56
The Complaint.
Night 4.
Trembling, at once, with Eagerness and Age?
With Av'rice, and Convulsions, grasping hard?
Grasping at Air! for what has Earth beside?
Man wants but Little; nor that Little, long;
How soon must he resign his very Dust,
Which frugal Nature lent him for an Hour!
Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous Ills;
And soon as Man, expert from Time, has found
The Key of Life, it opes the Gates of Death.
When in this Vale of Years I backward look,
And miss such Numbers, Numbers too of such,
Firmer in Health, and greener in their Age,
And stricter on their Guard, and fitter far
To play Life's subtle Game, I scarce believe
I still survive: And am I fond of Life,
Who scarce can think it possible, I live?
Alive by Miracle! or, what is next,
Alive by Mead! If I am still alive,
Who long have bury'd what gives Life to live,
Firmness of Nerve, and Energy of Thought.
Life's Lee is not more shallow, than impure,
And vapid; Sense and Reason shew the Door,
Call for my Bier, and point me to the Dust.
O Thou great Arbiter of Life and Death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun!
Whose all-prolific Beam late call'd me forth
From Darkness, teeming Darkness, where I lay
The Worm's Inferior, and, in Rank, beneath
The Dust I tread on, high to bear my Brow,
To drink the Spirit of the golden Day,
And triumph in Existence; and couldst know
No Motive, but my Bliss; and hast ordain'd
A Rise in Blessing! with the Patriarch's Joy,
Thy Call I follow to the Land unknown;
I trust in Thee, and know in whom I trust;
With Av'rice, and Convulsions, grasping hard?
Grasping at Air! for what has Earth beside?
Man wants but Little; nor that Little, long;
How soon must he resign his very Dust,
Which frugal Nature lent him for an Hour!
Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous Ills;
And soon as Man, expert from Time, has found
The Key of Life, it opes the Gates of Death.
When in this Vale of Years I backward look,
And miss such Numbers, Numbers too of such,
Firmer in Health, and greener in their Age,
And stricter on their Guard, and fitter far
To play Life's subtle Game, I scarce believe
I still survive: And am I fond of Life,
Who scarce can think it possible, I live?
Alive by Miracle! or, what is next,
Alive by Mead! If I am still alive,
Who long have bury'd what gives Life to live,
Firmness of Nerve, and Energy of Thought.
Life's Lee is not more shallow, than impure,
And vapid; Sense and Reason shew the Door,
Call for my Bier, and point me to the Dust.
O Thou great Arbiter of Life and Death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun!
Whose all-prolific Beam late call'd me forth
From Darkness, teeming Darkness, where I lay
The Worm's Inferior, and, in Rank, beneath
The Dust I tread on, high to bear my Brow,
To drink the Spirit of the golden Day,
And triumph in Existence; and couldst know
No Motive, but my Bliss; and hast ordain'd
A Rise in Blessing! with the Patriarch's Joy,
Thy Call I follow to the Land unknown;
I trust in Thee, and know in whom I trust;
Or
