Select Works of the British Poets

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO

own.

Whose lavish hand, whose love stupendous, pours
So much of Deity on guilty dust.

NIGHT THE NINTH AND LAST.
There, O my Lucia! may I meet thee there,
Where not thy presence can improve my bliss !

THE CONSOLATION.
Affects not this the sages of the world ?

CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,
Can nought affect them, but what fools them too?
Eternity, depending on an hour,

I. A Moral Survey of the Nocturnal Heavens.
Makes serious thought man's wisdom, joy, and praise. II. A Night Address to the Deity.
Nor need you blush (though sometimes your de-

signs May shun the light) at your designs on Heaven:

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, ONE OF HIS Sole point! where over-bashful is your blame.

MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE. Are you not wise ? You know you are: yet hear One truth, amid your numerous schemes, mislaid,

-Fatis contraria fata rependens.-Virg. Or overlook'd, or thrown aside, if seen; “ Our schemes to plan by this world, or the next,

As when a traveller, a long day past Is the sole difference between wise and fool." In painful search of what he cannot find, All worthy men will weigh you in this scale ; At night's approach, content with the next cot, What wonder then, if they pronounce you light?

There ruminates, awhile, his labor lost; Is their esteem alone not worth your care?

Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, Accept my simple scheme, of common sense ;

And chants his sonnet to deceive the time, Thus, save your fame, and make two worlds your Till the due season calls him to repose :

Thus I, long-travel'd in the ways of men, The world replies not ;—but the world persists; And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze, And puts the cause off to the longest day,

Where disappointment smiles at hope's career; Planning evasions for the day of doom.

Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray, So far, at that re-hearing, from redress,

At length have hous'd me in an humble shed; They then turn witnesses against themselves : Where, future wandering banish'd from my thought

, Hear that, Lorenzo! nor be wise to-morrow. And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest, Haste, haste! A man, by nature, is in haste;

I chase the moments with a serious song. For who shall answer for another hour ?

Song soothes our pains; and age has pains to soothe. 'Tis highly prudent, to make one sure friend ; When age, care, crime, and friends embrac'd at And that thou canst 'not do, this side the skies.

heart, Ye sons of Earth! (nor willing to be more !) Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade. Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat free, Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire; Thus in an age so gay, the Muse plain truths Canst thou, O Night! indulge one labor more! (Truths, which, at church, you might have heard in One labor more indulge! then sleep, my strain ! prose)

Till, haply, wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre, Has ventur'd into light; well-pleas'd the verse Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow, Should be forgot, if you the truths retain :

cease ; And crown her with your welfare, not your praise. To bear a part in everlasting lays; But praise she need not fear: I see my fate;

Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust, And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf, Symphonious to this humble prelude here. Since many an ample volume, mighty tome,

Has not the Muse asserted pleasures pure, Must die ; and die unwept; O thou minute,

Like those above ; exploding other joys ? Devoted page! go forth among thy foes;

Weigh what was urg'd, Lorenzo! fairly weigh; Go nobly proud of martyrdom for truth,

And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still ? And die a double death : mankind, incens'd, I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold. Denies thee long to live: nor shalt thou rest

But if, beneath the favor of mistake, When thou art dead; in Stygian shades arraign'd Thy smile's sincere; not more sincere can be By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne,

Lorenzo's smile, than my compassion for him. And bold blasphemer of his friend—the world; The sick in body call for aid ; the sick The world, whose legions cost him slender pay, In mind are covetous of more disease; And volunteers around his banner swarm; And when at worst, they dream themselves quite Prudent, as Prussia, in her zeal for Gaul!

well. “ Are all, then, fools ?" Lorenzo cries—Yes, all, To know ourselves diseas'd, is half our cure. But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee;)

When nature's blush by custom is wip'd off, “ The mother of true wisdom is the will ;"

And conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, The noblest intellect, a fool without it.

Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes; World-wisdom much has done, and more may do,

The curse of curses is, our curse to love ; In arts and sciences, in wars and peace;

To triumph in the blackness of our guilt, But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee, (As Indians glory in the deepest jet.) And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.

And throw aside our senses with our peace. This is the most indulgence can afford ;

But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy ; Thy wisdom all can do, but—make thee wise." Grant joy and glory quite unsullied shone ; Nor think this censure is severe on thee :

Yet, still, it ill deserves Lorenzo's heart.
Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.

No joy, no glory, glitters in thy sight,
But, through the thin partition of an hour,
I see its sables wove by destiny ;

And that in sorrow buried; this, in shame ;
While howling furies ring the doleful knell;
And conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst hear
Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.

Where, the prime actors of the last year's scene;
Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume?
How many sleep, who kept the world awake
With lustre, and with noise! Has Death proclaim'd
A truce, and hung his sated lance on high?
"Tis brandish'd still; nor shall the present year
Be more tenacious of her human leaf,
Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall.

But needless monuments to wake the thought;
Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality,
Though in a style more florid, full as plain,
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs.
What are our noblest ornaments, but deaths
Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint or marble,
The well-stain'd canvas, or the featur'd stone?
Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene.
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.

Profest diversions!-cannot these escape?"
Far from it: these present us with a shroud;
And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave.
As some bold plunderers, for buried wealth,
We ransack tombs for pastime; from the dust
Call up the sleeping hero; bid him tread
The scene for our amusement: how like gods
We sit; and, wrapt in immortality,

Shed generous tears on wretches born to die;
Their fate deploring, to forget our own!
What all the pomps and triumphs of our lives,
But legacies in blossom? Our lean soil,
Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities,
From friends interr'd beneath, a rich manure!
Like other worms, we banquet on the dead;
Like other worms, shall we crawl on, nor know
Our present frailties, or approaching fate?

Lorenzo! such the glories of the world!
What is the world itself? Thy world-a grave.
Where is the dust that has not been alive?
The spade, the plow, disturb our ancestors;
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
The globe around Earth's hollow surface shakes,
And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons.
O'er devastation we blind revels keep;
Whole buried towns support the dancer's heel.
'The moist of human frame the Sun exhales;
Winds scatter through the mighty void the dry;
Earth repossesses part of what she gave,
And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire;
Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils ;
As Nature, wide, our ruins spread: man's death
Inhabits all things, but the thought of man.

Nor man alone; his breathing bust expires. His tomb is mortal; empires die: where now The Roman? Greek? they stalk, an empty name! Yet few regard them in this useful light; Though half our learning is their epitaph. When down thy vale, unlock'd by midnight thought, That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, O Death! I stretch my view; what visions rise! What triumphs! toils imperial! arts divine! In wither'd laurels glide before my sight! What lengths of far-fam'd ages, billow'd high With human agitation, roll along In unsubstantial images of air!

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause, With penitential aspect, as they pass,

All point at Earth, and hiss at human pride,
The wisdom of the wise, and prancings of the great.
But, O Lorenzo! far the rest above,
Of ghastly nature, and enormous size,

One form assaults my sight, and chills my blood,
And shakes my frame. Of one departed world
I see the mighty shadow: oozy wreath
And dismal sea-weed crown her; o'er her urn
Reclin'd, she weeps her desolated realms,
And bloated sons; and, weeping, prophesies
Another's dissolution, soon, in flames.
But, like Cassandra, prophesies in vain;
In vain, to many; not, I trust, to thee.

For, know'st thou not, or art thou loth to know,
The great decree, the counsel of the skies?
Deluge and conflagration, dreadful powers!
Prime ministers of vengeance! chain'd in caves
Distinct, apart the giant furies roar ;
Apart; or, such their horrid rage for ruin,
In mutual conflict would they rise, and wage
Eternal war, till one was quite devour'd.
But not for this ordain'd their boundless rage;
When Heaven's inferior instruments of wrath,
War, famine, pestilence, are found too weak
To scourge a world for her enormous crimes,
These are let loose, alternate: down they rush,
Swift and tempestuous, from th' eternal throne,
With irresistible commission arm'd,
The world, in vain corrected, to destroy,
And ease creation of the shocking scene.

See'st thou, Lorenzo! what depends on man? The fate of Nature; as for man, her birth. Earth's actors change Earth's transitory scenes, And make creation groan with human guilt. How must it groan, in a new deluge whelm'd, But not of waters! at the destin'd hour, By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, See, all the formidable sons of fire, Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play Their various engines; all at once disgorge Their blazing magazines; and take, by storm, This poor terrestrial citadel of man.

Amazing period! when each mountain-height Out-burns Vesuvius; rocks eternal pour Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd; Stars rush; and final ruin fiercely drives Her plowshare o'er creation!--while aloft, More than astonishment! if more can be! Far other firmament than e'er was seen, Than e'er was thought by man! far other stars! Stars animate, that govern these of fire; Far other Sun!-A Sun, O how unlike The babe at Bethlem! how unlike the man That groan'd on Calvary!-Yet he it is; That Man of Sorrows! O how chang'd! what pomp: In grandeur terrible, all Heaven descends! And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train. A swift archangel, with his golden wing, As blots and clouds, that darken and disgrace The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns aside. And now, all dross remov'd, Heaven's own pure day Full on the confines of our ether, flames. While (dreadful contrast!) far, how far beneath! Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, And storms sulphureous; her voracious jaws Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey. Lorenzo! welcome to this scene; the last

In Nature's course; the first in wisdom's thought. This strikes, if aught can strike thee! this awakes The most supine; this snatches man from death.

Rouse, rouse, Lorenzo, then, and follow me,
Where truth, the most momentous man can hear,
Loud calls my soul, and ardor wings her flight.
I find my inspiration in my theme;

The grandeur of my subject is my Muse.

At midnight, when mankind is wrapt in peace, And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams; To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour, At midnight, 'tis presum'd this pomp will burst From tenfold darkness; sudden as the spark From smitten steel; from nitrous grain, the blaze. Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more! The day is broke, which never more shall close! Above, around, beneath, amazement all! Terror and glory join'd in their extremes! Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire! All Nature struggling in the pangs of death! Dost thou not hear her? Dost thou not deplore Her strong convulsions, and her final groan? Where are we now? Ah me! the ground is gone On which we stood: Lorenzo! while thou may'st, Provide more firm support, or sink for ever! Where? how? from whence? Vain hope! it is too late! Where, where, for shelter, shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

To dis-involve the moral world, and give To Nature's renovation brighter charms.

Shall man alone, whose fate, whose final fate, Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thoughtf I think of nothing else; I see! I feel it! All Nature, like an earthquake, trembling round All deities, like summer's swarms, on wing! All basking in the full meridian blaze!

Great day! for which all other days were made;
For which Earth rose from chaos, man from Earth;
And an eternity, the date of Gods,
Descended on poor earth-created man!
Great day of dread, decision, and despair!
At thought of thee, each sublunary wish
Lets go its
eager grasp, and drops the world;
And catches at each reed of hope in Heaven.
At thought of thee!-and art thou absent then?
Lorenzo! no; 'tis here; it is begun ;-
Already is begun the grand assize,

In thee, in all: deputed conscience scales
The dread tribunal, and forestalls our doom;
Forestalls; and, by forestalling, proves it sure.
Why on himself should man void judgment pass?
Is idle Nature laughing at her sons?
Who conscience sent, her sentence will support,
And God above assert that god in man.
Thrice-happy they! that enter now the court
Heaven opens in their bosoms: but, how rare,
Ah me! that magnanimity, how rare!
What hero, like the man who stands himself;
Who dares to meet his naked heart alone;
Who hears, intrepid, the full charge it brings,
Resolv'd to silence future murmurs there?
The coward flies; and, flying, is undone.
(Art thou a coward? No:) the coward flies;
Thinks, but thinks slightly; asks, but fears to know;
Asks," What is truth?" with Pilate; and retires;
Dissolves the court, and mingles with the throng;
Asylum sad! from reason, hope, and Heaven!

Shall all, but man, look out with ardent eye,
For that great day, which was ordain'd for man?
O day of consummation! mark supreme
(If men are wise) of human thought! nor least,
Or in the sight of angels, or their King!
Angels, whose radiant circles, height o'er height,
Order o'er order, rising, blaze o'er blaze,
As in a theatre, surround this scene,
Intent on man, and anxious for his fate.
Angels look out for thee; for thee, their Lord,
To vindicate his glory; and for thee,
Creation universal calls aloud,

I see the Judge enthron'd! the flaming guard!
The volume open'd! open'd every heart!
A sunbeam pointing out each secret thought;
No patron! intercessor none! now past
The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour!
For guilt no plea! to pain, no pause! no bound'
Inexorable, all! and all, extreme!

Nor man alone; the foe of God and man, From his dark den, blaspheming, drags his chain, And rears his brazen front, with thunder scarr'd Receives his sentence, and begins his hell. All vengeance past, now, seems abundant grace. Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll His baleful eyes; he curses whom he dreads; And deems it the first moment of his fall.

"Tis present to my thought!—and yet where si Angels can't tell me; angels cannot guess The period; from created beings lock'd In darkness. But the process, and the place, Are less obscure; for these may man inquire. Say, thou great close of human hopes and fears! Great key of hearts! great finisher of fates! Great end! and great beginning! say, Where thou? Art thou in time, or in eternity? Nor in eternity, nor time, I find thee. These, as two monarchs, on their borders meet, (Monarchs of all elaps'd, or unarriv'd!) As in debate, how best their powers allied May swell the grandeur, or discharge the wrath, Of him, whom both their monarchies obey.

Time, this vast fabric, for him built (and doom? With him to fall) now bursting o'er his head; His lamp, the Sun, extinguish'd; from beneath The frown of hideous darkness, calls his sons From their long slumber! from Earth's heavi womb,

To second birth! contemporary throng!
Rous'd at one call, upstarted from one bed,
Prest in one crowd, appall'd with one amaze,
He turns them o'er, Eternity! to thee.
Then (as a king depos'd disdains to live)
He falls on his own scythe; nor falls alone;
His greatest foe falls with him; Time, and he
Who murder'd all Time's offspring, Death, expire
Time was! Eternity now reigns alone!
Awful eternity! offended queen!
And her resentment to mankind, how just!
With kind intent, soliciting access,
How often has she knock'd at human hearts!
Rich to repay their hospitality,
How often call'd! and with the voice of God!
Yet bore repulse, excluded as a cheat!
A dream! while foulest foes found welcome there!
A dream, a cheat, now, all things, but ker smile.

For, lo! her twice ten thousand gates thrown wide
As thrice from Indus to the frozen Pole,
With banners streaming as the comet's blaze,
And clarions, louder than the deep in storms,
Sonorous as immortal breath can blow,
Pour forth their myriads, potentates, and powers,
Of light, of darkness; in a middle field,
Wide, as creation! populous, as wide!
A neutral region! there to mark th' event

Of that great drama, whose preceding scenes
Detain'd them close spectators, through a length
Of ages, ripening to this grand result;
Ages, as yet unnumber'd, but by God;
Who now pronouncing sentence, vindicates
The rights of virtue, and his own renown.
Eternity, the various sentence past,
Assigns the sever'd throng distinct abodes,
Sulphureous, or ambrosial: what ensues?
The deed predominant! the deed of deeds!
Which makes a Hell of Hell, a Heaven of Heaven.
The goddess, with determin'd aspect, turns
Her adamantine key's enormous size
Through destiny's inextricable wards,
Deep driving every bolt, on both their fates.
Then, from the crystal battlements of Heaven,
Down, down, she hurls it through the dark profound,
Ten thousand thousand fathom; there to rust,
And ne'er unlock her resolution more.

glooms,

Returns, in groans, the melancholy roar.

O how unlike the chorus of the skies!
O how unlike those shouts of joy, that shake
The whole ethereal? How the concave rings!
Nor strange! when deities their voice exalt;
And louder far, than when creation rose.
To see creation's godlike aim, and end,
So well accomplish'd! so divinely clos'd!
To see the mighty dramatist's last act
(As meet) in glory rising o'er the rest.
No fancied god, a god indeed, descends,
To solve all knots; to strike the moral home;
To throw full day on darkest scenes of time;
To clear, commend, exalt, and crown the whole.
Hence, in one peal of loud, eternal praise,
The charm'd spectators thunder their applause!
And the vast void beyond, applause resounds.
What then am I?-

But chiefly then, when grief puts in her claim,
Joy from the joyous, frequently betrays,
Oft lives in vanity, and dies in woe.
Joy, amidst ills, corroborates, exaits;

Amidst applauding worlds,
And worlds celestial, is there found on Earth
A peevish, dissonant, rebellious string,
Which jars on the grand chorus, and complains?
Censure on thee, Lorenzo! I suspend,

And turn it on myself; how greatly due!

The deep resounds; and Hell, through all her Nor think it misery to be a man;

"Tis joy, and conquest; joy, and virtue too.
A noble fortitude in ills, delights
Heaven, Earth, ourselves; 'tis duty, glory, peace.
Affliction is the good man's shining scene;
Prosperity conceals his brightest ray;
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm,
And virtue in calamities, admire;
The crown of manhood is a winter-joy;
An evergreen, that stands the northern blast,
And blossoms in the rigor of our fate.

'Tis a prime part of happiness, to know How much unhappiness must prove our lot; A part which few possess! I'll pay life's tax, Without one rebel murmur, from this hour,

Who thinks it is, shall never be a God.
Some ills we wish for, when we wish to live.
What spoke proud passion?" Wish my being
lost?"*

Presumptuous! blasphemous! absurd! and false!
The triumph of my soul is-That I am ;
And therefore that I may be-what? Lorenzo!
Look inward, and look deep; and deeper still;
Unfathomably deep our treasure runs
In golden veins, through all eternity!
Ages, and ages, and succeeding still
New ages, where the phantom of an hour,
Which courts, each night, dull slumber, for repair,
Shall wake, and wonder, and exult, and praise,
And fly through infinite, and all unlock;
And (if deserv'd) by Heaven's redundant love,
Made half-adorable itself, adore;

And find, in adoration, endless joy!
Where thou, not master of a moment here,
Frail as the flower, and fleeting as the gale,
May'st boast a whole eternity, enrich'd
With all a kind Omnipotence can pour.
Since Adam fell, no mortal, uninspir'd,
Has ever yet conceiv'd, or ever shall,
How kind is God, how great (if good) is man.
No man too largely from Heaven's love can hope,
If what is hop'd he labors to secure.

All, all is right, by God ordain'd or done;
And who, but God, resum'd the friends he gave?
And have I been complaining, then, so long?
Complaining of his favors, pain, and death?
Who, without pain's advice, would e'er be good?
Who, without death, but would be good in vain?
Pain is to save from pain; all punishment,
To make for peace; and death to save from death;
And second death, to guard immortal life;
To rouse the careless, the presumptuous awe,
And turn the tide of souls another way;
By the same tenderness divine ordain'd,
That planted Eden, and high-bloom'd for man
A fairer Eden, endless, in the skies.

Ills?—there are none :-All-gracious! none from

thee;

From man full many! numerous is the race
Of blackest ills, and those immortal too,
Begot by madness on fair liberty;

Heaven's daughter, Hell-debauch'd! her hand alone
Unlocks destruction to the sons of men,

First barr'd by thine: high-wall'd with adamant,
Guarded with terrors reaching to this world,
And cover'd with the thunders of thy law;
Whose threats are mercies, whose injunctions, guides,
Assisting, not restraining, reason's choice;

Heaven gives us friends to bless the present scene; Whose sanctions, unavoidable results
Resumes them, to prepare us for the next.
All evils natural are moral goods;
AH discipline, indulgence, on the whole.
None are unhappy: all have cause to smile,
But such as to themselves that cause deny.
Our faults are at the bottom of our pains;
Error, in acts, or judgment, is the source
Of endless sighs: we sin, or we mistake;
And Nature tax, when false opinion stings.
Let impious grief be banish'd, joy indulg'd;

From Nature's course, indulgently reveal'd ;
If unreveal'd, more dangerous, nor less sure.
Thus, an indulgent father warns his sons,
"Do this; fly that"-nor always tells the cause;
Pleas'd to reward, as duty to his will,
A conduct needful to their own repose.
Great God of wonders! (if, thy love survey'd,
Aught else the name of wonderful retains)

Referring to the First Night.

scene,

What rocks are these, on which to build our trust! The grand tribunal rais'd; assign'd the bounds Thy ways admit no blemish ; none I find;

Of human grief : in few, to close the whole, Or this alone—“ That none is to be found." The moral Muse has shadow'd out a sketch, Not one, to soften censure's hardy crime;

Though not in form, nor with a Raphael-stroke, Not one, to palliate peevish grief's complaint, Of most our weakness needs believe, or do, Who like a demon, murmuring from the dust, In this our land of travel and of hope, Dares into judgment call her Judge.-Supreme! For peace on Earth, or prospect of the skies. For all I bless thee; most, for the severe ;

What then remains ? Much! much! a mighty debt Her* death—my own at hand—the fiery gulf, To be discharg'd: these thoughts, O Night! are That flaming bound of wrath omnipotent!

thine : It thunders;—but it thunders to preserve;

From thee they came, like lovers' secret sighs, It strengthens what it strikes; its wholesome dread While others slept. So Cynthia (poets feign) Averts the dreaded pain ; its hideous groans In shadows veil’d, soft sliding from her sphere, Join Heaven's sweet hallelujahs in thy praise, Her shepherd cheer'd ; of her enamour'd less, Great source of good alone ! Ilow kind in all! Than I of thee-And art thou still unsung, In vengeance kind! pain, death, gehenna save. Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing ?

Thus, in thy world material, Mighty Mind! Immortal silence! where shall I begin? Not that alone which solaces, and shines,

Where end? Or how steal music from the spheres, The rough and gloomy, challenges our praise. To soothe their goddess ? The winter is as needful as the spring ;

O majestic Night? The thunder, as the Sun; a stagnant mass

Nature's great ancestor? day's elder-born! Of vapors breeds a pestilential air;

And fated to survive the transient Sun! Nor more propitious the Favonian breeze

By mortals, and immortals, seen with awe! To Nature's health, than purifying storms ;

A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, The dread valcano ministers to good.

An azure zone, thy waist; clouds, in Heaven's loom Its smother'd fames might undermine the world. Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, Loud Etnas fulminate in love to man;

In ample folds of drapery divine, Comets good omens are when duly scann'd; Thy flowing mantle form; and Heaven throughout, And, in their use, eclipses learn to shine.

Voluminously pour thy pompous train. Man is responsible for ills receivid;

Thy gloomy grandeurs (Nature's most august, Those we call wretched are a chosen band, Inspiring aspect !) claim a grateful verse ; Compellid io refuge in the right, for peace. And, like a sable curtain starr'd with gold, Am my list of blessings infinite,

Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close
Stand this the foremost, “ That my heart has bled." And what, О man! so worthy to be sung?
"Tis Heaven's last effort of good-will to man; What more prepares us for the songs of Heaven?
When pain can't bless, Heaven quits us in despair. Creation, of archangels is the theme !
Who fails to grieve, when just occasion calls, What, to be sung, so needful? What so well
Or grieves too much, deserves not to be blest; Celestial joys prepare us to sustain ?
Inhuman, or effeminate, his heart;

The soul of man, his face design'd to see
Reason absolves the grief, which reason ends. Who gave these wonders to be seen by man,
May Heaven ne'er trust my friend with happiness, Has here a previous scene of objects great,
Till it has taught him how to bear it well, On which to dwell; to stretch to that expanse
By previous pain; and made it safe to smile! Of thought, to rise to that exalted height
Such smiles are mine, and such may they remain ; Of admiration, to contract that awe,
Nor hazard their extinctions, from excess.

And give her whole capacities that strength,
My change of heart a change of style demands ; Which best may qualify for final joy.
The consolation cancels the complaint,

The more our spirits are enlarg d on Earth,
And makes a convert of my guiliy song.

The deeper draught shall they receive of Heaven. And when o'erlabor'd, and inclin'd to breathe, Heaven's King! whose face unveil'd consun A panting traveller some rising ground,

mates bliss ; Some small ascent, has gain’d, he turns him round, Redundant bliss! which fills that mighty void, And measures with his eye the various vales, The whole creation leaves in human hearts ! The fields, woods, meads, and rivers, he has past; Thou, who didst touch the lip of Jesse's son, And, satiate of his journey, thinks of home, Rapt in sweet contemplation of these fires, Endear'd by distance, nor affects more toil; And set his harp in concert with the spheres; Thus I, though small, indeed, is that ascent While of thy works material the supreme The Muse has gain'd, review the paths she trod;

I dare attempt, assist my daring song; Various, extensive, beaten but by few;

Loose me from Earth's inclosure, from the Sun's And, conscious of her prudence in repose,

Contracted circle set my heart at large; Pause ; and with pleasure meditaie an end,

Eliminate my spirit, give it range Though still remote; so fruitful is my theme. Through provinces of thought yet unexplor'd ; Through many a field of moral, and divine, Teach me by this stupendous scaffolding, The muse has stray'd ; and much of sorrow seen Creation's golden steps, to climb to thee. In human ways; and much of false and vain ; Teach me with art great Nature to control, Which none, who travel this bad road, can miss. And spread a lustre o'er the shades of night. O'er friends deceas'd full heartily she wept;

Feel I thy kind assent? and shall the Sun Of love divine the wonders she display'd;

Be seen at midnight, rising in my song ? Prov'd man immortal ; show'd the source of joy ;

Lorenzo! come, and warm thee: thou, whose heart.

Whose little heart, is moor'd within a nook * Lucia.

of this obscure terrestrial, anchor weigh.

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Select Works of the British Poets: In a Chronological Series from Ben Jonson ...