How kind is GOD; how great (if good) is Man,
No man too largely from Heaven's love can hope,
If what is bop'd, he labours to secure.
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;
Heav'n's daughter, hell-debauch'd! Her hand alone
Unlocks deftruction to the fons of men,
Faft-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;
Whofe threats are mercies, whofe injunctions, guides,
Affifting, not restraining, Reason's choice;
Whofe fanctions, unavoidable results
From Nature's courfe, indulgently reveal'd;
If unreveal'd, more dang'rous, not less fure.
Thus, an indulgent father warns his fons,
"Do; this fly that :" nor always tells the caufe;
Pleas'd to reward as duty to his will,
A conduct needful to their own repose.
Great God of wonders! (if, thy love furvey'd,
Aught elfe the name of wonderful retains)
What rocks are these on which to build our truft?
Thy ways admit no blemish; none I find;
Or this alone" That none is to be found."
Not one, to foften Censure's hardy crime;
Not one, to palliate peevish Grief's COMPLAINT,
Who, like a demon, murm'ring from the duft,
Dares into judgment call her Judge-SUPREME!
For all I blefs Thee; moft for the severe;
*Her death-my own at hand-the fiery gulph,
That flaming bound of wrath omnipotent!
It thunders; but it thunders to preferve;
It strengthens what it strikes; its wholefome dread
Averts the dreaded pain; its hideous groans
Join Heav'n's fweet hallelujahs in Thy praife,
Great Source of good alone! How kind in all!
In vengeance, kind! Pain, Death, Gehenna, SAVE,
Thus in thy work material, Mighty mind!
Not that alone which solaces, and shines ;
The rough and gloomy, challenges our praise.
The winter is as needful as the fpring;
The thunder, as the fun; a stagnate mafs
Of vapours breeds a peftilential air:
Nor more propitious the Favonian breeze
To Nature's health, than purifying ftorms;
The dread volcano ministers to good..
Its fmother'd flames might undermine the world."
Loud Etnas fulminate in love to man;
Comets good omens are, when duly fcann'd ;
And, in their use, eclipses learn to fhine.
Man is refponfible for ills receiv'd : ·
Thofe we call wretched, are a chofen band,
Compell'd to refuge in the right, for peace.
Amid my lift of bleffings infinite,
Stands this the foremost, "That my heart has bled:"
'Tis Heav'n's last effort of good-will to man;
When Pain can't blefs, Heav'n quits us in defpair.
Who fails to grieve, when just occafion calls,
Or grieves too much, deferves not to be bleft;
Inhuman, or effeminate his heart;
Reason abfolves the grief which Reason ends.
May Heav'n ne'er trust my friend with happiness,
Till it has taught him how to bear it well,
By previous pain; and made it safe to smile?
Such fmiles are mine, and fuch may they remain;
Nor hazard their extinction from excefs.
My change of heart, a change of style demands;
The CONSOLATION cancels the COMPLAINT,
And makes a convert of my guilty fong.
As when o'erlabour'd, and inclin'd to breathe,
A panting traveller, fome rifing ground,
Some small afcent has gain'd, he turns him round,
And measures with his eye the various vale,
The fields, woods, meads, and rivers he has paft;
And, fatiate of his journey, thinks of home,
Endear❜d by distance, nor affects more toil;
Thus I, though fmall indeed is that afcent
The Mufe has gain'd, review the paths she trod
Various, extenfive, beaten but by few ;
And, confcious of her prudence in repofe,
Paufe; and with pleasure meditate an end,
Though ftill remote; fo fruitful is my theme.
Through many a field of moral and divine,
The Mufe has ftray'd; and much of sorrow seen
In human ways; and much of false and vain;
Which none, who travel this bad road, can mifs,
O'er friends deceas'd full heartily fhe wept;
Of love divine the wonders fhe difplay'd;
Prov'd man immortal; fhow'd the source of joy;
The grand tribunal rais'd; affign'd the bounds
Of human grief: In few, to close the whole,
The moral Mufe has fhadow'd out a fketch,
Tho' not in form, nor with a RAPHAEL-ftroke,
Of most our weakness needs believe, or do,
In this our land of travel, and of hope,
For peace on earth or profpect of the skies.
What then remains? Much! much! a mighty debt To be difcharg'd: Thefe thoughts, O Night! are thine: From thee they came, like lovers fecret fighs, While others flept. So Cynthia, (poets feign), In fhadows veil'd, foft-liding from her sphere, Her fhepherd cheer'd: Of her enamour'd lefs, Than I of thee.And art thou ftill unfung, Beneath whofe brow, and by whofe aid, I fing? Immortal Silence! Where fhall I begin? Where end? or how steal mufic from the fpheres, To foothe their goddess ?
Nature's great ancestor! Day's elder-born!
And fated to furvive the tranfient fun!
By mortals and immortals, feen with awe!
A ftarry crown thy raven brow adorns,`
An azure zone, thy waist: Clouds, in Heav'n's loom
Wrought thro' varieties of fhape and fhade,
In ample folds of drapery divine,
Thy flowing mantle form, and, Heav'n throughout,
Voluminously pour thy pompous train.
Thy gloomy grandeurs (Nature's most august,
Inspiring afpect !) claim a grateful verfe ;
And, like a fable curtain ftarr'd with gold.
Drawn o'er my labours paft, fhall close the scene.
And what, O man; fo worthy to be fung?
What more prepares us for the fongs of Heav'n?
Creation of archangels is the theme!
What, to be fung, fo needful? what fo well
Celestial joys prepare us to sustain?
The foul of man, His face defign'd to fee,
Who gave these wonders to be seen by man,
Has bere a previous scene of objects great,
On which to dwell; to stretch to that expanse
Of thought; to rife to that exalted height
Of admiration; to contract that awe,
And give her whole capacities that ftrength,
Which beft may qualify for final joy.
The more our fpirits are enlarg'd on earth,
The deeper draught fhall they receive of Heav'n.
Heav'n's KING! whofe face unveil'd confummates
Redundant blifs, which fills that mighty void
The whole creation leaves in human hearts!
THOU, who didft touch the lip of JESSE's fon,
Wrapt in fweet contemplation of thefe fires,
And fet his harp in concert with the spheres!
While of thy works material the fupreme
I dare attempt, affift my daring fong:
Loofe me from earth's inclofure; from the sun's
Contracted circle fet my heart at large:
Eliminate my fpirit; give it range
Through provinces of thought yet unexplor❜d;
Teach me, by this ftupendous fcaffolding,
Creation's golden steps, to climb to THEE.
Teach me with Art great Nature to controul,
And fpread a luftre o'er the fhades of Night.
Feel I Thy kind affent? and shall the sun
Be feen at midnight, rifing in my fong?
LORENZO Come, and warm thee; Thou whofe '
Whofe little heart is moor'd within a nook
Of this obfcure terrestrial, anchor weigh.
Another ocean calls, a nobler port;
Iam thy pilot; I thy profp'rous gale.
Gainful thy voyage through yon azure main;
Main, without tempeft, pirate, rock, or fhore;
And whence thou may'st import eternal wealth;
And leave to beggar'd, minds the pearl and gold.
Thy travels doft thou boast o'er foreign realms ?
Thou stranger to the world! thy tour begin;
Thy tour through Nature's universal orb.
Nature delineates her whole chart at large,
On foaring fouls, that fail among the fpheres;
And man how purblind, if unknown the whole:
Who circles fpacious earth, then travels bere,
Shall own, he never was from home before!
Come, my PROMETHEUS, from thy pointed rock
Of false ambition, if unchain'd we'll mount;
We'll, innocently, fteal celeftial fire,
And kindle our devotion at the stars ;
A theft, that shall not chain, but fet thee free.
Above our atmosphere's inteftine wars,
Rain's fountain-head, the magazine of hail;
Above the northern nefts of feather'd fnows,
The brew of thunders, and the flaming forge
That forms the crooked lightning: 'bove the caves
Where infant tempefts wait their growing wings,
And tune their tender voices to that roar,
Which foon, perhaps, shall shake a guilty world:
Above mifconftru'd omens of the sky,
Far-travell'd comet's calculated blaze,
Elance thy thought, and think of more than man.
Thy foul, till now, contracted, wither'd, fhrunk,
Blighted by blafts of earth's unwholesome air,
*Night the eighth.
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