82
The Complaint.
Night 5.
And Inhumanity is caught from Man,
From smiling Man. A slight, a single Glance
And shot at random, often has brought home
A sudden Fever, to the throbbing Heart,
Of Envy, Rancour, or impure Desire.
We see, we hear, with Peril; Safety dwells
Remote from Multitude; the World's a School
Of Wrong, and what Proficients swarm around!
We must or imitate, or disapprove;
Must list as their Accomplices, or Foes;
That stains our Innocence; This wounds our Peace.
From Nature's Birth, hence, Wisdom has been smit
With sweet Recess, and languisht for the Shade.
This sacred Shade, and Solitude, what is it?
'Tis the felt Presence of the Deity.
Few are the Faults we flatter when alone.
Vice sinks in her Allurements, is ungilt,
And looks, like other Objects, black by Night.
By Night an Atheist half-believes a God.
Night is fair Virtue's immemorial Friend;
The conscious Moon, thro' ev'ry distant Age,
Has held a Lamp to Wisdom, and let fall,
On Contemplation's Eye, her purging Ray.
The fam'd Athenian, he who woo'd from Heav'n
Philosophy the fair, to dwell with Men,
And form their Manners, not inflame their Pride,
While o'er his Head, as fearful to molest
His lab'ring Mind, the Stars in Silence slide,
And seem all gazing on their future Guest,
See him soliciting his ardent Suit
In private Audience: All the live-long Night,
Rigid in Thought, and motionless, he stands;
Nor quits his Theme, or Posture, till the Sun
(Rude Drunkard rising rosy from the Main!)
Disturbs his nobler intellectual Beam,
From smiling Man. A slight, a single Glance
And shot at random, often has brought home
A sudden Fever, to the throbbing Heart,
Of Envy, Rancour, or impure Desire.
We see, we hear, with Peril; Safety dwells
Remote from Multitude; the World's a School
Of Wrong, and what Proficients swarm around!
We must or imitate, or disapprove;
Must list as their Accomplices, or Foes;
That stains our Innocence; This wounds our Peace.
From Nature's Birth, hence, Wisdom has been smit
With sweet Recess, and languisht for the Shade.
This sacred Shade, and Solitude, what is it?
'Tis the felt Presence of the Deity.
Few are the Faults we flatter when alone.
Vice sinks in her Allurements, is ungilt,
And looks, like other Objects, black by Night.
By Night an Atheist half-believes a God.
Night is fair Virtue's immemorial Friend;
The conscious Moon, thro' ev'ry distant Age,
Has held a Lamp to Wisdom, and let fall,
On Contemplation's Eye, her purging Ray.
The fam'd Athenian, he who woo'd from Heav'n
Philosophy the fair, to dwell with Men,
And form their Manners, not inflame their Pride,
While o'er his Head, as fearful to molest
His lab'ring Mind, the Stars in Silence slide,
And seem all gazing on their future Guest,
See him soliciting his ardent Suit
In private Audience: All the live-long Night,
Rigid in Thought, and motionless, he stands;
Nor quits his Theme, or Posture, till the Sun
(Rude Drunkard rising rosy from the Main!)
Disturbs his nobler intellectual Beam,
And
