unburden'd, nature's universal scheme ; 
 Can grasp creation with a single thought; 
 Creation grasp; and not exclude its SIRE" 
 To tell him further " It behoves him much 
 To guard th' important, yet depending, fate 
 Of being, brighter than a thousand suns : 
 One single raj" of thought outshines them all." 
 And if man hears obedient, soon he'll soar 
 Superior heights, and on his purple wing, 
 His purple wing bedropp'd with eyes of gold, 
 Rising, where thought is now denied to rise, 
 Look down triumphant on these dazzling spheres. 
 
 Why then persist? No mortal ever lived, 
 But, dying, he pronounced (when words are true) 
 The whole that charms thee, absolutely vain ; 
 Vain, and far worse! Think thou, with dying men; 
 O condescend to think as angels think ! 
 O tolerate a chance for happiness ! 
 Our nature such, ill choice ensures ill fate ; ' 
 And hell had been, though there had been no God.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 311 
 
 Dost thou not know, my new astronomer ! 
 Earth, turning from the sun, brings night to man ? 
 Man, turning from his GOD, brings endless night; 
 Where thou canst read no morals, find no friend, 
 Amend no manners, and expect no peace. 
 How deep the darkness ! and the groan, how loud ! 
 And far, how far, from lambent are the flames ! 
 Such is LORENZO'S purchase ! such his praise ! 
 The proud, the politic LORENZO'S praise ! 
 Though in his ear, and levell'd at his heart, 
 I've half read o'er the volume of the skies. 
 
 For think not thou hast heard all this from me; 
 My song but echoes what great nature speaks. 
 What has she spoken? Thus the goddess spoke, 
 Thus speaks for ever : " Place at nature's head, 
 A sovereign, which o'er all things rolls his eye, 
 Extends his wing, promulgates his commands, 
 But, above all, diffuses endless good : 
 To whom, for sure redress, the wrong'd may fly ; 
 The vile, for mercy ; and the pain'd, for peace : 
 By whom, the various tenants of these spheres, 
 Diversified in fortunes, place, and powers, 
 Raised in enjoyment, as in worth they rise, 
 Arrive at length (if worthy such approach) 
 At that bless'd fountain-head, from which they stream ; 
 Where conflict past redoubles present joy ; 
 And present joy looks forward on increase ; 
 And that, on more ; no period ! every step 
 A double boon ! a promise, and a bliss." 
 How easy sits this scheme on human hearts ! 
 It suits their make ; it soothes their vast desires ; 
 Passion is pleased, and reason asks no more;
 
 312 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Tis rational ! 'tis great ! But what is thine ? 
 It darkens ! shocks ! excruciates ! and confounds ! 
 Leaves us quite naked, both of help, and hope, 
 Sinking from bad to worse ; few years, the sport 
 Of fortune; then, the morsel of despair. 
 
 Say, then, LORENZO (for thou know'st it well), 
 What's vice? Mere want of compass in our thought. 
 Religion, what! The proof of common sense. 
 How art thou whooted, where the least prevails ! 
 Is it my fault, if these truths call thee fool ? 
 And thon shalt never be miscall'd by me. 
 Can neither shame, nor terror, stand thy friend ? 
 And art thou still an insect in the mire ? 
 How, like thy guardian angel, have I flown; 
 Snatch 'd thee from earth ; escorted thee through all 
 Th' ethereal armies; walk'd thee, like a god, 
 Through splendours of first magnitude, arranged 
 On either hand ; clouds thrown beneath thy feet ; 
 Close cruised on the bright paradise of GOD ; 
 And almost introduced thee to the Throne! 
 And art thou still carousing, for delight, 
 Rank poison ; first, fermenting to mere froth, 
 And then subsiding into final gall? 
 To beings of sublime, immortal make, 
 How shocking is all joy, whose end is sure ! 
 Such joy, more shocking still, the more it charms ! 
 And dost thou choose what ends, ere well begun ; 
 And infamous, as short? And dost thou choose 
 (Thou, to whose palate glory is so sweet) 
 To wade into perdition, through contempt, 
 Not of poor bigots only, but thy own ? 
 For I-have peep'd into thy cover'd heart.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 313 
 
 And seen it blush beneath a boastful brow; 
 For, by strong guiit's most violent assault, 
 Conscience is but disabled, not destroy'd. 
 
 O thou most awful being, and most vain ! 
 Thy will, how frail ! how glorious is thy power ! 
 Though dread eternity has sown her seeds 
 Of bliss, and woe, in thy despotic breast ; 
 Though heaven, and hell, depend upon thy choice ; 
 A butterfly comes 'cross, and both are fled. 
 Is this the picture of a rational ? 
 This horrid image, shall it be most just? 
 LORENZO! no: it cannot shall not, be, 
 If there is force in reason ; or, in sounds, 
 Chanted beneath the glimpses of the moon, 
 A magic, at this planetary hour. 
 When slumber locks the general lip, and dreams 
 Through senseless mazes hunt souls uninspired. 
 
 Attend the sacred mysteries begin 
 
 My solemn night-born adjuration hear ; 
 Hear, and I'll raise thy spirit from the dust ; 
 While the stars gaze on this enchantment new ; 
 Enchantment, not infernal, but divine ! 
 
 "By Silence, death's peculiar attribute; 
 By Darkness, guilt's inevitable doom ; 
 By Darkness, and by Silence, sisters dread ! 
 That draw the curtain round night's ebon throne 
 And raise ideas, solemn as the scene ! 
 By Night, and all of awful, night presents 
 To thought, or sense (of awful much, to both, 
 The goddess brings !) By these her trembling fires, 
 Like VESTA'S, ever burning ; and, like hers, 
 Sacred to thoughts immaculate, and pure ! 
 p
 
 314 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 By these bright orators, that prove, and praise, 
 
 And press thee to revere, the DEITY ; 
 
 Perhaps, too, aid thee, when revered awhile, 
 
 To reach his throne; as stages of the soul, 
 
 Through which, at different periods, she shall pass, 
 
 Refilling gradual, for her final height, 
 
 And purging oft" some dross at every sphere ! 
 
 By this dark pall thrown o'er the silent world ! 
 
 By the world's kings, and kingdoms, most reuown'd, 
 
 From short ambition's zenith set for ever; 
 
 Sad presage to vain boasters, now in bloom ! 
 
 By the long list of swift mortality, 
 
 From ADAM downward to this evening knell, 
 
 Which midnight waves in fancy's startled eye; 
 
 And shocks her with a hundred centuries, 
 
 Round death's black banner throug'd, in human 
 
 thought ! 
 
 By thousands, now, resigning their last breath, 
 And calling thee wert thou so wise to hear! 
 By tombs o'er tombs arising ; human earth 
 Ejected, to make room for human earth; 
 The monarch's terror ! and the sexton's trade ! 
 By pompous obsequies, that shun the day, 
 The torch funereal, and the nodding plume, 
 Which makes poor man's humiliation proud ; 
 Boast of our ruin ! triumph of our dust ! 
 By the damp vault that weeps o'er royal bones; 
 And the pale lamp, that shows the ghastly dead, 
 More ghastly through the thick incumbent gloom ! 
 By visits (if there are) from darker scenes, 
 The gliding spectre ! and the groaning grave ! 
 By groans, and graves, and miseries that groan
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 31-3 
 
 For the grave's shelter! By desponding men, 
 
 Senseless to pains of death, from pangs of guilt! 
 
 By guilt's last audit! By yon moon in blood, 
 
 The rocking firmament, the falling stars, 
 
 And thunder's last discharge, great nature's knell ! 
 
 By second chaos; and eternal night" 
 
 BE WISE Nor let PHILANDER blame my charm; 
 
 But own not ill discharged my double debt, 
 
 Love to the living, duty to the dead. 
 
 For know, I'm but executor; he left 
 This moral legacy ; I make it o'er 
 By his command: PHILANDER hear in me, 
 And Heaven in both. If deaf to these, oh! hear 
 FLORELLO'S tender voice: his weal depends 
 On thy resolve; it trembles at thy choice: 
 For his sake love thjself. Example strikes 
 All human hearts! a bad example more; 
 More still a father's; that ensures his ruin. 
 As parent of his being, n-ouldst thoii prove 
 Th' unnatural parent of his miseries, 
 And make him curse the being which thou gavest? 
 Is this the blessing of so fond a father? 
 If careless of LORENZO, spare, oh ! spare 
 FLORELLO'S father, and PHI LANDER'S friend! 
 FLORELLO'S father ruin'd, ruins him; 
 And from PHILANDER'S friend the world expects 
 A conduct, no dishonour to the dead. 
 Let passion do, what nobler motive should; 
 Let love, and emulation, rise in aid 
 To reason; and persuade thee to be bless'd. 
 
 This seems not a request to be denied ; 
 Yet (such th' infatuation of mankind!)
 
 316 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Tis the most hopeless, man can make to man. 
 Shall I, then, rise in argument, and warmth ; 
 And urge PHI LANDER'S posthumous advice, 
 
 From topics yet unbroach'd? 
 
 But, oh ! I faint ! my spirits fail ! Nor strange ! 
 So long on wing, and in no middle clime ! 
 To which my great Creator's glory call'd : 
 And calls but, uow, in vain. Sleep's dewy wand 
 Has stroked my drooping lids, and promises 
 My long arrear of rest ; the downy god 
 (Wont to return with our returning peace) 
 Will pay, ere long, and bless me with repose. 
 Haste, haste, sweet stranger ! from the peasant's cot, 
 The ship-boy's hammock, or the soldier's straw, 
 Whence sorrow never chased thee : with thee bring, 
 Not hideous visions, as of late ! but draughts 
 Delicious of well-tasted, cordial rest ; 
 Man's rich restorative ; his balmy bath, 
 That supples, luhricatps, and keeps in play, 
 The various movements of this nice machine, 
 AVhich asks such frequent periods of repair. 
 When tired with vain rotations of the day, 
 Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn ; 
 Fresh we spin on, till sickness clogs our wheels, 
 Or death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends. 
 When will it end with me ? 
 
 " THOU only know'st, 
 
 Thou, whose broad eye the future, and the past, 
 Joins to the present; making one of three 
 To mortal thought ! Thou know'st, and Thou alone, 
 All-knowing! all-unknown! and yet well known! 
 Near, though remote ! and, though uufathom'd, felt !
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 317 
 
 And, though invisible, for ever seen ! 
 
 And seen in all ! the great, and the minute: 
 
 Each globe above, with its gigantic race, 
 
 Each flower, each leaf, with its small people swarm 'd, 
 
 (Those puny vouchers of OMNIPOTENCE !) 
 
 To the first thought, that asks, ' From whence ?' declare 
 
 Their common Source. Thou Fountain, running o'er 
 
 In rivers of communicated joy ! 
 
 Who gavest us speech for far, far humbler themes ! 
 
 Say, by what name shall I presume to call 
 
 HIM I see burning in these countless suns, 
 
 As MOSES, in the bush? Illustrious Mind! 
 
 The whole creation, less, far less, to Thee, 
 
 Than that to the creation's ample round. 
 
 How shall I name THEE? How my labouring soul 
 
 Heaves underneath the thought, too big for birth ! 
 
 " Great System of perfections ! Mighty Cause 
 Of causes mighty ! Cause uncaused ! Sole Root 
 Of nature, that luxuriant growth of GOD ! 
 First Father of effects! that progeny 
 Of endless series ; where the golden chain's 
 Last link admits a period, who can tell ? 
 Father of all that is or heard, or hears ! 
 Father of all that is or seen, or sees ! 
 Father of all that is, or shall arise! 
 Father of this immeasurable mass 
 Of matter multiform ; or dense, or rare ; 
 Opaque, or lucid ; rapid, or at rest ; 
 Minute, or passing bound ! in each extreme, 
 Of like amaze, and mystery, to man. 
 Father of these bright millions of the night! 
 Of which the least, full Godhead had proclaim'd, 
 p 2
 
 318 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 And thrown the gazer on Jus knee Or, say, 
 
 Is appellation higher still, Thy choice? 
 
 Father of matter's temporary lords ! 
 
 Father of spirits ! nobler offspring ! sparks 
 
 Of high paternal glory; rich endow 'd 
 
 With various measures, and with various modes 
 
 Of instinct, reason, intuition ; beams 
 
 More pale, or bright from day divine, to break 
 
 The dark of matter organized (the ware 
 
 Of all created spirit); beams, that rise 
 
 Each over other in superior light, 
 
 Till the last ripens into lustre strong, 
 
 Of next approach to GODHEAD. Father fond 
 
 (Far fonder than e'er bore that name on earth) 
 
 Of intellectual beings ! beings bless'd 
 
 With powers to please Thee ; not of passive ply 
 
 To laws they know not ; beings lodged in seats 
 
 Of well-adapted joys, in different domes 
 
 Of this imperial palace for thy sons ; 
 
 Of this proud, populous, well-policied, 
 
 Though boundless habitation, plann'd by Thee : 
 
 Whose several clans their several climates suit; 
 
 And transposition, doubtless, would destroy. 
 
 Or, oh! indulge, immortal KING! indulge 
 
 A title, less august, indeed, but more 
 
 Endearing; ah! bow sweet in human ears! 
 
 Sweet in our ears, and triumph in our hearts ! 
 
 Father of immortality to man ! 
 
 \ theme that lately * set my soul on fire. 
 
 And THOU the next ! yet equal ! Thou, by whom 
 
 * Nights the Sixth and Seventh.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 319 
 
 That blessing was convey'd ; far more! was bought; 
 
 Ineffable the price ! by whom all worlds 
 
 Were made; and one rcdeern'd ! illustrious Light 
 
 From Light illustrious ! THOU, whose regal power, 
 
 Finite in time, but infinite in space, 
 
 On more than adamantine basis fix'd, 
 
 O'er more, far more, than diadems, and thrones, 
 
 Inviolably reigns ; the dread of gods ! 
 
 And, oh ! the friend of man! beneath whose foot, 
 
 And by the mandate of whose awful nod, 
 
 All regions, revolutions, fortunes, fates, 
 
 Of high, of low, of mind, and matter, roll 
 
 Through the short channels of expiring time, 
 
 Or shoreless ocean of eternity, 
 
 Calm, or tempestuous (as thy Spirit breathes), 
 
 In absolute subjection ! And, O THOU 
 
 The glorious Third ! distinct, not separate ! 
 
 Beaming from both ! with both incorporate ; 
 
 And (strange to tell !) incorporate with dust ! 
 
 By condescension, as thy glory, great, 
 
 Enshrined in man ! of human hearts, if pure, 
 
 Divine inhabitant; the tie divine 
 
 Of heaven with distant earth ! by whom, I trust 
 
 (If not inspired), uncensured this address 
 
 To Thee, to Them To whom? Mysterious Power; 
 
 Reveal'd yet unreveal'd! darkness in light! 
 
 Number in unity ! our joy ! our dread ! 
 
 The triple bolt that lays all wrong in ruin ! 
 
 That animates all right, the triple sun ! 
 
 Sun of the soul ! her never-setting sun ! 
 
 Triune, unutterable, unconceived, 
 
 Absconding, yet demonstrable, Great GOD !
 
 320 THE CONSOLATION. SIGHT IS. 
 
 Greater than greatest ! better than the best ! 
 Kinder than kindest ! with soft pity's eye, 
 Or (stronger still to speak it) with thine own, 
 From thy bright borne, from that high firmament, 
 Where Thou, from all eternity, bast dwelt ; 
 Beyond archangels' unassisted ken; 
 From far above what mortals highest call ; 
 From elevation's pinnacle ; look down, 
 Through what? confounding interval ! through all, 
 And more than labouring fancy can conceive ; 
 Through radiant ranks of essences unknown ; 
 Through hierarchies from hierarchies detach'd 
 Round various banners of Omnipotence, 
 With endless change of rapturous dntie fired : 
 Through wondrous beings' interposing swarms, 
 All clustering at the call, to dwell in Thee ; 
 Through this wide waste of worlds ! this vista vast, 
 All sanded o'er with sans; sans tnrn'd to night 
 Before thy feeblest beam Look down down down. 
 On a poor breathing particle in dust, 
 Or, lower, an immortal in his crimes. 
 His crimes forgive ! forgive his virtues, too ! 
 Those smaller faults, half converts to the right ; 
 Nor let me close these eyes, which never more 
 May see the sun (though night's descending scale 
 Now weighs up morn), unpitied, and unbless'd ! 
 In Thy displeasure dwells eternal pain ; 
 Pain, our aversion ; pain, which strikes me now : 
 And, since all pain is terrible to man, 
 rbongfa transient, terrible ; at Thy good hour, 
 Gently, ah gently, lay me in my bed, 
 My clay-cold bed ! by nature, now, so near;
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 321 
 
 l'.\ iKitine. near; still nearer by disease ! 
 Till then, be this, an emblem of my grave: 
 Lot it outpreaeh the preaeher ; every night 
 I -l it outery the hoy at 1'iiiLlP's er; 
 That tongue of death ! that herald of the tomb! 
 \inl when the shelter of thy wiujj implored) 
 My >enses. soothed, shall sink in soli repose; 
 a sink this truth still deeper in my soul, 
 Mi^eMe.l li\ in\ pillow, siiju'd by fate, 
 I'irst. in fate's volume, at the pajje of mail 
 Mait',1 sickly ftntl, t/tufi turn'ti ami tots d for ever, 
 /'mm tiile lu side, can rest on nought but Tin i ; 
 Here, in full trust ; kertffttr, in full joy ; 
 )n Tin r, the promised, sure, eternal down 
 < M ^pitits. toil'd in tia\el throus;h tlii> vale. 
 Nor of that pillow shall my soul despond; 
 Tor Love almi^hn ! l.o\e almi^ht> ! IMII.;, 
 l!\ult, ereation!) Love Hlmi^liiy. uisjns! 
 
 That <ir:itli of ilc.lli I that .uliiil of ill .-(Mil ! 
 
 \ ml loud eternity's triumphant soni; ! 
 
 < M whom, no more : For. O thou PATRON GOD! 
 Thou (Joi> and mortal! thenee more (.loo to man! 
 Man's theme eternal ! man's eternal theme ! 
 Thou eanst not 'seape uninjured from our praise. 
 I iiinjured from our piui-e can III e-eape. 
 Who. diseiuhosoin'd from the 1' \niFR. bows 
 The heaven of heavens, to kiss the distant earth! 
 l!reathe> out in asronie> a Miiless soul! 
 Against the eross. li :ith'> iion seeptn- l>reak> ! 
 I'l'.in famislfd mill plueks her human prey ! 
 Throw > wide the j;ate> celestial to hi> toes! 
 Their gratitude, for ^ueh a boundless debt,
 
 322 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Deputes their suffering brothers to receive ! 
 And, if deep human guilt in payment fails ; 
 As deeper guilt, prohibits our despair ! 
 Enjoins it, as our duty, to rejoice ! 
 And (to close all) omnipotently kind, 
 Takes his delights among the sons of men*." 
 
 What words are these ! And did they come from 
 
 heaven ? 
 
 And were they spoke to man ? to guilty man ? 
 What are all mysteries to love like this ! 
 The song of angels, all the melodies 
 Of choral gods, are wafted in the sound ; 
 Heal and exhilarate the broken heart : 
 Though plunged, before, in horrors dark as night : 
 Rich preh'bation of consummate joy ! 
 Nor wait we dissolution to be bless'd. 
 
 This final effort of the moral muse, 
 How justly titled f! Nor for me alone: 
 For all that read ; what spirit of support, 
 What heights of consolation, crown my song! 
 
 Then, farewell Night! Of darkness, now, no more: 
 Joy breaks, shines, triumphs; 'tis eternal day. 
 Shall that which rises out of nought complain 
 Of a few evils, paid with endless joys? 
 My soul ! henceforth, in sweetest union join 
 The two supports of human happiness, 
 Which some, erroneous, think can never meet ; 
 True taste of life, and constant thought of death J 
 The thought of death, sole victor of its dread ! 
 Hope, be thy joy; and probity, thy skill ; 
 
 * Prov. chap. viii. t THE CONSOLATION.
 
 THE CONSOLATION. 323 
 
 Thy patron, HE, whose diadem has dropp'd 
 Yon gems of heaven ; eternity, thy prize : 
 And leave the racers of the world their own, - 
 Their feather, and their froth, for endless toils: 
 They part with all for that which is not bread ; 
 They mortify, they starve, on wealth, fame, power; 
 And laugh to scorn the fools that aim at more. 
 How must a spirit, late escaped from earth, 
 Suppose PHILANDER'S, LUCIA'S, or NARCISSA'S, 
 The truth of things new blazing in its eye, 
 Look back, astonish'd, on the ways of men, 
 Whose lives' whole drift is to forget their graves ! 
 And when our present privilege is past, 
 To scourge us with due sense of its abuse, 
 The same astonishment will seize us all. 
 What then must pain us, would preserve us now. 
 LORENZO ! 'tis not yet too late : LORENZO ! 
 Seize wisdom, ere 'tis torment to be wise ; 
 That is, seize wisdom, ere she seizes tliee. 
 For what, my small philosopher! is hell? 
 'Tis nothing, but full knowledge of the truth, 
 When truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe, 
 And calls eternity to do her right. 
 
 Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light, 
 And sacred silence whispering truths divine, 
 And truths divine converting pain to peace, 
 My song the midnight raven has outwing'd, 
 And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes, 
 Beyond the flaming limits of the world, 
 Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight 
 Of fancy, when our hearts remain below ? 
 Virtue abounds in flatterers, and foes :
 
 324 THE CONSOLATION. NIGHT IX. 
 
 Tis pride, to praise her ; penance, to perform. 
 
 To more than words, to more than worth of tongue, 
 
 LORENZO! rise, at this auspicious hour; 
 
 An hour, when Heaven 's most intimate with man ; 
 
 When, like a falling star, the ray divine 
 
 Glides swift into the bosom of the just ; 
 
 And just are all, determined to reclaim ; 
 
 Which sets that title high, within thy reach. 
 
 Awake, then; thy PHILANDER calls: awake! 
 
 Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps ; 
 
 When, like a taper, all these suns expire; 
 
 When Time, like him of Gaza in his wrath, 
 
 Plucking the pillars that support the world, 
 
 In Nature's ample ruins lies entomb'd ; 
 
 And Midnight, universal Midnight ! reigns. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 C. Wbittingliam, Printer, Cbiswick.
 
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