14
The Complaint.
Night I.
Ev'n with the tender Tear which Nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their Grave.
Can I forget Philander? That were strange!
O my full Heart!———But should I give it Vent,
The longest Night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the Lark listen to my Midnight song.
The spritely Lark's shrill Matin wakes the Morn;
Grief's sharpest Thorn hard pressing on my Breast,
I strive, with wakeful Melody, to chear
The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel! like Thee,
And call the Stars to listen: Ev'ry Star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy Lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' distant Ages: Wrapt in Shade,
Pris'ner of Darkness! to the silent Hours,
How often I repeat their Rage divine,
To lull my Griefs, and steal my Heart from Woe!
I roll their Raptures, but not catch their Fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah could I reach your Strain!
Or His, who made Mæonides our Own.
Man too he sung: Immortal man I sing;
Oft bursts my Song beyond the Bounds of Life;
What, now, but Immortality can please?
O had He press'd his Theme, pursu'd the Track,
Which opens out of Darkness into Day!
O had he mounted on his Wing of Fire,
Soar'd, where I sink, and sung Immortal Man!
How had it blest Mankind, and rescu'd me?
O'er those we love, we drop it in their Grave.
Can I forget Philander? That were strange!
O my full Heart!———But should I give it Vent,
The longest Night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the Lark listen to my Midnight song.
The spritely Lark's shrill Matin wakes the Morn;
Grief's sharpest Thorn hard pressing on my Breast,
I strive, with wakeful Melody, to chear
The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel! like Thee,
And call the Stars to listen: Ev'ry Star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy Lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' distant Ages: Wrapt in Shade,
Pris'ner of Darkness! to the silent Hours,
How often I repeat their Rage divine,
To lull my Griefs, and steal my Heart from Woe!
I roll their Raptures, but not catch their Fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah could I reach your Strain!
Or His, who made Mæonides our Own.
Man too he sung: Immortal man I sing;
Oft bursts my Song beyond the Bounds of Life;
What, now, but Immortality can please?
O had He press'd his Theme, pursu'd the Track,
Which opens out of Darkness into Day!
O had he mounted on his Wing of Fire,
Soar'd, where I sink, and sung Immortal Man!
How had it blest Mankind, and rescu'd me?
NIGHT
