50
The Complaint.
Night 3.
No Bliss has Life to boast, till Death can give
Far greater; Life's a Debtor to the Grave,
Dark Lattice! letting in eternal Day.
Lorenzo! blush at Fondness for a Life,
Which sends celestial Souls on Errands vile,
To cater for the Sense; and serve at Boards,
Where ev'ry Ranger of the Wilds, perhaps
Each Reptile, justly claims our upper Hand.
Luxurious Feast! a Soul, a Soul immortal,
In all the Dainties of a Brute bemir'd!
Lorenzo! blush at Terror for a Death,
Which gives thee to repose in festive Bowers,
Where Nectars sparkle, Angels minister,
And more than Angels share, and raise, and crown,
And eternize, the Birth, Bloom, Bursts of Bliss.
What need I more? O Death, the Palm is thine.
Then welcome, Death! thy dreaded Harbingers,
Age, and Disease; Disease, tho' long my Guest;
That plucks my Nerves, those tender Strings of Life;
Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the Bell,
That calls my few Friends to my Funeral;
Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a Tear,
While Reason and Religion, better taught,
Congratulate the Dead, and crown his Tomb
With Wreath triumphant. Death is Victory;
It binds in Chains the raging Ills of Life:
Lust and Ambition, Wrath and Avarice,
Dragg'd at his Chariot-wheel, applaud his Power.
That Ills corrosive, Cares importunate,
Are not immortal too, O Death! is Thine.
Our Day of Dissolution!———Name it right;
'Tis our great Pay-day; tis our Harvest, rich
And ripe: What tho' the Sickle, sometimes keen,
Just scars us as we reap the golden Grain?
More than thy Balm, O Gilead! heals the Wound.
Far greater; Life's a Debtor to the Grave,
Dark Lattice! letting in eternal Day.
Lorenzo! blush at Fondness for a Life,
Which sends celestial Souls on Errands vile,
To cater for the Sense; and serve at Boards,
Where ev'ry Ranger of the Wilds, perhaps
Each Reptile, justly claims our upper Hand.
Luxurious Feast! a Soul, a Soul immortal,
In all the Dainties of a Brute bemir'd!
Lorenzo! blush at Terror for a Death,
Which gives thee to repose in festive Bowers,
Where Nectars sparkle, Angels minister,
And more than Angels share, and raise, and crown,
And eternize, the Birth, Bloom, Bursts of Bliss.
What need I more? O Death, the Palm is thine.
Then welcome, Death! thy dreaded Harbingers,
Age, and Disease; Disease, tho' long my Guest;
That plucks my Nerves, those tender Strings of Life;
Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the Bell,
That calls my few Friends to my Funeral;
Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a Tear,
While Reason and Religion, better taught,
Congratulate the Dead, and crown his Tomb
With Wreath triumphant. Death is Victory;
It binds in Chains the raging Ills of Life:
Lust and Ambition, Wrath and Avarice,
Dragg'd at his Chariot-wheel, applaud his Power.
That Ills corrosive, Cares importunate,
Are not immortal too, O Death! is Thine.
Our Day of Dissolution!———Name it right;
'Tis our great Pay-day; tis our Harvest, rich
And ripe: What tho' the Sickle, sometimes keen,
Just scars us as we reap the golden Grain?
More than thy Balm, O Gilead! heals the Wound.
Birth's
