PREFACE. As the occasion of this Poem was real, not fictitious; so the method pursued in it was rather imposed by what spontaneously arose in the Author's mind on that occasion, than meditated or designed. Which will appear very probable from the nature of it. For it differs from the common mode of poetry; which is, from long narrations to draw short morals. Here, on the contrary, the narrative is short, and the morality arising from it makes the bulk of the Poem, The reason of it is, that the facts mentioned did naturally pour these moral reflections on the thought of the Writer. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. ON LIFE, DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. TO THE RIGHT HON. ARTHUR ONSLOW, SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep) ESQ. Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes, I wake how happy they who wake no more ! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wreck'd, desponding thought From wave to wave of fancied misery 11 At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) severer for severe. The Day too short for my distress; and Night, 15 Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. 20 Silence how dead! and darkness how profound Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds; 25 And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! {wins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender though (That column of true majesty in man,) Assist me: I will thank you in the grave; The grave your kingdom: there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. But what are ye?— Thou who didst put to flight Primeval Silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck 30 35 45 That spark, the Sun, strike wisdom from my soul; 40 50 The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 55 But from its loss: to give it then a tongue Is wise in man As if an angel spoke I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. 60 It is the signal that demands despatch: How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge |