62
The Complaint.
Night 4.
"Blest, and chastis'd, a flagrant Rebel still!
"A Rebel, 'midit the Thunders of his Throne!
"Nor I alone! a Rebel Universe!
"My Species up in Arms! not One exempt!
"Yet for the Foulest of the Foul, He dies,
"Most joy'd, for the Redeem'd from deepest Guilt!
"As if our Race were held of highest Rank;
"And Godhead dearer, as more kind to Man!"
Bound, ev'ry Heart! and, ev'ry Bosom, burn!
Oh what a Scale of Miracles is here!
Its lowest Round, high planted on the Skies;
Its tow'ring Summit lost beyond the Thought
Of Man or Angel! Oh that I could climb
The wonderful Ascent, with equal Praise!
Praise! flow for ever, (if Astonishment
Will give thee Leave) my Praise! for ever flow;
Praise Ardent, Cordial, Constant, to High Heav'n
More fragrant, than Arabia sacrific'd;
And all her spicy Mountains in a Flame.
So dear, so due to Heav'n, shall Praise descend,
With her soft Plume (from plausive Angels Wing
First pluck'd by Man) to tickle mortal Ears,
Thus diving in the Pockets of the Great?
Is Praise the Perquisite of ev'ry Paw,
Tho' black as Hell, that grapples well for Gold?
Oh Love of Gold! thou meanest of Amours!
Shall Praise her Odours waste on Virtue's Dead,
Embalm the Base, perfume the Stench of Guilt,
Earn dirty Bread by washing Ethiops fair,
Removing Filth, or sinking it from Sight,
A Scavenger in Scenes, where vacant Posts,
Like Gibbets yet untenanted, expect
Their future Ornaments? From Courts and Thrones,
Return, apostate Praise! thou Vagabond!
"A Rebel, 'midit the Thunders of his Throne!
"Nor I alone! a Rebel Universe!
"My Species up in Arms! not One exempt!
"Yet for the Foulest of the Foul, He dies,
"Most joy'd, for the Redeem'd from deepest Guilt!
"As if our Race were held of highest Rank;
"And Godhead dearer, as more kind to Man!"
Bound, ev'ry Heart! and, ev'ry Bosom, burn!
Oh what a Scale of Miracles is here!
Its lowest Round, high planted on the Skies;
Its tow'ring Summit lost beyond the Thought
Of Man or Angel! Oh that I could climb
The wonderful Ascent, with equal Praise!
Praise! flow for ever, (if Astonishment
Will give thee Leave) my Praise! for ever flow;
Praise Ardent, Cordial, Constant, to High Heav'n
More fragrant, than Arabia sacrific'd;
And all her spicy Mountains in a Flame.
So dear, so due to Heav'n, shall Praise descend,
With her soft Plume (from plausive Angels Wing
First pluck'd by Man) to tickle mortal Ears,
Thus diving in the Pockets of the Great?
Is Praise the Perquisite of ev'ry Paw,
Tho' black as Hell, that grapples well for Gold?
Oh Love of Gold! thou meanest of Amours!
Shall Praise her Odours waste on Virtue's Dead,
Embalm the Base, perfume the Stench of Guilt,
Earn dirty Bread by washing Ethiops fair,
Removing Filth, or sinking it from Sight,
A Scavenger in Scenes, where vacant Posts,
Like Gibbets yet untenanted, expect
Their future Ornaments? From Courts and Thrones,
Return, apostate Praise! thou Vagabond!
Thou
