THE COMPLAINT.

NIGHT I.

-000

ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.

To the Right Honourable Arthur Onslow, Esq. 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 pinions flies from wo,
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

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Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought From wave to wave of fancied misery

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,
E'en in the zenith of her dark domain,

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Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne In rayless majesty, now stretches forth

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Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world.
Silence how dead! and darkness how profound!
Nor eye nor list'ning ear an object finds;
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen❜ral pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd:
Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.
Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins

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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;

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O Thou, whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; 40
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,)
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.

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The bell strikes one.

We take no note of time 55

But from its loss: to give it then a tongue
As if an angel spoke,

Is wise in man.

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?

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man!

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How passing wonder HE who made him such! 70
Who center'd in our make such strange extremes!
From diff'rent natures, marvellously mix'd,
Connection 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!

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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 wond'ring 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?

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An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

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'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 scaled the cliff, or danced 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, towering, unconfined, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Een silent night proclaims my soul immortal: Een silent night proclaims eternal day.

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For human weal Heav'n husbands all events: 105
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?
Numbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire?

They live! they greatly live a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceived; and from an eye
Of tenderness let heav'nly pity fall

On me, more justly number'd with the dead.

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All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond

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Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed:

How solid all where change shall be no more!

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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, slumb'ring in his sire.
Embryos we must be till we burst the shell,
Yon ambient azure sheil, and spring to life,
The life of Gods (O transport!) and of man.
Yet man, fool man, here buries all his thoughts; 135
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh:

Pris'ner of earth, and pent beneath the moon,
Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by Heav'n
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!

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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.

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Where falls this censure? It o'erwhelms myself. How was my heart incrusted by the world!

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