The Complaint

POPE, who couldst make Immortals! art Thou dead?
I give thee Joy: Nor will I take my Leave;
So foon to follow. Man but dives in Death;
Dives from the Sun, in fairer Day to rise;
The Grave, his fubterranean Road to Blifs.
Yes, infinite Indulgence plann'd it fo;

Thro' various Parts our glorious Story runs ;
Time gives the Preface, endless Age unrolls
The Volume (ne'er unroll'd) of human Fate.
This, Earth and Skies* already have proclaim'd.
The World's a Prophecy of Worlds to come;
And who, what God foretels (who speaks in Things,
Still louder than in Words) fhall dare deny ?
If Nature's Arguments appear too weak,
Turn a new Leaf, and ftronger read in Man.
If Man fleeps on, untaught by what he sees,
Can he prove Infidel to what he feels?
He, whofe blind Thought Futurity denies,
Unconscious bears, BELLEROPHON! like thee,
His own Indictment; he condemns himself;
Who reads his Bofom, reads immortal Life ;
Or, Nature, there, impofing on her Sons,
Has written Fables; Man was made a Lye.
Night the Sixth.

Why

Why Discontent for ever harbour'd there ?
Incurable Confumption of our Peace!
Refolve me, why, the Cottager, and King,
He whom Sea-fever'd Realms obey, and he
Who fteals his whole Dominion from the Waste,
Repelling Winter Blafts with Mud and Straw,
Difquieted alike, draw Sigh for Sigh,

In Fate fo diftant, in Complaint fo near?

Is it, that Things Terrestrial can't content ?
Deep in rich Pasture, will thy Flocks complain?
Not fo; but to their Mafter is deny'd

To share their fweet Serene. Man, ill at Eafe,
In this, not his own Place, this foreign Field,
Where Nature fodders him with other Food,
Than was ordain'd his Cravings to fuffice,
Poor in Abundance, famifh'd at a Feast,
Sighs on for fomething more, when most enjoy'd.
Is Heav'n then kinder to thy Flocks than Thee?
Not fo; thy Pafture richer, but remote ;

In part, remote; for that remoter Part

Man bleats from Instinct, tho', perhaps, debauch'd
By Senfe, his Reason fleeps, nor dreams the Caufe.
The Caufe how obvious, when his Reafon wakes!
His Grief is but his Grandeur in Disguise;
And Difcontent is Immortality.

Shall Sons of Æther, fhall the Blood of Heav'n,
Set up their Hopes on Earth, and ftable bere,
With brutal Acquiefcence in the Mire?
LORENZO! no! they fhall be nobly pain'd;
The glorious Foreigners, diftreft, shall figh
On Thrones; and Thou congratulate the Sigh:
Man's Mifery declares him born for Bliss;
His anxious Heart afferts the Truth I fing,
And gives the Sceptic in his Head the Lye.

Our

Our Heads, our Hearts, our Paffions, and our Powers, Speak the fame Language; call us to the Skies: Unripen'd Thefe in this inclement Clime,.

Scarce rife above Conjecture, and Mistake;
And for this Land of Trifles Thofe too ftrong
Tumultuous rife, and tempest human Life:
What Prize on Earth can pay us for the Storm?
Meet Objects for our Paffions Heav'n ordain'd,
Objects that challenge all their Fire, and leave
No Fault, but in Defect: Bleft Heav'n! avert
A bounded Ardor for unbounded Bliss;
O for a Blifs unbounded! Far beneath
A Soul immortal, is a mortal Joy.
Nor are our Pow'rs to perish immature ;
But, after feeble Effort here, beneath
A brighter Sun, and in a nobler Soil,
Transplanted from this fublunary Bed,
Shall flourish fair, and put forth all their Bloom.
Reason progreffive, Inftinct is complete ;
Swift Instinct leaps; flow Reason feebly climbs.
Brutes foon 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 coëval with the Sun,
The Patriarch Pupil would be learning still;
Yet, dying, leave his Leffon half-unlearnt.

Men perish in Advance, as if the Sun

Should fet ere Noon, in Eastern Oceans drown'd;
If fit, with Dim, Illuftrious to compare,
The Sun's Meridian, with the Soul of Man.
To Man, why, Stepdame Nature! fo fevere?
Why thrown afide thy Mafter-piece half-wrought,
While meaner Efforts thy laft Hand enjoy?
Or, if abortively poor Man muft die,

Nor reach, what reach he might, why die in Dread?

Why

Why curft with Forefight? Wise to Mifery ?
Why of his proud Prerogative the Prey?!
Why lefs pre-eminent in Rank, than Pain?
His Immortality alone can tell ;

Full ample Fund to balance all amifs,
And turn the Scale in Favour of the Just!
His Immortality alone can folve
That darkest of Enigmas, human Hope;
Of all the darkeft, if at Death we die.
Hope, eager Hope, th' Affaffin of our Joy,
All prefent Bleffings treading under-foot,
Is fcarce a milder Tyrant than Despair.
With no past Toils content, ftill planning new,
Hope turns us o'er to Death alone for Ease.
Poffeffion, why, more taftelefs than Purfuit?
Why is a Wish far dearer than a Crown?
That With accomplish'd, why, the Grave of Blifs?
Because, in the great Future bury'd deep,
Beyond our Plans of Empire, and Renown,

Lies all that Man with Ardor should pursue ;
And HE who made him, bent him to the Right.
Man's Heart th' ALMIGHTY to the Future fets,
By fecret and inviolable Springs ;,

And makes his Hope his fublunary Joy.

Man's Heart eats all Things, and is hungry ftill; "More, more!" the Glutton cries: For fomething New So rages Appetite, if Man can't Mount,

He will Defcend. He ftarves on the Poffeft.

Hence, the World's Mafter, from Ambition's Spire,
In Caprea plung'd; and div'd beneath the Brute.
In that rank. Sty why wallow'd Empire's Son
Supreme Because he could no higher fly;
His Riot was Ambition in Despair.

Old Rome confulted Birds; LORENZO! thou,
With more Succefs, the Flight of Hope furvey;

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The Complaint: Or, Night-thoughts on Life, Death and Immortality. To which ...