'T WAS at the dark and silent midnight hour,
When drowsy slumbers captivate each pow'r,
When visions, form'd by fancy, shapeless rise,
And meagre phantoms strike the wond'ring eyes,
When lo, a voice, shrill sounding, pierc'd my ear,
The solemn accents still methinks I hear;
Tremenduous rose, before my wond'ring sight,
An awful spectre of stupenduous height!
Sullen it mov'd, and stalk'd my chamber round,
Then on my face the phantom sternly frown'd;
My hair stood up, deep sunk my frighted heart,
The sweat bedew'd my limbs o'er every part;
At length the spectre, with an awful sound,
Deep silence broke — and with a voice profound,
My ears assail'd, then cry'd, O daring man!
Forbear, thus thy Creator's ways to scan.
What art thou, mortal man? thou breathing clod,
Thou daring rival of thy author God;
Is this vile lump of animated earth,
Pure as the Godhead who bestow'd it birth?
What are the gifts that Heaven on man bestows,
That he usurps what Heaven not him allows?
The host of cherubs that attend his throne,
And issue his commands to worlds unknown,
Not of themselves perform the great command,
But own their guidance to his powerful hand!
Shall then presumptious man so just be found,
To guide the pow'r who rais'd him from the ground,
Who shall again sink to the mould'ring tomb.
And grov'ling reptiles all his pride consume.