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Where seraph's gather immortality.
Where falls this censure? it o’erwhelms myself;
Night visions may befriend (as sung above :)
The spider's most attenuated thread
Oye bless'd scenes of permanent delight !
190 And rarely for the better; or the best More mortal than the cornmon births of Fate. Each moment has its sicklo, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ainple sweep Strikes empires from the root ; each moment plays His little weapon in the narrower sphere
196 Of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss.
Bliss ! sublunary bliss !-proud words, and vain ! implicit treason to divine decree!
200 A bold invasion of the rights of Heaven! I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air. O had I weigh'd it ere iny fond embrace, What darts of agony had miss'd my heart !
Death! great proprietor of all ! 'tis thine 205 To tread out empire, and to quench the stars. The Sun himself by thy permission shinos, And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his spbero : Amid such mighty plunder, why exhaust Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean?
210 Why thy peculiar rancour wreak’d on me? Insatiate archer! could not one sufice ? Thy shaft few thrice, and thrice my peace was slain ; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fillid her horn. o Cynthia! why so pale ? dost thou lament 215
Thy wretched neighbour ? grieve to see thy wlieel
225 Led, like a murderer, (and such it proves !) Strays (wretched rover !) o'er the pleasing past , In quest of wretchedness perversely strays, And sinds ail desert now, and meets the ghosts Of my departed joys, a numerous train!
230 I rue the riches of my forme: fata ; Sweet confort's blasted clusters I lament; I tremble at the blessings once so dear, And every pieasure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for ono ? 235 Slangs out the Sun his lustre but for ine, The single man? are angels all beside ? I mourn for snillions ; 'tis the com:non lot : In this shape or in that has Fate entailid The mother's throes on all of woman, born ;
240 Not more the children than sure heirs of pain.
War, fainine, pest, vrlcano, storni, and firo, Intestine bruils, Oppression, with her heart Wrapp'd up in triple brass, besiege mankind. God's image, disinherited of day,
215 Here plunged in mines, forgets a Sun was made : There beings, deathles» as their haughty lord, Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life, And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair. Some for hard masters, broken under arms, 250 In battle lopp'd away, with half their limbs, Beg bitter bread through rcalms their valour savod, If so the tyrant or his minion doom.
Want, and incurable disease, (fell pair !)
260 To shock us more, solicit it in vain ! Ye silken sons of Pleasure ! since in pains You rue more modish visits, visit here, And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce Surfeit's dominion o'er you. But so great
265 Your impudence, you blush at what is right.
Happy! did sorrow seize on such alone. Not prudence can defend, or virtue save, Disease invades the chastest temperance ; And punishment the guiltless; and alarm, 270 Through thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace. Man's caution often into danger turns, And his guard, falling, crushes him to death. Not Happiness itself makes good her name ; Our very wishes give us not our wish.
275 How distant oft the thing we dote on most From that for which we dote, felicity! The smoothest course of Nature has its pains, And truest friends, through error, wourt our rest. Without misfortune, what calamities!
280 And what hostilities, without a foe! Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth. But endiess is the list of human ills, And sighs might sooner fail than cause to sigh.
A part how small of the terraqueous globe 285 Is tenanted by man! the rest a waste, Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands' Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death. Such is Earth's melarcholy map! but, far Möre sad ! this earth is a true map of man : 290 So bounded are its haughty lord's dulights
To Woe's wide empire, where deep troubles toss,
What then am I, who sorrow for myself?
315 Know, emiler! at thy peril art thou pleased : Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain Misfortune, like a creditor severe, But rises in demand for her delay ; She makes a scourge of vast prosperity,
320 To sting thce more, and double thy distrees.
Lorenzo ! Fortune makes her court to thee ;