64
The Complaint.
Night 4.
For their Creator? Shall I question loud
The Thunder, if in that th' Almighty dwells?
Or holds he furious Storms in streighten'd Reins,
And bids fierce Whirlwinds wheel his rapid Car?
What mean these Questions?—Trembling I retract;
My prostrate Soul adores the present God:
Praise I a distant Deity? He tunes
My Voice (if tun'd); the Nerve, that writes, sustains:
Wrap'd in his Being, I resound his Praise:
But tho' past All diffus'd, without a Shore,
His Essence; local is His Throne (as meet),
To gather the Disperst (as Standards call
The Lifted from afar); to fix a Point,
A central Point, collective of his Sons,
Since finite ev'ry Nature, but his own.
The nameless He, whose Nod is Nature's Birth;
And Nature's Shield, the Shadow of his Hand;
Her Dissolution, his suspended Smile!
The great First-Last! pavilion'd high he sits
In Darkness, from excessive Splendor, born,
By Gods unseen, unless thro' Lustre lost.
His Glory, to created Glory, bright,
As that to central Horrors; He looks down
On All that soars; and spans Immensity.
Tho' Night unnumber'd Worlds unfolds to View,
Boundless Creation! what art thou? A Beam,
A mere Effluvium of his Majesty:
And shall an Atom of this Atom-World
Mutter, in Dust and Sin, the Theme of Heav'n?
Down to the Centre should I send my Thought
Thro' Beds of glitt'ring Ore, and glowing Gems,
Their beggar'd Blaze wants Lustre for my Lay;
Goes out in Darkness: If, on tow'ring Wing,
I send it thro' the boundless Vault of Stars;
The Stars, tho' rich, what Dross their Gold to Thee,
The Thunder, if in that th' Almighty dwells?
Or holds he furious Storms in streighten'd Reins,
And bids fierce Whirlwinds wheel his rapid Car?
What mean these Questions?—Trembling I retract;
My prostrate Soul adores the present God:
Praise I a distant Deity? He tunes
My Voice (if tun'd); the Nerve, that writes, sustains:
Wrap'd in his Being, I resound his Praise:
But tho' past All diffus'd, without a Shore,
His Essence; local is His Throne (as meet),
To gather the Disperst (as Standards call
The Lifted from afar); to fix a Point,
A central Point, collective of his Sons,
Since finite ev'ry Nature, but his own.
The nameless He, whose Nod is Nature's Birth;
And Nature's Shield, the Shadow of his Hand;
Her Dissolution, his suspended Smile!
The great First-Last! pavilion'd high he sits
In Darkness, from excessive Splendor, born,
By Gods unseen, unless thro' Lustre lost.
His Glory, to created Glory, bright,
As that to central Horrors; He looks down
On All that soars; and spans Immensity.
Tho' Night unnumber'd Worlds unfolds to View,
Boundless Creation! what art thou? A Beam,
A mere Effluvium of his Majesty:
And shall an Atom of this Atom-World
Mutter, in Dust and Sin, the Theme of Heav'n?
Down to the Centre should I send my Thought
Thro' Beds of glitt'ring Ore, and glowing Gems,
Their beggar'd Blaze wants Lustre for my Lay;
Goes out in Darkness: If, on tow'ring Wing,
I send it thro' the boundless Vault of Stars;
The Stars, tho' rich, what Dross their Gold to Thee,
Great!
