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
[soul.
That spark, the sun; strike wisdom from my
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,
To lighten and to cheer: O lead my mind,
(A mind that fain would wander from its
woe)
[Death,
Lead it through various scenes of Life and
And from each scene the noblest truths in-
spire.

Nor less inspire my conduct than my song;
Nor let the vial of thy vengeance, pour'd
On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

§ 82. Time.

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 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!
And can eternity belong to me,

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? § 83. Man.

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 ex

From different natures marvellously mixt,
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal sullied, and absorb'd!
Though sullied, and dishonor'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,

10 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. § 84. Dreams.

'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, tho' devious, speaks her

nature

Of subtler essence than the trodden clod;
Active, aerial, tow'ring, unconfin'd,
Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall
Ev'n silent night proclaims my soul imm
Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal day
For human weal, heaven husbands all events,
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams

in vain.

§ 85. Vanity of Lamentation over the Dead. 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
Unkindled, unconceiv'd; and from an eye
Of tenderness, let heavenly pity fall
On me, more justly number'd 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!
$86. Life and Eternity.

THIS is the bud of being, the dim dawn;
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-O transport! and of man.
Yet man, fool man! here buries all his
thoughts;

Here pinions all his wishes: wing'd by heaven
To fly at infinite, and reach it there,
Where seraphs gather immortality,

On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God.
What golden joys ambrosial clust'ring glow
In His full beam, and ripen for the just,
Where momentary ages are no more!

Bliss! sublunary bliss! proud words and Implicit treason to divine decree! [vain A bold invasion of the rights of heaven! I clasp'd the, phantoms, and I found them air O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace, What darts of agony had miss'd my heart! Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine

expire!

And is it in the flight of threescore years,
To push eternity from human thought,
And smother souls immortal in the dust!
A soul immortal, spending all her fires,
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness,
Thrown into tumult, raptur'd, or alarm'd,
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge,
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought,
To waft a feather or to drown a fly.

Where falls this censure? It o'erwhelms myself.

How was my heart encrusted by the world!
O how self-fetter'd was my grovelling 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!
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 pictur'd joys!
Joy behind joy, in endless perspective!
Till at Death's toll, whose restless iron tongue
Calls daily for his millions at a meal,
Starting I woke, and found myself undone!
Where now my phrensy's pompous furniture!
The cobweb'd cottage with its ragged wall
Of mouldering mud, is royalty to me!
The spider's thread is cable to man's tie
On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.
§ 87. Time and Death.

OYE blest scenes of permanent delight!
Full above measure! lasting beyond bound!
Could you, so rich in rapture, fear an end,
That ghastly thought would drink up all your
joy,

And quite unparadise the realms of light.
Safe are you lodg'd above these rolling spheres,
The baleful influence of whose giddy dance
Sheds sad vicissitude on all beneath.
Here teems with revolutions every hour;
And rarely for the better; or the best,

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; [horn.

And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her O Cynthia! why so pale? Dost thou lament Thy wretched neighbour? grieve, to see thy wheel

Of ceaseless change outwhirl'd in human life?
In ev'ry 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 elaps'd,
Led softly, by the stillness of the night,
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 !
I rue the riches of my former fate; [sigh:
Sweet comfort's blasted clusters make me
I tremble at the blessings once so dear;
And ev'ry pleasure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
I mourn for millions; 'tis the common lot;
In this shape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than sure heirs of pain.

88. NIGHT II. Avarice of Time recom- .
mended.

HE mourns the dead, who lives as they desire. Where is that thrift, that avarice of Time, (Blest av'rice) which the thought of death inspires.

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?

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

[rear.

Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep [plies Strikes empires from the root; each moment His little weapon in the narrower sphere Of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss.

How late I shudder'd on the brink! how late Life call'd for her last refuge in despair! For what calls thy disease? For moral aid. Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon. Youth is not rich in time; it may be, poor: Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment, but in purchase of its worth;

And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come.
Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain?
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?—
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treason to the soul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amuse, when med'cines cannot cure?
When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting

scenes

Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight? (As lands, and cities with their glitt'ring spires

To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there) Will toys amuse ?-no: thrones will then be toys,

And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. Redeem we time ?-its loss we dearly buy What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports? 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?

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 wel! thy thoughts; our thoughts are
heard in heaven.

On all important time, through every age, Though much, and warm, the wise have urg'd;

the man

Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour.
"I've lost a day"-the prince who nobly cry'd,
Had been an emperor without his crown:
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 phrensy fly,
For rescue from the blessings we possess?
Time, the supreme-Time is eternity;
Pregnant with all eternity can give,
Pregnant with all that makes archangels
smile.

Who murders time, he crushes in the birth
A pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd.

§ 89. Inconsistency of Man.

AH! how unjust to nature, and himself,
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,
We censure nature for a span too short;
That span too short, we tax as tedious too;
Torture invention, all expedients tire,
To lash the ling'ring moments into speed,
And whirl us (happy riddance) from ourselves.
Art, brainless art! our furious charioteer,
Drives headlong towards the precipice of
death.
[ful made.
Death, most our dread, death thus more dread-
O what a riddle of absurdity!
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:
Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief,
We call him cruel; years to moments shrink.
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 at his career.

$ 90. Waste of Time.

LEAVE to thy foes these errors, and these ills.
To nature just, their cause and cure explore;
No niggard, nature; men are prodigals.
We throw away our suns, as made for sport;
We waste, not use our time: we breathe, not
live;

And barely breathing, man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppresses with enormous wait.
And why? Since time was giv'n 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 doom'd a pleasure; waste, a
pain;

That man might feel his error, if unseen;
And, feeling, fly to labor for his cure.
Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n de-
sign'd;
[wretched.
He that has none, must make them or be
Cares are employments; and without employ
The soul is on a rack, the rack of rest;
To souls most adverse; action all their joy.
Here, then, the riddle, mark'd above, un-
folds;
[fool.
Then time turns torment, when man turns a
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 quarrel with ourselves;
Our thoughts at enmity; our bosom broil.
We push time from us; and we wish him back;
Life we think long, and short; death seek,
and shun.

Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies. Life, take thy chance; but oh for such an end!

92. NIGHT III. Picture of Narcissa, Description of her Funeral, and a Reflection upon Man.

SWEET harmonist! and beautiful as sweet!
And young as beautiful! and soft as young!
And gay as soft! and innocent as gay!
And happy (if aught happy here) as good!
For fortune fond had built her nest on high,
Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume,
Transfix'd by fate (who loves a lofty mark)
How from the summit of the grove she fell,
And left it unharmonious! all its 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
(0 to forget her!) thrilling through my heart!
Song, Beauty, Youth, Love, Virtue, Joy!
this group

Of bright ideas, flow'rs of Paradise,
As yet unforfeit ! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the skies! as all
We guess of heaven; and these were all her

own:

[blest! And she was mine; and I was-was!-most Gay title of the deepest misery!

As bodies grow more pond'rous robb'd of life, Good lost weighs more in grief than gain'd in joy.

Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm,
Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay;
And if in death still lovely, lovelier there;
Far lovelier! pity swells the tide of love.
And will not the severe excuse a sigh?
Scorn the proud man that is asham'd to weep;
Our tears indulg'd indeed deserve our shame.
Ye that e'er lost an angel, pity me.

Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human sight;
And on her cheek, the residence of spring,
Pale omen sat, and scatter'd fears around
On all that saw, (and who could 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 black 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 ev'ning 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 odors, 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; Must soon or late with anguish turn the scale; And glowing passions, bent on aught below, 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 hea

ven.

For transport dost thou call on every hour, Lorenzo? At thy 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 ex[thought repell'd

pires.

Turn, hopeless thought! turn from her :Resenting rallies, and wakes every woe. Snatch'd ere thy prime, and in thy bridal hour!

And when kind fortune, with thy lover smil'd! And when high-flavor'd thy fresh op'ning joys! And when blind man pronounc'd thy bliss complete!

And on a foreign shore, where strangers wept! Strangers to thee; and, more surprising still, Strangers to kindness wept: their eyes let fall Inhuman tears; strange tears! that trickled down

From marble hearts! obdurate tenderness! A tenderness that call'd them more severe; In spite of nature's soft persuasion, steel'd; While nature melted, superstition rav'd; That mourn'd the dead, and this denied a grave. [will!

Their sighs incens'd, sighs foreign to the
Their will the tiger suck'd, outrag'd the storm.
For, oh! the curs'd ungodliness of zeal!
While sinful flesh relented, spirit nurs'd
In blind infallibility's embrace,
The sainted spirit 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 re
source?

With pious sacrilege a grave I stole,
With impious piety that grave I wrong'd;
Short in my duty, coward in my grief!
More like her murderer than friend, I crept
With soft suspended step, and muffled deep
In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last sigh.
I whisper'd what should echo through their
realms;
[the skies.
Nor writ her name whose tomb should pierce
Presumptuous fear! how durst I dread her foes
While nature's loudest dictates I obey'd?
Pardon necessity, blest shade! Of grief
And indignation rival bursts I pour'd;
Half execration mingled with my pray'r
Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd;
Sore grudg'd the savage land her sacred dust;
Stamp'd the curs'd soil; and with humanity
(Denied Narcissa) wish'd them all a grave.

Glows my resentment into guilt? What guilt