Nor touches on the world without a stain. The world's infectious; few bring back at eve, Something we thought, is blotted; we resolved, Is shaken; we renounced, returns again. 145 Unthought before, or fix a former flaw. Nor is it strange; light, motion, concourse, noise, All scatter us abroad. Thought, outward-bound, 150 155 From smiling man! A slight, a single glance, And shot at random, often has brought home 160 A sudden fever to the throbbing heart We see, we hear, with peril; Safety dwells Remote from multitude. The world 's a school Of wrong, and what proficients swarm around! 165 Must list as their accomplices or foes: That stains our innocence, this wounds our peace. From Nature's birth, hence, Wisdom has been smit With sweet recess, and languish'd for the shade. 17 This sacred shade and solitude what is it? "Tis the felt presence of the Deity! Few are the faults we flatter when alone; And looks, like other objects, black by night. 175 Night is fair Virtue's immemorial friend. Has held a lamp to Wisdoin, and let fall, In private audience: all the livelong night, 180 185 190 And gives him to the tumult of the world. Hail, precious moments! stolen from the black waste Of murder'd time! auspicious Midnight, hail! 195 The world excluded, every passion hush'd, And open'd a calm intercourse with Heaven, All her lies answers, and thinks down her charms. I am not pent in darkness; rather say (If not too bold) in darkness I'm imbower'd. 200 Delightful gloom! the clustering thoughts around 205 Thought borrows light elsewhere; from that first fire, Urania, iny celestial guest! who deigns 210 Nightly to visit me, so mean, and now, From pleasing dalliance with the charms of Night, Or is it feeble Nature calls me back, 215 And breaks my spirit into grief again? Is it a Stygian vapour in my blood? A cold slow puddle, creeping through my veins ? 220 225 The noblest spirit, fighting her hard fate In this damp dusky region, charged with storms, But feebly flutters, yet untaught to fly; Or, flying, short her flight, and sure her fall: 230 'Tis vain to seek in men for more than man. Though proud in promise, big in previous thought, Experience damps our triumph. I, who late, Where grief detain'd me prisoner, mounting high, Emerging from the shadows of the grave, Threw wide the gates of everlasting day, And call'd mankind to glory, shook of pair, 235 240 245 And struck the stars; now feel my spirits fail; Than Genius or proud Learning e'er could boast. Voracious Learning, often overfed, 255 Digests not into sense her motley meal. This bookcase, with dark booty almost burst, 260 265 And scorns to share a blessing with the crowd. 270 But Wisdom smiles, when humbled mortals weep. When Sorrow wounds the breast, as ploughs the glebe 276 Her golden harvest triumphs in the soil. I'll raise a tax on my calamity, 280 And reap rich compensation from my pain. I'll range the plenteous intellectual field, And gather every thought of sovereign power To chase the moral maladies of man; Thoughts which may bear transplanting to the skies, • Though natives of this coarse penarious soil; 286 In either clime, though more illustrious there. 200 These choicely cull'd, and elegantly ranged, And, peradventure, of no fading flowers. Say, on what themes shall puzzled choice descend: 'The' importance of contemplating the tomb; Why men decline it; suicide's foul birth: The various kinds of grief; the faults of age; And Death's dread character-invite my song.' 295 And, first, the' importance of our end survey'd. Friends counsel quick dismission of our grief. Mistaken kindness! our hearts heal too soon. Are they more kind than He who struck the blow? Who bid it do his errand in our hearts, And banish peace till nobler guests arrive, And bring it back a true and endless peace? Calamities are friends: as glaring day Of these unnumber'd lustres robs our sight, Prosperity puts out unnumber'd thoughts Of import high, and light divine, to man. 300 305 The man how bless'd, who, sick of gaudy scenes, (Scenes apt to thrust between us and ourselves!) 311 Is led by choice to take his favourite walk Beneath Death's gloomy, silent, cypress shades, Unpierced by Vanity's fantastic ray; To read his monuments, to weigh his dust, 315 320 The feeling heart. What pathos in the date! 325 See from her tomb, as from an hunble shrine. Truth, radiant goddess! sallies or my soul, |