When age, care, crime, and friends embraced at heart, Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade, Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire; Canst thou, O Night! indulge one labour more? 20 One labour more indulge! then sleep, my strain! 21 Till, haply, waked by Raphael's golden lyre, Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow, cease; To bear a part in everlasting lays; Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust, Symphonious to this humble prelude here.

Has not the Muse a.s.serted pleasures pure, Like those above; exploding other joys?

Weigh what was urged, Lorenzo! fairly weigh; And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still? 30 I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold.

But if, beneath the favour of mistake, Thy smile's sincere; not more sincere can be Lorenzo's smile, than my compa.s.sion for him.

The sick in body call for aid; the sick In mind are covetous of more disease; And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well.

To know ourselves diseased, is half our cure.

When Nature's blush by Custom is wiped off, And Conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, 40 Has into manners naturalized our crimes; The curse of curses is, our curse to love; To triumph in the blackness of our guilt (As Indians glory in the deepest jet), And throw aside our senses with our peace.

But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy; Grant joy and glory quite unsullied shone; Yet, still, it ill deserves Lorenzo's heart.

No joy, no glory, glitters in thy sight, But, through the thin part.i.tion of an hour, 50 I see its sables wove by destiny; And that in sorrow buried; this, in shame; While howling furies wring the doleful knell; And Conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst hear 54 Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.

Where, the prime actors of the last year's scene; Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume?

How many sleep, who kept the world awake With l.u.s.tre, and with noise! has Death proclaim'd A truce, and hung his sated lance on high?

'Tis brandish'd still; nor shall the present year Be more tenacious of her human leaf, 62 Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall.

But needless monuments to wake the thought; Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality; Though in a style more florid, full as plain, As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs.

What are our n.o.blest ornaments, but deaths Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint, or marble, The well-stain'd canvas, or the featured stone? 70 Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene.

Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.

"Profess'd diversions! cannot these escape?"

Far from it: these present us with a shroud; And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave.

As some bold plunderers, for buried wealth, We ransack tombs for pastime; from the dust Call up the sleeping hero; bid him tread The scene for our amus.e.m.e.nt: how like G.o.ds We sit; and, wrapt in immortality, 80 Shed generous tears on wretches born to die; Their fate deploring, to forget our own!

What all the pomps and triumphs of our lives, But legacies in blossom? Our lean soil, Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities, From friends interr'd beneath; a rich manure!

Like other worms, we banquet on the dead; Like other worms, shall we crawl on, nor know 88 Our present frailties, or approaching fate?

Lorenzo! such the glories of the world!

What is the world itself? thy world--a grave.

Where is the dust that has not been alive?

The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors; From human mould we reap our daily bread.

The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons.

O'er devastation we blind revels keep; Whole buried towns support the dancer's heel.

The moist of human frame the sun exhales; Winds scatter through the mighty void the dry; 100 Earth repossesses part of what she gave, And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire; Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils; As nature, wide, our ruins spread: man's death Inhabits all things, but the thought of man.

Nor man alone; his breathing bust expires, His tomb is mortal; empires die: where, now, The Roman? Greek? They stalk, an empty name!

Yet few regard them in this useful light; Though half our learning is their epitaph. 110 When down thy vale, unlock'd by midnight thought, That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, O Death! I stretch my view: what visions rise!

What triumphs! toils imperial! arts divine!

In wither'd laurels glide before my sight!

What lengths of far-famed ages, billow'd high With human agitation, roll along In unsubstantial images of air!

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause, 120 With penitential aspect, as they pa.s.s, All point at earth, and hiss at human pride, 122 The wisdom of the wise, and prancings of the great.

But, O Lorenzo! far the rest above, Of ghastly nature, and enormous size, One form a.s.saults my sight, and chills my blood, And shakes my frame. Of one departed world[52]

I see the mighty shadow: oozy wreath And dismal seaweed crown her; o'er her urn Reclined, she weeps her desolated realms, 130 And bloated sons; and, weeping, prophesies Another's dissolution, soon, in flames.

But, like Ca.s.sandra, prophesies in vain; In vain, to many; not, I trust, to thee.

For, know'st thou not, or art thou loath to know, The great decree, the counsel of the skies?

Deluge and conflagration, dreadful powers!

Prime ministers of vengeance! chain'd in caves Distinct, apart the giant furies roar; Apart; or, such their horrid rage for ruin, 140 In mutual conflict would they rise, and wage Eternal war, till one was quite devour'd.

But not for this, ordain'd their boundless rage; When Heaven's inferior instruments of wrath, War, famine, pestilence, are found too weak To scourge a world for her enormous crimes, These are let loose, alternate: down they rush, Swift and tempestuous, from th' eternal throne, With irresistible commission arm'd, The world, in vain corrected, to destroy, 150 And ease creation of the shocking scene.

Seest thou, Lorenzo! what depends on man?

The fate of Nature; as for man, her birth.

Earth's actors change earth's transitory scenes, And make creation groan with human guilt. 155 How must it groan, in a new deluge whelm'd, But not of waters! At the destined hour, By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, See, all the formidable sons of fire, Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play Their various engines; all at once disgorge Their blazing magazines; and take, by storm, 162 This poor terrestrial citadel of man.

Amazing period! when each mountain-height Outburns Vesuvius; rocks eternal pour Their melted ma.s.s, as rivers once they pour'd; Stars rush; and final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation!--while aloft, More than astonishment! if more can be!

Far other firmament than e'er was seen, 170 Than e'er was thought by man! far other stars!

Stars animate, that govern these of fire; Far other sun!--A sun, O how unlike The Babe at Bethlehem! how unlike the Man, That groan'd on Calvary!--Yet He it is; That Man of Sorrows! O how changed! what pomp!

In grandeur terrible, all heaven descends!

And G.o.ds, ambitious, triumph in his train.

A swift archangel, with his golden wing, As blots and clouds, that darken and disgrace 180 The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns aside.

And now, all dross removed, heaven's own pure day, Full on the confines of our ether, flames: While (dreadful contrast!) far, how far beneath!

h.e.l.l, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, And storms sulphureous; her voracious jaws Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey.

Lorenzo! welcome to this scene; the last In nature's course; the first in wisdom's thought. 189 This strikes, if aught can strike thee; this awakes The most supine; this s.n.a.t.c.hes man from death.

Rouse, rouse, Lorenzo, then, and follow me, Where truth, the most momentous man can hear, Loud calls my soul, and ardour wings her flight.

I find my inspiration in my theme: The grandeur of my subject is my Muse.

At midnight, when mankind is wrapt in peace, And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams; To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour.

At midnight, 'tis presumed, this pomp will burst 200 From tenfold darkness; sudden as the spark From smitten steel; from nitrous grain, the blaze.

Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more!

The day is broke, which never more shall close!

Above, around, beneath, amazement all!

Terror and glory join'd in their extremes!

Our G.o.d in grandeur, and our world on fire!

All nature struggling in the pangs of death!

Dost thou not hear her? Dost thou not deplore Her strong convulsions, and her final groan? 210 Where are we now? Ah me! the ground is gone, On which we stood; Lorenzo! while thou may'st, Provide more firm support, or sink for ever!

Where? how? from whence? Vain hope! it is too late!

Where, where, for shelter, shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

Great day! for which all other days were made; For which earth rose from chaos, man from earth; And an eternity, the date of G.o.ds, Descended on poor earth-created man! 220 Great day of dread, decision, and despair!

At thought of thee, each sublunary wish Lets go its eager grasp, and drops the world; 223 And catches at each reed of hope in heaven.

At thought of thee!--And art thou absent then?

Lorenzo! no; 'tis here; it is begun;-- Already is begun the grand a.s.size, In thee, in all: deputed Conscience scales The dread tribunal, and forestalls our doom; Forestalls; and, by forestalling, proves it sure. 230 Why on himself should man void judgment pa.s.s?

Is idle Nature laughing at her sons?

Who Conscience sent, her sentence will support, And G.o.d above a.s.sert that G.o.d in man.

Thrice happy they that enter now the court Heaven opens in their bosoms! but, how rare, Ah me! that magnanimity, how rare!

What hero, like the man who stands himself; Who dares to meet his naked heart alone; Who bears, intrepid, the full charge it brings, 240 Resolved to silence future murmurs there?

The coward flies; and, flying, is undone.

(Art thou a coward? No.) The coward flies; Thinks, but thinks slightly; asks, but fears to know; Asks, "What is truth?" with Pilate; and retires; Dissolves the court, and mingles with the throng; Asylum sad! from reason, hope, and heaven!

Shall all, but man look out with ardent eye, For that great day, which was ordain'd for man?

O day of consummation! mark supreme 250 (If men are wise) of human thought! nor least, Or in the sight of angels, or their King!

Angels, whose radiant circles, height o'er height, Order o'er order, rising, blaze o'er blaze, As in a theatre, surround this scene, Intent on man, and anxious for his fate.

Angels look out for thee; for thee, their Lord, 257 To vindicate his glory; and for thee, Creation universal calls aloud, To disinvolve the moral world, and give To Nature's renovation brighter charms.

Shall man alone, whose fate, whose final fate Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thought?

I think of nothing else; I see! I feel it!

All nature, like an earthquake, trembling round!

All deities, like summer's swarms, on wing!

All basking in the full meridian blaze!

I see the Judge enthroned! the flaming guard!

The volume open'd! open'd every heart!

A sunbeam pointing out each secret thought! 270 No patron! intercessor none! now past The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour!

For guilt no plea! to pain, no pause! no bound!

Inexorable, all! and all, extreme!

Nor man alone; the Foe of G.o.d and man, From his dark den, blaspheming, drags his chain, And rears his brazen front, with thunder scarr'd: Receives his sentence, and begins his h.e.l.l.

All vengeance past, now, seems abundant grace: Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll 280 His baleful eyes! he curses whom he dreads; And deems it the first moment of his fall.

'Tis present to my thought!--and yet where is it?

Angels can't tell me; angels cannot guess The period; from created beings lock'd In darkness. But the process, and the place, Are less obscure; for these may man inquire.

Say, thou great close of human hopes and fears!

Great key of hearts! great finisher of fates!

Great end! and great beginning! say, Where art thou?

Art thou in time, or in eternity? 291 Nor in eternity, nor time, I find thee.

These, as two monarchs, on their borders meet, (Monarchs of all elapsed, or unarrived!) As in debate, how best their powers allied, May swell the grandeur, or discharge the wrath, Of Him, whom both their monarchies obey.

Time, this vast fabric for him built (and doom'd With him to fall), now bursting o'er his head; His lamp, the sun, extinguish'd; from beneath 300 The frown of hideous darkness, calls his sons From their long slumber; from earth's heaving womb, To second birth! contemporary throng!

Roused at one call, upstarted from one bed, Press'd in one crowd, appall'd with one amaze, He turns them o'er, Eternity! to thee.