TO THE AUTHOR, ON HIS LAST DAY,' AND UNIVERSAL PASSION." AND must it be as thou hast sung, J. BANKS. THE COMPLAINT. 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 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 meu, tioned did naturally pour these moral reflections on the thought of the writer. NIGHT I. ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY, TIR'D Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought At random drove, her helm of reason lost, Though now restor'd, 'tis only change of pain, The day too short for my distress; and night, Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. But what are ye? Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval Silence, when the morning stars, O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. O lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its woe) Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. 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. How much is to be done? My hopes and fears Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how`abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! Who center'd in our make such strange extremes From different natures marvellously mix'd, Connexion exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt! 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, surpris'd, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels? O 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 mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods, or down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool, Or scal'd the cliff, or danc'd on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain! Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her naOf subtler essence than the trodden clod; Active, aërial, towering, unconfin'd, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Ev'n silent night proclaims my soul immortal; Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal day! For human weal 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 In infidel distress? Are angels there? Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire? They live! they greatly live a life on earth On me, more justly number'd with the dead, [ture |