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PREFACE.

As the occafion of this Poem was real, not fictitious; fo the method pursued in it, was rather impofed, by what fpontaneously arose in the author's mind on that occafion, than meditated, or defigned. Which will appear very probable from the nature of it.

For it differs from which is from long narrations to draw fhort morals. Here, on the contrary, the narrative is fhort, and the morality arifing from it makes the bulk of the Poem. The reason of it is, That the facts mentioned did naturally pour thefe moral reflections on the thought of the writer.

the common mode of Poetry,

THE

tetet

THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT the FIRST.

ON

LIFE, DEATH, and IMMORTALITY,

To the RIGHT HONOU BLE

ARTHUR ONSLOW, Eft

SPEAKER of the HOUSE of COMMONS.

IR'D Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep!

TR

He, like the world, his ready visit pays

Where Fortune fmiles; the wretched he forfakes;
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
And lights on lids unfully'd with a tear.

From fhort (as ufual) and difturb'd repofe,

I wake: How happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infeft the grave.

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I wake, emerging from a fea of dreams

Tumultuous; where my wreck'd defponding thought,
From wave to wave of fanfy'd mifery,

At random drove, her helm of reafon loft.
Tho' now reftor'd, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) feverer for fevere.
The Day too fhort for my diftrefs; and Night,
Ev'n in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is funshine to the colour of my fate.

Night, fable goddefs! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now ftretches forth
Her leaden fceptre o'er a flumb'ring world.
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound!
Nor eye, nor lift'ning ear, an object finds;
Creation fleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulfe
Of life ftood ftill, and nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophefy be foon fulfill'd;
Fate drop the curtain; I can lofe no more.
Silence and Darkness! folemn fifters! twins
From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought
To Reafon, and on Reafon build Refolve,

(That column of true majefty in man)

Affift me: I will thank you in the grave;

The grave, your kingdom: There this frame fhall fall

A victim facred to your dreary fhrine.

But what are ye?

THOU, who didft put to flight

Primeval Silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, fhouted o'er the rifing ball;

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