38
The Complaint.
Night 3.
Of thy first Votary———But not thy last;
If, like thy Namesake, Thou art ever kind.
And kind Thou wilt be; Kind on such a Theme;
A Theme so like thee, a quite Lunar Theme,
Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair!
A Theme that rose all pale, and told my Soul,
'Twas Night; on her fond Hopes perpetual Night;
A Night which struck a Damp, a deadlier Damp,
Than that which smote me from Philander's Tomb.
Narcissa follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.
Woes cluster; rare are solitary Woes;
They love a Train, they tread each other's Heel;
Her Death invades His mournful Right, and claims
The Grief that started from my Lids for Him:
Seizes the faithless, alienated Tear,
Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent Death,
Sorrow, He more than causes, He confounds;
For human Sighs his rival Strokes contend,
And make Distress, Distraction. Oh Philander!
What was thy Fate? a double Fate to me;
Portent and Pain! a Menace, and a Blow!
Like the black Raven hov'ring o'er my Peace,
Not less a Bird of Omen, than of Prey.
It call'd Narcissa long before her Hour;
It call'd her tender Soul, by Break of Bliss,
From the first Blossom, from the Buds of Joy;
Those few our noxious Fate unblasted leaves
In this inclement Clime of human Life.
Sweet Harmonist! and Beautiful as sweet!
And Young as beautiful! and Soft as young!
And Gay as soft! and Innocent as gay!
And Happy (if aught Happy here) as good!
For Fortune fond had built her Nest on high.
Like birds quite exquisite of Note and Plume,
Transfixt by Fate (who loves a lofty Mark)
If, like thy Namesake, Thou art ever kind.
And kind Thou wilt be; Kind on such a Theme;
A Theme so like thee, a quite Lunar Theme,
Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair!
A Theme that rose all pale, and told my Soul,
'Twas Night; on her fond Hopes perpetual Night;
A Night which struck a Damp, a deadlier Damp,
Than that which smote me from Philander's Tomb.
Narcissa follows, ere his tomb is clos'd.
Woes cluster; rare are solitary Woes;
They love a Train, they tread each other's Heel;
Her Death invades His mournful Right, and claims
The Grief that started from my Lids for Him:
Seizes the faithless, alienated Tear,
Or shares it, ere it falls. So frequent Death,
Sorrow, He more than causes, He confounds;
For human Sighs his rival Strokes contend,
And make Distress, Distraction. Oh Philander!
What was thy Fate? a double Fate to me;
Portent and Pain! a Menace, and a Blow!
Like the black Raven hov'ring o'er my Peace,
Not less a Bird of Omen, than of Prey.
It call'd Narcissa long before her Hour;
It call'd her tender Soul, by Break of Bliss,
From the first Blossom, from the Buds of Joy;
Those few our noxious Fate unblasted leaves
In this inclement Clime of human Life.
Sweet Harmonist! and Beautiful as sweet!
And Young as beautiful! and Soft as young!
And Gay as soft! and Innocent as gay!
And Happy (if aught Happy here) as good!
For Fortune fond had built her Nest on high.
Like birds quite exquisite of Note and Plume,
Transfixt by Fate (who loves a lofty Mark)
How
