80
The Complaint.
Night 5.
But chiefly Thine, O Litchfield! nor mistake;
Think not un-introduc'd I force my Way;
Narcissa, not unknown, not unally'd,
By Virtue, or by Blood, illustrious Youth!
To thee, from blooming Amaranthine Bow'rs,
Where all the Language Harmony, descends
Uncall'd, and asks Admittance for the Muse:
A Muse that will not pain thee with thy Praise;
Thy Praise she drops, by nobler still inspir'd.
O Thou! Blest Spirit! whether the Supreme,
Great antemundane Father! in whose Breast
Embryo Creation, unborn Being, dwelt,
And all its various Revolutions roll'd
Present, tho' future; prior to themselves;
Whose Breath can blow it into Nought again;
Or, from his Throne some delegated Pow'r,
Who, studious of our Peace, dost turn the Thought
From Vain and Vile, to Solid and Sublime!
Unseen thou lead'st me to delicious Draughts
Of Inspiration, from a purer Stream,
And fuller of the God, than that which burst
From fam'd Castalia: Nor is yet allay'd
My sacred Thirst; tho' long my Soul has rang'd
Thro' pleasing Paths of Moral, and Divine,
By Thee sustain'd, and lighted by the STARS.
By Them best lighted are the Paths of Thought;
Nights are their Days, their most illumin'd Hours.
By Day, the Soul, o'erborne by Life's Career,
Stunn'd by the Din, and giddy with the Glare,
Reels far from Reason, jostled by the Throng.
By Day the Soul is passive, all her Thoughts
Impos'd, precarious, broken, ere mature.
By Night from Objects free, from Passion cool,
Thoughts uncontroul'd, and unimpress'd, the Births
Of pure Election, arbitrary range,
Think not un-introduc'd I force my Way;
Narcissa, not unknown, not unally'd,
By Virtue, or by Blood, illustrious Youth!
To thee, from blooming Amaranthine Bow'rs,
Where all the Language Harmony, descends
Uncall'd, and asks Admittance for the Muse:
A Muse that will not pain thee with thy Praise;
Thy Praise she drops, by nobler still inspir'd.
O Thou! Blest Spirit! whether the Supreme,
Great antemundane Father! in whose Breast
Embryo Creation, unborn Being, dwelt,
And all its various Revolutions roll'd
Present, tho' future; prior to themselves;
Whose Breath can blow it into Nought again;
Or, from his Throne some delegated Pow'r,
Who, studious of our Peace, dost turn the Thought
From Vain and Vile, to Solid and Sublime!
Unseen thou lead'st me to delicious Draughts
Of Inspiration, from a purer Stream,
And fuller of the God, than that which burst
From fam'd Castalia: Nor is yet allay'd
My sacred Thirst; tho' long my Soul has rang'd
Thro' pleasing Paths of Moral, and Divine,
By Thee sustain'd, and lighted by the STARS.
By Them best lighted are the Paths of Thought;
Nights are their Days, their most illumin'd Hours.
By Day, the Soul, o'erborne by Life's Career,
Stunn'd by the Din, and giddy with the Glare,
Reels far from Reason, jostled by the Throng.
By Day the Soul is passive, all her Thoughts
Impos'd, precarious, broken, ere mature.
By Night from Objects free, from Passion cool,
Thoughts uncontroul'd, and unimpress'd, the Births
Of pure Election, arbitrary range,
Not
