Kayr ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream.
Of Glory on the consecrated hour
Of. Han, in audience with the Deity
London: Published Nov 1707 by Vernor & Hood & the other Proprietors.
And endless inhumanities on man?
Fame's trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell,
It brings bad tidings: How it hourly blows
Man's misadventures round the list'ning world!
Man is the tale of narrative old time;
Sad tale; which high as Paradise begins;
As if, the toil of travel to delude,
From stage to stage, in his eternal round,
The days, his daughters, as they spin our hours
On fortune's wheel, where accident unthought
Oft, in a moment, snaps life's strongest thread,
Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells,
With, now-and-then, a wretched farce between ;
And fills his chronicle with human woes.
Time's daughters, true as those of men, deceive
Not one, but puts some cheat on all mankind :
While in their father's bosom, not yet ours,
They flatter our fond hopes; and promise much
Of amiable; but hold him not o'erwise,
Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the year
At still-confiding, still-confounded, man,
Confiding, tho' confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by trial, unconvinc'd by proof,
And ever-looking for the never-seen.
Life to the last, like harden'd felons, lyes;
Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires,
Its little joys go out by One and One,
And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night;
Night darker, than what, now, involves the pole.
O THOU, who dost permit these ills to fall,
For gracious ends, and would'st that man should mourn!
O THOU, whose hands this goodly fabric fram'd,
Who know'st it best, and would'st that man should know!
What is this sublunary world? A vapour;
A vapour all it holds itself, a vapour;
From the damp bed of chaos, by Thy beam
Exhal'd, ordain'd to swim its destin'd hour
In ambient air, then melt, and disappear.
Earth's days are number'd, nor remote her doom;
As mortal, tho' less transient, than her sons;
Yet they doat on her, as the world and they
Were both eternal, solid; THOU, a dream.
They doat! on What? Immortal views apart,
A region of outsides! a land of shadows!
A fruitful field of flow'ry promises!
A wilderness of joys! perplext with doubts,
And sharp with thorns! a troubled ocean, spread
With bold adventurers, their all on board!
No second hope, if here their fortune frowns
Frown soon it must. Of various rates they sail,
Of ensigns various; All alike in This,
All restless, anxious; tost with hopes, and fears,
In calmest skies; obnoxious All to storm;
And stormy the most gen'ral blast of life:
All bound for happiness; yet few provide
The chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies;
Or virtue's helm, to shape the course design'd:
All, more or less, capricious fate lament,
Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb'd,
And farther from their wishes than before:
All, more or less, against each other dash. ·
To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven,
And suff'ring more from folly, than from fate.
Ocean! Thou dreadful and tumultuous home
Of dangers, at eternal war with man!
Death's capital, where most he domineers,
With all his chosen terrors frowning round,
(Tho' lately feasted high at * Albion's cost)
Wide-op'ning, and loud-roaring still for more!
Too faithful mirror! how dost thou reflect
The melancholy face of human life!
The strong resemblance tempts me farther still:
And, haply, Britain may be deeper struck
By moral truth, in such a mirror seen,
Which nature holds for ever at her eye.
Self-flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in hope,
When young, with sanguine chear, and streamers gay, We cut our cable, launch into the world,
And fondly dream each wind and star our friend;
All, in some darling enterprize embarkt :
But where is he can fathom its extent ?
Amid a multitude of artless hands,
Ruin's sure perquisite! her lawful prize!
Some steer aright; but the black blast blows hard, And puffs them wide of hope: With hearts of proof, Full against wind, and tide, some win their way; And when strong effort has deserv'd the port,
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