Classic Poem

NIGHT THE THIRD

Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this Group
Of bright Ideas, Flowers of Paradise,
As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the Skies; as All
We guess of Heaven: And these were all her Own:
And she was mine; and I was — was — most blest, —
Gay Title of the deepest Misery!
As bodies grow more pond'rous, rob'd of Life;
Good lost weighs more in Grief, than Gain'd, in Joy.
Like blossom'd Trees o'erturn'd by vernal Storm,
Lovely in Death the beauteous Ruin lay;
And if in Death still lovely, lovelier There;
Far lovlier! Pity swells the Tide of Love.
And will not the Severe excuse a Sigh?
Scorn the proud Man that is asham'd to weep;
Our Tears indulg'd indeed deserve our Shame
Ye that e're lost an Angel! pity me
*

For, oh the curst Ungodliness of Zeal!
While sinful Flesh relented, Spirit nurst
In blind Infallibility's embrace,
The Sainted Spirit petrify'd the breast:
Deny'd the Charity of Dust, to spread
O'er Dust! a charity their Dogs enjoy.
What cou'd I do? what Succour? what Resource?
With pious Sacrilege, a Grave I stole;
With impious Piety, that Grave I wrong'd;
Short in my Duty! Coward in my Grief!
More like her Murderer, than Friend, I crept
With soft-suspended Step, and muffled deep
In midnight Darkness, whisper'd my Last Sigh.
I whisper'd what should echo thro' their realms;
Nor writ her Name, whose tomb shou'd pierce the Skies.
Presumptuous Fear! How durst I dread her Foes,
While Nature's loudest Dictates I obey'd?
Pardon Necessity, Blest Shade! Of Grief,
And Indignation rival bursts I pour'd;
Half-execration mingled with my Pray'r;
Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd;
Sore-grudg'd the Savage land her Sacred Dust;
Stampt the curst Soil; and with Humanity
(Denied Narcissa,) wisht them All a Grave.
*

Our dying Friends come o'er us like a Cloud,
To damp our brainless Ardors; and abate
That Glare of Life, which often blinds the Wise.
Our dying Friends are Pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged Pass to Death; to break those Bars
Of Terror, and Abhorrence, Nature throws
Cross our obstructed way; and, thus, to make
Wellcome, as Safe, our Port from every Storm
Each Friend by Fate snatcht from us, is a Plume
Pluckt from the wing of human Vanity,
Which makes us stoop from our aeriel Heights,
And dampt with Omen of our own Decease,
On drooping pinions of Ambition lower'd,
Just skim Earth's Surface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid Earth to scratch a little Dust,
And save the World a Nuisance.
*

Ere man has measured half his weary Stage,
His Luxuries have left him no reserve,
No maiden Relishes, unbroacht Delights;
On cold-serv'd Repetitions He subsists,
And in the tasteless Present chews the Past;
Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down
Like lavish Ancestors, his earlier Years
Have disinherited his future Hours,
Which starve on Oughts, and glean their former Field.
Live ever Here, Lorenzo! — shocking Thought!
So shocking, they who wish, disown it, too;
Disown from shame, what they from Folly crave.
Live ever in the Womb, nor see the Light?
For what live ever Here? With labouring Step
To tread our former Footsteps? Pace the Round
Eternal? To climb Life's worn, heavy wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat,
The beaten Track? To bid each wretched day
The Former mock; To surfeit on the Same,
And yawn our Joys? or thank a Misery
For Change, tho' sad? To see what we have seen?
Hear, till unheard the same old Slobber'd Tale?
To taste the tasted, and at each return
Less tastful? O'er our Palates to decant
Another Vintage? strain a flatter year,
Thro' loaded Vessels, and a laxer Tone?
Crazy Machines to grind Earth's wasted Fruits!
Ill-ground, and worse concocted; Load, not Life!
The Rational foul Kennels of Excess!
Still-streaming Thorough fairs of dull Debauch!
Trembling each Gulp, lest Death should snatch the Bowl.
*

Life makes the Soul Dependent on the Dust;
Death gives her wings to mount above the Spheres:
Thro' Chinks, styl'd Organs, dim Life peeps at light;
Death bursts th' Involving Cloud, and all is Day:
All Eye, all Ear, the disembody'd Power.
Death has feign'd Evils, Nature shall not feel;
Life, Ills substantial, Wisdom cannot shun.
Is not the mighty Mind, that Son of Heaven!
By tyrant Life, dethron'd, imprison'd, pain'd?
By Death enlarg'd, ennobled, Deify'd?
Death but entombs the Body; Life the Soul.

NIGHT THE FOURTH

Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd,
Is past; not come, or gone, He's never here
E'er 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.
*

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.
*

The World's a stately Bark, on dangerous 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 Laws Enclosure, leap the Mounds of Right,
Pursuing and pursued, each other's Prey;
As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles;
Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all.
*

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 Worms 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 could'st 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 equal; neither weighs,
All Weight in this — O let me live to Thee!
*

And is Devotion Virtue? 'Tis compell'd;
What Heart of Stone, but glows at Thoughts, like These?
Such Contemplations mount us; and shou'd mount
The Mind still higher; nor ever glance on Man,
Unraptur'd, uninflam'd. — Where rowl my Thoughts
To rest from Wonders? Other Wonders rise,
And strike where'er they rowl; My Soul is caught;
Heav'n's sovereign Blessings, clust'ring from the Cross,
Rush on her, in a Throng, and close her round,
The Prisoner of Amaze!

NIGHT THE THIRD

Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this Group
Of bright Ideas, Flowers of Paradise,
As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind,
Kneel, and present it to the Skies; as All
We guess of Heaven: And these were all her Own:
And she was mine; and I was — was — most blest, —
Gay Title of the deepest Misery!
As bodies grow more pond'rous, rob'd of Life;
Good lost weighs more in Grief, than Gain'd, in Joy.
Like blossom'd Trees o'erturn'd by vernal Storm,
Lovely in Death the beauteous Ruin lay;
And if in Death still lovely, lovelier There;
Far lovlier! Pity swells the Tide of Love.
And will not the Severe excuse a Sigh?
Scorn the proud Man that is asham'd to weep;
Our Tears indulg'd indeed deserve our Shame
Ye that e're lost an Angel! pity me
*

For, oh the curst Ungodliness of Zeal!
While sinful Flesh relented, Spirit nurst
In blind Infallibility's embrace,
The Sainted Spirit petrify'd the breast:
Deny'd the Charity of Dust, to spread
O'er Dust! a charity their Dogs enjoy.
What cou'd I do? what Succour? what Resource?
With pious Sacrilege, a Grave I stole;
With impious Piety, that Grave I wrong'd;
Short in my Duty! Coward in my Grief!
More like her Murderer, than Friend, I crept
With soft-suspended Step, and muffled deep
In midnight Darkness, whisper'd my Last Sigh.
I whisper'd what should echo thro' their realms;
Nor writ her Name, whose tomb shou'd pierce the Skies.
Presumptuous Fear! How durst I dread her Foes,
While Nature's loudest Dictates I obey'd?
Pardon Necessity, Blest Shade! Of Grief,
And Indignation rival bursts I pour'd;
Half-execration mingled with my Pray'r;
Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd;
Sore-grudg'd the Savage land her Sacred Dust;
Stampt the curst Soil; and with Humanity
(Denied Narcissa,) wisht them All a Grave.
*

Our dying Friends come o'er us like a Cloud,
To damp our brainless Ardors; and abate
That Glare of Life, which often blinds the Wise.
Our dying Friends are Pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged Pass to Death; to break those Bars
Of Terror, and Abhorrence, Nature throws
Cross our obstructed way; and, thus, to make
Wellcome, as Safe, our Port from every Storm
Each Friend by Fate snatcht from us, is a Plume
Pluckt from the wing of human Vanity,
Which makes us stoop from our aeriel Heights,
And dampt with Omen of our own Decease,
On drooping pinions of Ambition lower'd,
Just skim Earth's Surface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid Earth to scratch a little Dust,
And save the World a Nuisance.
*

Ere man has measured half his weary Stage,
His Luxuries have left him no reserve,
No maiden Relishes, unbroacht Delights;
On cold-serv'd Repetitions He subsists,
And in the tasteless Present chews the Past;
Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down
Like lavish Ancestors, his earlier Years
Have disinherited his future Hours,
Which starve on Oughts, and glean their former Field.
Live ever Here, Lorenzo! — shocking Thought!
So shocking, they who wish, disown it, too;
Disown from shame, what they from Folly crave.
Live ever in the Womb, nor see the Light?
For what live ever Here? With labouring Step
To tread our former Footsteps? Pace the Round
Eternal? To climb Life's worn, heavy wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat,
The beaten Track? To bid each wretched day
The Former mock; To surfeit on the Same,
And yawn our Joys? or thank a Misery
For Change, tho' sad? To see what we have seen?
Hear, till unheard the same old Slobber'd Tale?
To taste the tasted, and at each return
Less tastful? O'er our Palates to decant
Another Vintage? strain a flatter year,
Thro' loaded Vessels, and a laxer Tone?
Crazy Machines to grind Earth's wasted Fruits!
Ill-ground, and worse concocted; Load, not Life!
The Rational foul Kennels of Excess!
Still-streaming Thorough fairs of dull Debauch!
Trembling each Gulp, lest Death should snatch the Bowl.
*
Life makes the Soul Dependent on the Dust;
Death gives her wings to mount above the Spheres:
Thro' Chinks, styl'd Organs, dim Life peeps at light;
Death bursts th' Involving Cloud, and all is Day:
All Eye, all Ear, the disembody'd Power.
Death has feign'd Evils, Nature shall not feel;
Life, Ills substantial, Wisdom cannot shun.
Is not the mighty Mind, that Son of Heaven!
By tyrant Life, dethron'd, imprison'd, pain'd?
By Death enlarg'd, ennobled, Deify'd?
Death but entombs the Body; Life the Soul.

NIGHT THE FOURTH

Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd,
Is past; not come, or gone, He's never here
E'er 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.
*

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.
*

The World's a stately Bark, on dangerous 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 Laws Enclosure, leap the Mounds of Right,
Pursuing and pursued, each other's Prey;
As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles;
Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all.
*

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 Worms 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 could'st 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 equal; neither weighs,
All Weight in this — O let me live to Thee!
*

And is Devotion Virtue? 'Tis compell'd;
What Heart of Stone, but glows at Thoughts, like These?
Such Contemplations mount us; and shou'd mount
The Mind still higher; nor ever glance on Man,
Unraptur'd, uninflam'd. — Where rowl my Thoughts
To rest from Wonders? Other Wonders rise,
And strike where'er they rowl; My Soul is caught;
Heav'n's sovereign Blessings, clust'ring from the Cross,
Rush on her, in a Throng, and close her round,
The Prisoner of Amaze!