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Blessed! thrice blessed days!—But ah! how short!
Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of Holy Men;
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.
Oh! slippery state of things.—What sudden turns;
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf
Of man's sad history?———To-day most happy
And e'er tomorrow's sun was set, most abject.
How scant the space between these vast extremes?
Thus far'd it with cur Sire:—Not long h' enjoy'd
His paradise—Scare had the happy tennant
Of the fair spot, due time to prove its sweets,
Or sum them up; when strait he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again.—And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire offence
Of erring man!—Like one that is condemn'd,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
And parley with his fate.———But 'tis in vain.
Not all the lavish odours of the place
Offer'd in incense can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom.———A mighty Angel
With flaming sword forbids his longer stay,
And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take
One last farewel round.—At once he lost
His glory, and his God.—If mortal now
And sorely maim'd, no wonder.—Man has sinn'd.
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he would needs try: nor try'd in vain.
Dreadful experimeent! destructive measure!
(Where the worst thing could happen, is success.)
Alas! too well he sped:—The good he scorn'd,
Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost,
Not to return;—or if it did, its visits
Like those of Angels, short and far between;
Whilst the black Dæmon with his hell 'scap'd Train
Admitted once into its better room,
Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone;
Lording it o'er the Man: who now too late
⟨Saw⟩ the rash-error, which he could not mend: