48
The Complaint.
Night 3.
Fond in the Dark, and blind in our Embrace,
By passionately loving Life, we make
Lov'd Life unlovely; hugging her to Death.
We give to Time Eternity's Regard;
And, dreaming, take our Passage for our Port.
Life has no Value as an End, but Means;
An End deplorable! a Means divine!
When 'tis our All, 'tis Nothing; worse than Nought;
A Nest of Pains; when held as Nothing, Much:
Like some fair Hum'rists, Life is most enjoy'd,
When courted least; most worth, when disesteem'd;
Then 'tis the Seat of Comfort, rich in Peace;
In Prospect richer far; Important! Aweful!
Not to be mention'd but with Shouts of Praise!
Not to be thought on, but with Tides of Joy!
The mighty Basis of eternal Bliss!
Where now the barren Rock? the painted Shrew?
Where now, Lorenzo! Life's eternal Round?
Have I not made my triple Promise good?
Vain is the World; but only to the Vain.
To what compare we then this varying Scene,
Whose Worth ambiguous rises, and declines?
Waxes, and wanes? (In all propitious, Night
Assists me Here) Compare it to the Moon;
Dark in herself, and indigent; but rich
In borrow'd Lustre from a higher Sphere.
When gross Guilt interposes, Lab'ring Earth,
O'ershadow'd, mourns a deep Eclipse of Joy;
Her Joys, at brightest, pallid, to that Font
Of full effulgent Glory, whence they flow.
Nor is that Glory distant: Oh Lorenzo!
A good Man, and an Angel! These between
How thin the Barrier? What divides their Fate?
Perhaps a Moment, or perhaps a Year;
Or, if an Age, it is a Moment still;
By passionately loving Life, we make
Lov'd Life unlovely; hugging her to Death.
We give to Time Eternity's Regard;
And, dreaming, take our Passage for our Port.
Life has no Value as an End, but Means;
An End deplorable! a Means divine!
When 'tis our All, 'tis Nothing; worse than Nought;
A Nest of Pains; when held as Nothing, Much:
Like some fair Hum'rists, Life is most enjoy'd,
When courted least; most worth, when disesteem'd;
Then 'tis the Seat of Comfort, rich in Peace;
In Prospect richer far; Important! Aweful!
Not to be mention'd but with Shouts of Praise!
Not to be thought on, but with Tides of Joy!
The mighty Basis of eternal Bliss!
Where now the barren Rock? the painted Shrew?
Where now, Lorenzo! Life's eternal Round?
Have I not made my triple Promise good?
Vain is the World; but only to the Vain.
To what compare we then this varying Scene,
Whose Worth ambiguous rises, and declines?
Waxes, and wanes? (In all propitious, Night
Assists me Here) Compare it to the Moon;
Dark in herself, and indigent; but rich
In borrow'd Lustre from a higher Sphere.
When gross Guilt interposes, Lab'ring Earth,
O'ershadow'd, mourns a deep Eclipse of Joy;
Her Joys, at brightest, pallid, to that Font
Of full effulgent Glory, whence they flow.
Nor is that Glory distant: Oh Lorenzo!
A good Man, and an Angel! These between
How thin the Barrier? What divides their Fate?
Perhaps a Moment, or perhaps a Year;
Or, if an Age, it is a Moment still;
A Moment,
