PREFACE. As the occasion of this Poem was real, not fictitious; 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 mɔde 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. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. TO THE RIGHT HON. ARTHUR ONSLOW, ESQ. SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose Tumultuous; where my wreck'd, desponding thought, 11 At random drove, her helm of reason lost, Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) severer for severe. The Day too short for my distress; and Night, 15 Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 20 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Nor 25 And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd : Fate drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins 30 From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought The grave your kingdom: there this frame shall fall But what are ye? Thou who didst put to flight Primeval Silence, when the morning stars, O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck 35 45 That spark, the Sun, strike wisdom from my soul; 40 50 The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 55 I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. 60 It is the signal that demands despatch: How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss. A dread eternity! how surely mine! Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, How Reason reels! O what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distress'd! what joy! what dread! What can preserve my life! or what destroy. 95 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof: While o'er my limbs Sleep's soft dominion spreads, What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields, or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods, or down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool, Or scaled the cliff, or danced on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain! Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod; Active, aerial, towering, uncoufined, 100 105 Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire? 110 They live! they greatly live! a life on earth On me, more justly number'd with the dead. This is the desert, this the solitude : 115 How populous, how vital is the grave! All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond 120 Is substance; the reverse is Folly's creed. How solid all, where change shall be no more! The twilight of our day, the vestibule : Life's theatre, as yet is shut; and Death, 125 Strong Death, alone can heave the massy bar, 130 Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts, Inters celestial hopes without one sigh: 135 Prisoner of earth and pent beneath the moon, Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by Heaven |