As the occasion of this Poem was real, not fic titious; so the method pursued in it was rather imposed by what spontaneously arose in the Author's mind on that occasion, than meditated or designed. Which will appear very probable from the nature of it. For it differs from the common mɔde of poetry; which is, from long narrations to draw short morals. flere, on the contrary, the narrative is short, and the morality arising from it makes the bulk of the Poem. The reason of it is, that the facts mentioned did naturally pour these moral reflections on the thought of the Writer. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT 1. ON LIFE, DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. TO THE RIGHT HON. ARTHUR ONSLOW, ESQ TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes, From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose I wake how happy they who wake no more! I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wreck'd, desponding thought From wave to wave of fancied misery 5 11 At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change !) severer for severe. 15 The Day too short for my distress; and Night, Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd Fate drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender though (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 30 35 45 That spark, the Sun, strike wisdom from my soul; 40 50 The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 55 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. 60 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. 65 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! 70 Who centred in our make such strange extremes ! From different natures marvellously mix'd, Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! A worm! A god!-I tremble at myself, 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof: 75 80 85 90 95 100 Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature |