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PREFACE.

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S the Occafion of this Poem was Real, not Fictitious; fo the Method pursued in it, was rather imposed by what spontaneously 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 dif fers from the common Mode of Poetry, which is from long Narrations to draw Short Morals. Here, on the contrary, the Narrative is fhort, and the Morality arifing from it makes the Bulk of the Poem. The Reafon of it is, That the Facts mentioned did naturally pour these moral Reflections on the Thought of the Writer.

It is evident from the firft Night, where three Deaths are mentioned, that the Plan is not yet compleated; for two only of those three have yet been fung. But fince the Fourth Night finishes one principal and important Theme, naturally arifing from all Three, viz. the Subduing our Fear of DEATH, it will be a proper Paufing-place A 2

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for the Reader, and the Writer too. And it is uncertain, whether Providence, or Inclination, will permit him to go any farther.

I fay, Inclination; for This Thing was entered on purely as a Refuge under Uneafinefs, when more proper Studies wanted fufficient Relifh to detain the Writer's Attention to them. And that Reafon (thanks be to Heaven) ceafing, the Writer has no further Occafion, I shou'd rather say Excufe, for giving in fo much to the Amusements, amid the Duties, of Life.

NIGHT the FIRST.

ON

Life, Death, & Immortality.

HUMBLY INSCRIBD

To the RIGHT HONOURABLE

ARTHUR ONSLOW, Efq;

SPEAKER of the Houfe of Commons.

Τ'

IR'D nature's fweet reftorer, balmy Sleep!!
He, like the world, his ready vifit pays

Where Fortune fmiles; the wretched he:
forfakes:

Swift on his downy pinion flies from Woe,
And lights on lids ûnfully'd with a Tear.

From fhort (as usual) and disturb'd Repose,
I wake: How happy they who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if Dreams infeft the Grave.
I wake, emerging from a fea of Dreams

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Tumultuous

Tumultuous; where my wreck'd, defponding thought
From wave to wave of fancy'd Mifery,

At random drove, her helm of Reason 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,
Even in the Zenith of her dark Domain,
Is Sunshine, to the colour of my Fate.

Night, fable Goddefs! from her Ebon throne,
In rayless Majefty, now ftretches forth
Her leaden Sceptre 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 aweful paufe! prophetic of her End.
And let her prophecy be foon fulfill'd;
Fate! drop the Curtain; I can lofe no more.

Silence, and Darkness! folemn Sifters! Twins
From antient Night, who nurfe the tender Thought
To Reafen, 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 shrine.

But what are Ye? Thou, who didft put to flight
Primæval Silence, when the Morning-Stars,
Exulting, fhouted o'er the rifing Ball;

O Thou! whofe Word from folid Darkness struck
That spark, the Sun; ftrike Wisdom from my foul;
My foul which flies to Thee, her Truft, her Treasure:
As mifers to their Gold, while others reft.

Thro' this Opaque of Nature, and of Soul,
This double Night, tranfmit one pitying ray,
To lighten, and to chear: Olead my Mind,
A Mind that fain would
om its Woe,)

Lead

Lead it thro' various fcenes of Life and Death,
And from each scene the noblest Truths inspire:
Nor less inspire my Conduct, than my Song;
Teach my best Reason, Reason; my best Will
Teach Rectitude; and fix my firm Refolve
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long Arrear.
Nor let the Vial of thy Vengeance pour'd
On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.
The Bell ftrikes

But from its Lofs.

Is wife in man.

One: We take no note of Time,
To give it then a Tongue,

As if an Angel spoke,

I feel the folemn Sound. If heard aright,

It is the Knell of my departed Hours;

Where are they? with the Years beyond the Flood:
It is the Signal that demands Dispatch;

How Much is to be done? my Hopes and Fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow Verge
Look down-- -on what? a fathomless Abyss;
A dread Eternity! how furely mine!
And can Eternity belong to me,

Poor Penfioner on the bounties of an Hour?

How poor? how rich? how abject? how auguft?
How complicate? how wonderful is man?
How paffing wonder He, who made him fuch?
Who center'd in our make such strange Extremes,
From different Natures, marvelously mixt,
Connection exquifite of diftant Worlds!
Diftinguish'd Link in Being's endless Chain!
Midway from Nothing to the Deity!
A Beam ethereal fully'd, and abforpt!
Tho' fully'd, and difhonour'd, ftill Divine!
Dim Miniature of Greatnefs abfolute !
An Heir of Glory! a frail Child of Duft!
Helpless Immortal! Infect infinite!

A Worm! a God! I tremble at myself,
And in myself am loft! At home a Stranger,

Thought

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