42
The Complaint.
Night 3.
The Dead how Sacred! Sacred is the Dust
Of this Heav'n-labour'd Form, erect, divine!
This Heav'n-assum'd majestic Robe of Earth,
He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast Expanse
With Azure bright, and cloath'd the Sun in Gold.
When ev'ry Passion sleeps that can offend;
When strikes us ev'ry Motive that can melt;
When Man can wreak his Rancour uncontroul'd,
That strongest Curb on Insult and Ill-will;
Then, Spleen to Dust? the Dust of Innocence?
An Angel's Dust!———This Lucifer transcends;
When he contended for the Patriarch's Bones,
'Twas not the Strife of Malice, but of Pride;
The Strife of Pontiff Pride, not Pontiff Gall.
Far less than This is shocking in a Race
Most wretched, but from Streams of mutual Love;
And uncreated, but for Love Divine;
And, but for Love Divine, this Moment, lost,
By Fate resorb'd, and sunk in endless Night.
Man hard of Heart to Man! Of horrid Things
Most horrid! 'Mid stupendous, highly strange!
Yet oft his Courtesies are smoother Wrongs;
Pride brandishes the Favours He confers,
And contumelious his Humanity:
What then his Vengeance? Hear it not, ye Stars!
And thou, pale Moon! turn paler at the Sound;
Man is to Man the sorest, surest Ill.
A previous Blast foretels the rising Storm;
O'erwhelming Turrets threaten ere they fall;
Volcano's bellow ere they disembogue;
Earth trembles ere her yawning Jaws devour;
And Smoke betrays the wide-consuming Fire:
Ruin from Man is most conceal'd when near,
And sends the dreadful Tidings in the Blow.
Is this the Flight of Fancy? Would it were!
Of this Heav'n-labour'd Form, erect, divine!
This Heav'n-assum'd majestic Robe of Earth,
He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast Expanse
With Azure bright, and cloath'd the Sun in Gold.
When ev'ry Passion sleeps that can offend;
When strikes us ev'ry Motive that can melt;
When Man can wreak his Rancour uncontroul'd,
That strongest Curb on Insult and Ill-will;
Then, Spleen to Dust? the Dust of Innocence?
An Angel's Dust!———This Lucifer transcends;
When he contended for the Patriarch's Bones,
'Twas not the Strife of Malice, but of Pride;
The Strife of Pontiff Pride, not Pontiff Gall.
Far less than This is shocking in a Race
Most wretched, but from Streams of mutual Love;
And uncreated, but for Love Divine;
And, but for Love Divine, this Moment, lost,
By Fate resorb'd, and sunk in endless Night.
Man hard of Heart to Man! Of horrid Things
Most horrid! 'Mid stupendous, highly strange!
Yet oft his Courtesies are smoother Wrongs;
Pride brandishes the Favours He confers,
And contumelious his Humanity:
What then his Vengeance? Hear it not, ye Stars!
And thou, pale Moon! turn paler at the Sound;
Man is to Man the sorest, surest Ill.
A previous Blast foretels the rising Storm;
O'erwhelming Turrets threaten ere they fall;
Volcano's bellow ere they disembogue;
Earth trembles ere her yawning Jaws devour;
And Smoke betrays the wide-consuming Fire:
Ruin from Man is most conceal'd when near,
And sends the dreadful Tidings in the Blow.
Is this the Flight of Fancy? Would it were!
Heav'n's
