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.

THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT. THE 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!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays

Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes:
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose,
I wake: how happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams
Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought
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,

Even in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead! and darkness how profound! Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds :Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end. And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd: Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve

(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,
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball;

O THOU, whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the sun; strike wisdom from my soul;
My soul, which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others rest,
Through this opaque of nature, and of soul,
This double night, transmit one pitying ray,
To lighten and to cheer. Oh lead my mind