The Christian Triumph.
57
Or Life, or Death, is équal; neither weighs:
All Weight in this—O let me live to Thee!
Tho' Nature's Terrors, thus, may be represt;
Still frowns grim Death; Guilt points the Tyrant's Spear.
And whence all human Guilt? From Death forgot.
Ah me! too long I set at nought the Swarm
Of friendly Warnings, which around me flew;
And smil'd, unsmitten: Small my Cause to smile!
Death's Admonitions, like Shafts upwards shot,
More dreadful by Delay, the longer ere
They strike our Hearts, the deeper is their Wound,
O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it stings:
Who can appease its Anguish? How it burns!
What Hand the barb'd, invenom'd, Thought can draw?
What healing Hand can pour the Balm of Peace?
And turn my Sight undaunted on the Tomb?
With Joy,—with Grief, that healing Hand I see;
Ah! too conspicuous! It is fix'd on high.
On high?—What means my Phrensy? I blaspheme:
Alas! how low? how far beneath the Skies?
The Skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me—
But bleeds the Balm I want—yet still it bleeds;
Draw the dire Steel—Ah no!—the dreadful Blessing
What Heart or can sustain, or dares forego?
There hangs all human Hope; That Nail supports
The falling Universe: That gone, we drop;
Horror receives us, and the dismal Wish
Creation had been smother'd in her Birth—
Darkness His Curtain, and His Bed the Dust;
When Stars and Sun are Dust beneath his Throne?
In Heav'n itself can such Indulgence dwell?
O what a Groan was there! A Groan not His.
He seiz'd our dreadful Right; the Load sustain'd;
And heav'd the Mountain from a guilty World.
A thousand Worlds, so bought, were bought too dear.
All Weight in this—O let me live to Thee!
Tho' Nature's Terrors, thus, may be represt;
Still frowns grim Death; Guilt points the Tyrant's Spear.
And whence all human Guilt? From Death forgot.
Ah me! too long I set at nought the Swarm
Of friendly Warnings, which around me flew;
And smil'd, unsmitten: Small my Cause to smile!
Death's Admonitions, like Shafts upwards shot,
More dreadful by Delay, the longer ere
They strike our Hearts, the deeper is their Wound,
O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it stings:
Who can appease its Anguish? How it burns!
What Hand the barb'd, invenom'd, Thought can draw?
What healing Hand can pour the Balm of Peace?
And turn my Sight undaunted on the Tomb?
With Joy,—with Grief, that healing Hand I see;
Ah! too conspicuous! It is fix'd on high.
On high?—What means my Phrensy? I blaspheme:
Alas! how low? how far beneath the Skies?
The Skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me—
But bleeds the Balm I want—yet still it bleeds;
Draw the dire Steel—Ah no!—the dreadful Blessing
What Heart or can sustain, or dares forego?
There hangs all human Hope; That Nail supports
The falling Universe: That gone, we drop;
Horror receives us, and the dismal Wish
Creation had been smother'd in her Birth—
Darkness His Curtain, and His Bed the Dust;
When Stars and Sun are Dust beneath his Throne?
In Heav'n itself can such Indulgence dwell?
O what a Groan was there! A Groan not His.
He seiz'd our dreadful Right; the Load sustain'd;
And heav'd the Mountain from a guilty World.
A thousand Worlds, so bought, were bought too dear.
Sensations
