84
The Complaint.
Night 5.
In this damp, dusky Region, charg'd with Storms,
But feebly fllatters, yet untaught to fly;
Or, flying, short her Flight, and sure her Fall.
Our utmost Strength, when down, to rise again;
And not to yield, tho' beaten, all our Praise.
'Tis vain to seek in Men for more than Man.
Tho' proud in Promise, big in previous Thought,
Experience damps our Triumph. I, who late,
Emerging from the Shadows of the Grave,
Where Grief detain'd me Pris'ner, mounting high,
Threw wide the Gates of everlasting Day,
And call'd Mankind to Glory, shook off Pain,
Mortality shook off, in Æther pure,
And struck the Stars; now feel my Spirits fail;
They drop me from the Zenith; down I rush,
Like him whom Fable fledg'd with waxen Wings,
In Sorrow drown'd—but not, in Sorrow, lost.
How wretched is the Man, who never mourn'd!
I dive for precious Pearl, in Sorrow's Stream:
Not so the thoughtless Man that only grieves;
Takes all the Torment, and rejects the Gain
(Inestimable Gain!); and gives Heav'n Leave
To make him but more Wretched, not more Wise.
If Wisdom is our Lesson (and what else
Ennobles Man? What else have Angels learnt?)
Grief! more Proficients in thy School are made,
Than Genius, or proud Learning, e'er cou'd boast.
Voracious Learning, often over-fed,
Digests not into Sense her motley Meal.
This Book-case, with dark Booty almost burst,
This Forager on others Wisdom, leaves
Her Native Farm, her Reason, quite untill'd.
With mixt Manure she surfeits the rank Soil,
Dung'd, but not drest; and rich to Beggary.
But feebly fllatters, yet untaught to fly;
Or, flying, short her Flight, and sure her Fall.
Our utmost Strength, when down, to rise again;
And not to yield, tho' beaten, all our Praise.
'Tis vain to seek in Men for more than Man.
Tho' proud in Promise, big in previous Thought,
Experience damps our Triumph. I, who late,
Emerging from the Shadows of the Grave,
Where Grief detain'd me Pris'ner, mounting high,
Threw wide the Gates of everlasting Day,
And call'd Mankind to Glory, shook off Pain,
Mortality shook off, in Æther pure,
And struck the Stars; now feel my Spirits fail;
They drop me from the Zenith; down I rush,
Like him whom Fable fledg'd with waxen Wings,
In Sorrow drown'd—but not, in Sorrow, lost.
How wretched is the Man, who never mourn'd!
I dive for precious Pearl, in Sorrow's Stream:
Not so the thoughtless Man that only grieves;
Takes all the Torment, and rejects the Gain
(Inestimable Gain!); and gives Heav'n Leave
To make him but more Wretched, not more Wise.
If Wisdom is our Lesson (and what else
Ennobles Man? What else have Angels learnt?)
Grief! more Proficients in thy School are made,
Than Genius, or proud Learning, e'er cou'd boast.
Voracious Learning, often over-fed,
Digests not into Sense her motley Meal.
This Book-case, with dark Booty almost burst,
This Forager on others Wisdom, leaves
Her Native Farm, her Reason, quite untill'd.
With mixt Manure she surfeits the rank Soil,
Dung'd, but not drest; and rich to Beggary.
A Pomp
