PREFACE. As the occasion of this Poem was real, not fictitious; so the method pursued in it was rather imposed by what spontaneously arose in the Author's mind on that occasion, than meditated or designed. Which will appear very probable from the nature of it. For it differs from the common mode of poetry, which is, from long narrations to draw short morals. Here, on the contrary, the narrative is short, and the morality arising from it makes the bulk of the Poem. The reason of it is, that the facts mentioned did naturally pour these moral reflections on the thought of the Writer. NIGHT FIRST. ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ARTHUR ONSLOW, ESQ., SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose, Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought 10 From wave to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) severer for severe : The day too short for my distress; and night, Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, Silence and darkness: solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought (That column of true majesty in man), Assist me I will thank you in the grave; The grave, your kingdom: there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. But what are ye? Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval Silence, when the morning stars, O Thou, whose word from solid darkness struck To lighten, and to cheer. (A mind that fain would O lead wander from its woe), Lead it through various scenes of life and death; 15 23 30 40 Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song; The bell strikes one. We take no note of time I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours: 49 Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. 60 It is the signal that demands despatch: How much is to be done? My hopes and fears Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself, 70 80 |