And Proper Sentiments of Heart on that Inestimable Blessing.
Humbly Inscribed
To the Honble Mr. YORKE.
A Much-indebted Muse, O Yorke! intrudes. Amid the Smiles of Fortune, and of Youth, Thine Ear is patient of a serious Song. How deep-implanted in the Breast of Man The Dread of Death? I sing its sov'reign Cure. Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd, Is past; not come, or gone, He's never here. Ere Hope, Sensation fails; Black-boding Man Receives, not suffers, Death's tremendous Blow. The Knell, the Shroud, the Mattock, and the Grave; The deep damp Vault, the Darkness, and the Worm; These are the Bugbears of a Winter's Eve, The Terrors of the Living, not the Dead. Imagination's Fool, and Error's Wretch, Man makes a Death, which Nature never made; Then on the Point of his own Fancy falls; And feels a thousand Deaths, in fearing one. But were Death frightful, what has Age to fear? If prudent, Age should meet the friendly Foe, And shelter in his hospitable Gloom. I scarce can meet a Monument, but holds My Younger; ev'ry Date cries-"Come away." And what recalls me? Look the World around, And tell me what: The Wisest cannot tell. Should any born of Woman give his Thought Full Range, on just Dislike's unbounded Field; Of Things, the Vanity; of Men, the Flaws; Flaws in the Best; the Many, Flaw all o'er; As Leopards, spotted, or, as Ethiops, dark; Vivacious Ill; Good dying immature; (How immature, Narcissa's Marble tells) And at its Death bequeathing endless Pain; His Heart, tho' bold, would sicken at the Sight, And spend itself in Sighs, for future Scenes. But grant to Life (and just it is to grant To lucky Life, some Perquisites of Joy: A Time there is, when, like a thrice-told Tale, Long-rifled Life of Sweet can yield no more, But from our Comment on the Comedy, Pleasing Reflections on Parts well-sustain'd, Or purpos'd Emendations where we fail'd, Or Hopes of Plaudits from our candid Judge, When, on their Exit, Souls are bid unrobe, Toss Fortune back her Tinsel, and her Plume, And drop this Mask of Flesh behind the Scene. With me, that Time is come; my World is dead; A new World rises, and new Manners reign: Foreign Comedians, a spruce Band! arrive, To push me from the Scene, or hiss me there. What a pert Race starts up! the Strangers gaze, And I at them; my Neighbour is unknown; Nor that the worst: Ah me! the dire Effect Of loit'ring here, of Death defrauded long; Of old so gracious (and let that suffice), My very Master knows me not.——— Shall I dare say, Peculiar is the Fate? I've been so long remember'd, I'm forgot. An Object ever pressing dims the Sight, And hides behind its Ardor to be seen. When in his Courtiers Ears I pour my Plaint, They drink it as the Nectar of the Great; And squeeze my Hand, and beg me come To-morrow; Refusal! canst thou wear a smoother Form? Indulge me, nor conceive I drop my Theme: Who cheapens Life, abates the Fear of Death: Twice-told the Period spent on stubborn Troy, Court-Favour, yet untaken, I besiege; Ambition's ill-judg'd Effort to be rich. Alas! Ambition makes my Little, less; Embitt'ring the Possess'd: Why wish for more? Wishing, of all Employments, is the worst; Philosophy's Reverse; and Health's Decay! Were I as plump, as stall'd Theology, Wishing would waste me to this Shade again. Were I as wealthy as a South-Sea Dream, Wishing is an Expedient to be poor. Wishing, that constant Hectic of a Fool; Caught at a Court; purg'd off by purer Air, And simpler Diet; Gifts of rural Life! Blest be that Hand divine, which gently laid My Heart at Rest, beneath this humble Shed. The World's a stately Bark, on dang'rous Seas, With Pleasure seen, but boarded at our Peril: Here, on a single Plank, thrown safe ashore, I hear the Tumult of the distant Throng, As that of Seas remote, or dying Storms; And meditate on Scenes, more silent still; Pursue my Theme, and fight the Fear of Death. Here, like a Shepherd gazing from his Hut, Touching his Reed, or leaning on his Staff, Eager Ambition's fiery Chace I see; I see the circling Hunt, of noisy Men, Burst Law's Inclosure, leap the Mounds of Right, Pursuing, and pursu'd, each other's Prey; As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles; Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all. Why all this Toil for Triumphs of an Hour? What, tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest Station ends in, "Here he lies:" And "Dust to Dust" concludes her noblest Song. If this Song lives, Posterity shall know One, tho' in Britain born, with Courtiers bred, Who thought ev'n Gold might come a Day too late; Nor on his subtle Death-bed plann'd his Scheme For future Vacancies in Church or State; Some Avocation deeming it ——— to die; Unbit by Rage canine of dying rich; Guilt's Blunder! and the loudest Laugh of Hell. O my Coëvals! Remnants of yourselves! Poor human Ruins, tott'ring o'er the Grave! Shall we, shall aged Men, like aged Trees, Strike deeper their vile Root, and closer cling, Still more enamour'd of this wretched Soil? Shall our pale, wither'd Hands, be fill stretch'd out, Trembling, at once, with Eagerness and Age? With Av'rice, and Convulsions, grasping hard? Grasping at Air! for what has Earth beside? Man wants but Little; nor that Little, long; How soon must he resign his very Dust, Which frugal Nature lent him for an Hour! Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous Ills; And soon as Man, expert from Time, has found The Key of Life, it opes the Gates of Death. When in this Vale of Years I backward look, And miss such Numbers, Numbers too of such, Firmer in Health, and greener in their Age, And stricter on their Guard, and fitter far To play Life's subtle Game, I scarce believe I still survive: And am I fond of Life, Who scarce can think it possible, I live? Alive by Miracle! or, what is next, Alive by Mead! If I am still alive, Who long have bury'd what gives Life to live, Firmness of Nerve, and Energy of Thought. Life's Lee is not more shallow, than impure, And vapid; Sense and Reason shew the Door, Call for my Bier, and point me to the Dust. O Thou great Arbiter of Life and Death! Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun! Whose all-prolific Beam late call'd me forth From Darkness, teeming Darkness, where I lay The Worm's Inferior, and, in Rank, beneath The Dust I tread on, high to bear my Brow, To drink the Spirit of the golden Day, And triumph in Existence; and couldst know No Motive, but my Bliss; and hast ordain'd A Rise in Blessing! with the Patriarch's Joy, Thy Call I follow to the Land unknown; I trust in Thee, and know in whom I trust; Or Life, or Death, is équal; neither weighs: All Weight in this—O let me live to Thee! Tho' Nature's Terrors, thus, may be represt; Still frowns grim Death; Guilt points the Tyrant's Spear. And whence all human Guilt? From Death forgot. Ah me! too long I set at nought the Swarm Of friendly Warnings, which around me flew; And smil'd, unsmitten: Small my Cause to smile! Death's Admonitions, like Shafts upwards shot, More dreadful by Delay, the longer ere They strike our Hearts, the deeper is their Wound, O think how deep, Lorenzo!here it stings: Who can appease its Anguish? How it burns! What Hand the barb'd, invenom'd, Thought can draw? What healing Hand can pour the Balm of Peace? And turn my Sight undaunted on the Tomb? With Joy,—with Grief, that healing Hand I see; Ah! too conspicuous! It is fix'd on high. On high?—What means my Phrensy? I blaspheme: Alas! how low? how far beneath the Skies? The Skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me— But bleeds the Balm I want—yet still it bleeds; Draw the dire Steel—Ah no!—the dreadful Blessing What Heart or can sustain, or dares forego? There hangs all human Hope; That Nail supports The falling Universe: That gone, we drop; Horror receives us, and the dismal Wish Creation had been smother'd in her Birth— Darkness His Curtain, and His Bed the Dust; When Stars and Sun are Dust beneath his Throne? In Heav'n itself can such Indulgence dwell? O what a Groan was there! A Groan not His. He seiz'd our dreadful Right; the Load sustain'd; And heav'd the Mountain from a guilty World. A thousand Worlds, so bought, were bought too dear. Sensations new in Angels Bosoms rise; Suspend their Song; and make a Pause in Bliss. O for their Song to reach my lofty Theme! Inspire me, Night! with all thy tuneful Spheres inspire; Whilst I with Seraphs share seraphic Themes, And shew to Men the Dignity of Man; Lest I blaspheme my Subject with my Song. Shall Pagan Pages glow celestial Flame, And Christian languish? On our Hearts, not Heads, Falls the foul Infamy: My Heart! awake. What can awake thee, unawak'd by this, "Expended Deity on human Weal?" Feel the great Truths, which burst the tenfold Night Of Heathen Error, with a golden Flood Of endless Day: To feel, is to be fir'd; And to believe, Lorenzo! is to feel. Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Pow'r! Still more tremendous, for thy wond'rous Love! That arms, with Awe more aweful, thy Commands; And foul Transgression dips in sev'nfold Night, How our Hearts tremble at thy Love immense! In Love immense, inviolably Just! Thou, rather than thy Justice should be stain'd, Didst stain the Cross; and, Work of Wonders far The greatest, that thy Dearest far might bleed. Bold Thought! Shall I dare speak it, or repress? Should Man more execrate, or boast, the Guilt Which rous'd such Vengeance? which such Love inflam'd? O'er Guilt (how mountainous!) with out-stretcht Arms, Stern Justice, and soft-smiling Love, embrace, Supporting, in full Majesty, thy Throne, When seem'd its Majesty to need Support, Or That, or Man, inevitably lost. What, but the Fathomless of Thought divine, Could labour such Expedient from Despair, And rescue both? Both rescue! Both exalt! O how are both exalted by the Deed! The wond'rous Deed! or shall I call it more? A Wonder in Omnipotence itself! A Mystery, no less to Gods than Men! Not, thus, our Infidels th'Eternal draw, A God all o'er, consummate, absolute, Full-orb'd, in his whole Round of Rays complete: They set at Odds Heav'n's jarring Attributes; And, with one Excellence, another wound; Maim Heav'n's Perfection, break its equal Beams, Bid Mercy triumph over—God himself, Undeify'd by their opprobrious Praise: A God All Mercy, is a God unjust. Ye brainless Wits! ye baptiz'd Infidels! Ye worse for mending! wash'd to fouler Stains! The Ransom was paid down; the Fund of Heav'n, Heav'n's inexhaustible, exhausted Fund, Amazing, and amaz'd, pour'd forth the Price, All Price beyond: Tho' curious to compute, Archangels fail'd to cast the mighty Sum; Its Value vast ungraspt by Minds Create, For ever hides, and glows in, the Supreme. And was the Ransom paid? It was: And paid (What can exalt the Bounty more?) for You. The Sun beheld it—No, the shocking Scene Drove back his Chariot: Midnight veil'd his Face; Not such as This; not such as Nature makes; A Midnight, Nature shudder'd to behold; A Midnight new! a dread Eclipse (without Opposing Spheres) from her Creator's Frown! Sun! didst thou fly thy Maker's Pain? Or start At that enormous Load of human Guilt, Which bow'd his blessed Head; o'erwhelm'd his Cross; Made groan the Centre; burst Earth's marble Womb, With Pangs, strange Pangs! deliver'd of her Dead? Hell howl'd; and Heav'n that Hour let fall a Tear: Heav'n wept, that Men might smile! Heav'n bled, that Man Might never die!——— And is Devotion Vitue? 'Tis compell'd: What Heart of Stone, but glows at Thoughts like These? Such Contemplations mount us; and should mount The Mind still higher; nor ever glance on Man, Unraptur'd, uninflam'd.—Where roll my Thoughts To rest from Wonders? Other Wonders rise; And strike where-e'er they roll: My Soul is caught: Heav'n's sov'reign Blessings, clust'ring from the Cross, Rush on her, in a Throng, and close her round, The Pris'ner of Amaze!—In His blest Life, I see the Path, and, in His Death, the Price, And in His great Ascent, the Proof Supreme Of Immortality.—And did He rise? Hear, O ye Nations! hear it, O ye Dead! He rose! He rose! He burst the Bars of Death. Lift up your Heads, ye everlasting Gates! And give the King of Glory to come in: Who is the King of Glory? He who left His Throne of Glory, for the Pang of Death: Lift up your Heads, ye everlasting Gates! And give the King of Glory to come in. Who is the King of Glory? He who flew The rav'nous Foe, that gorg'd all human Race! The King of Glory, He, whose Glory fill'd Heav'n with Amazement at his Love to Man; And with Divine Complacency beheld Pow'rs most illumin'd, wilder'd in the Theme. The Theme, the Joy, how then shall Man sustain? Oh the burst Gates! crush'd Sting! demolish'd Throne! Last Gasp! of vanquish'd Death. Shout Earth and Heav'n! This Sum of Good, to Man. Whose Nature, then, Took Wing, and mounted with Him from the Tomb? Then, then, I rose; then first Humanity Triumphant past the Crystal Ports of Light. (Stupendous Guest!) and seiz'd eternal Youth, Seiz'd in our Name. E'er since, 'tis blasphemous To call Man mortal. Man's Mortality Was, then, transferr'd to Death; and Heav'n's Duration Unalienably seal'd to this frail Frame, This Child of Dust,—Man, all-immortal! Hail; Hail, Heav'n! all-lavish of strange Gifts to Man! Thine all the Glory; Man's the boundless Bliss. Where am I rapt by this triumphant Theme, On Christian Joy's exulting Wing, above Th' Aonian Mount?—Alas, small Cause for Joy! What if to Pain immortal? If Extent Of Being, to preclude a Close of Woe? Where, then, my Boast of Immortality? I boast it still, tho' cover'd o'er with Guilt; For Guilt, not Innocence, His Life he pour'd; 'Tis Guilt alone can justify his Death; Nor That, unless His Death can justify Relenting Guilt in Heav'n's indulgent Sight. If, sick of Folly, I relent; He writes My Name in Heav'n, with that inverted Spear (A Spear deep-dipt in Blood!) which pierc'd his Side, And open'd there a Font for all Mankind Who strive, who combat Crimes, to drink, and live: This, only this, subdues the Fear of Death. And what is This?—Survey the wond'rous Cure: And at each Step, let higher Wonder rise! "Pardon for infinite Offence! and Pardon "Thro' Means, that speak its Value infinite! "A Pardon bought with Blood! with Blood Divine! "With Blood Divine of Him, I made my Foe! "Persisted to provoke! tho' woo'd, and aw'd, "Blest, and chastis'd, a flagrant Rebel still! "A Rebel, 'midit the Thunders of his Throne! "Nor I alone! a Rebel Universe! "My Species up in Arms! not One exempt! "Yet for the Foulest of the Foul, He dies, "Most joy'd, for the Redeem'd from deepest Guilt! "As if our Race were held of highest Rank; "And Godhead dearer, as more kind to Man!" Bound, ev'ry Heart! and, ev'ry Bosom, burn! Oh what a Scale of Miracles is here! Its lowest Round, high planted on the Skies; Its tow'ring Summit lost beyond the Thought Of Man or Angel! Oh that I could climb The wonderful Ascent, with equal Praise! Praise! flow for ever, (if Astonishment Will give thee Leave) my Praise! for ever flow; Praise Ardent, Cordial, Constant, to High Heav'n More fragrant, than Arabia sacrific'd; And all her spicy Mountains in a Flame. So dear, so due to Heav'n, shall Praise descend, With her soft Plume (from plausive Angels Wing First pluck'd by Man) to tickle mortal Ears, Thus diving in the Pockets of the Great? Is Praise the Perquisite of ev'ry Paw, Tho' black as Hell, that grapples well for Gold? Oh Love of Gold! thou meanest of Amours! Shall Praise her Odours waste on Virtue's Dead, Embalm the Base, perfume the Stench of Guilt, Earn dirty Bread by washing Ethiops fair, Removing Filth, or sinking it from Sight, A Scavenger in Scenes, where vacant Posts, Like Gibbets yet untenanted, expect Their future Ornaments? From Courts and Thrones, Return, apostate Praise! thou Vagabond! Thou Prostitute! to thy first Love return, Thy first, thy greatest, once unrival'd Theme. There flow redundant; like Meander flow, Back to thy Fountain; to that Parent Pow'r, Who gives the Tongue to sound, the Thought to soar, The Soul to be. Men Homage pay to Men, Thoughtless beneath whose dreadful Eye they bow In mutual Awe profound, of Clay to Clay, Of Guilt to Guilt; and turn their Backs on Thee, Great Sire! whom Thrones celestial ceaseless sing; To prostrate Angels, an amazing Scene! O the Presumption of Man's Awe for Man!——— Man's Author! End! Restorer! Law! and Judge! Thine, All; Day thine, and thine this Gloom of Night, With all her Wealth, with all her radiant Worlds: What, Night eternal, but a Frown from Thee? What, Heav'n's meridian Glory, but thy Smile? And shall not Praise be Thine? Not Human Praise? While Heav'n's high Host on Hallelujabs live? O may I breathe no longer, than I breathe My Soul in Praise to Him, who gave my Soul, And all her Infinite of Prospect fair, Cut thro' the Shades of Hell, great Love! by Thee, Oh most adorable! most unador'd! Where shall that Praise begin, which ne'er should end? Where-e'er I turn, what Claim on all Applause! How is Night's sable Mantle labour'd o'er, How richly wrought, with Attributes divine! What Wisdom shines! what Love! This Midnight Pomp, This gorgeous Arch, with golden Worlds inlay'd! Built with divine Ambition! nought to Thee; For Others this Profusion: Thou, Apart, Above! Beyond! Oh tell me, mighty Mind! Where art thou? Shall I dive into the Deep? Call to the Sun, or ask the roaring Winds, For their Creator? Shall I question loud The Thunder, if in that th' Almighty dwells? Or holds he furious Storms in streighten'd Reins, And bids fierce Whirlwinds wheel his rapid Car? What mean these Questions?—Trembling I retract; My prostrate Soul adores the present God: Praise I a distant Deity? He tunes My Voice (if tun'd); the Nerve, that writes, sustains: Wrap'd in his Being, I resound his Praise: But tho' past All diffus'd, without a Shore, His Essence; local is His Throne (as meet), To gather the Disperst (as Standards call The Lifted from afar); to fix a Point, A central Point, collective of his Sons, Since finite ev'ry Nature, but his own. The nameless He, whose Nod is Nature's Birth; And Nature's Shield, the Shadow of his Hand; Her Dissolution, his suspended Smile! The great First-Last! pavilion'd high he sits In Darkness, from excessive Splendor, born, By Gods unseen, unless thro' Lustre lost. His Glory, to created Glory, bright, As that to central Horrors; He looks down On All that soars; and spans Immensity. Tho' Night unnumber'd Worlds unfolds to View, Boundless Creation! what art thou? A Beam, A mere Effluvium of his Majesty: And shall an Atom of this Atom-World Mutter, in Dust and Sin, the Theme of Heav'n? Down to the Centre should I send my Thought Thro' Beds of glitt'ring Ore, and glowing Gems, Their beggar'd Blaze wants Lustre for my Lay; Goes out in Darkness: If, on tow'ring Wing, I send it thro' the boundless Vault of Stars; The Stars, tho' rich, what Dross their Gold to Thee, Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/75Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/76Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/77Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/78Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/79Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/80Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/81Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/82Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/83Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/84Page:The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality, Edward Young, (1755).djvu/85Like a Bird struggling to get loose, is going; Scarce now possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone; And each swift Moment fled, is Death advanc'd By Strides as swift: Eternity is All; And whole Eternity? Who triumphs there? Bathing for ever in the Font of Bliss! For ever basking in the Deity! Lorenzo! who?-Thy Conscience shall reply. O give it Leave to speak; 'twill speak ere long, Thy Leave unaskt: Lorenzo! hear it now, IT While useful its Advice, its Accent mild. By the great Edict, the Divine Decree, Truth is deposited with Man's last Hour; An honest Hour, and faithful to her Trust; Truth, eldest Daughter of the Deity: Truth, of his Council, when he made the Worlds Nor less, when he shall judge the Worlds he made, Tho' silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound, Smother'd with Errors, and opprest with Toys, That Heav'n-commission'd Hour no sooner calls, But from her Cavern in the Soul's Abyss, Like him they fable under Etna whelm'd, The Goddess bursts in Thunder, and in Flame; Loudly convinces, and severely pains. Dark Demons I discharge, and Hydra-slings; The keen Vibration of bright Truth-is Hell: Just Definition! tho' by Schools untaught. Ye Deaf to Truth! peruse this Parson'd Page, And trust, for once, a Prophet, and a Priest; "Men may live Fools, but Fools they cannot die."
