[ The Complaint : or , Night-Thoughts on Life , Death & Immortality . ] Night III . Narcissa . Humbly inscribed to her Grace the Duchess of Portland . Ignoscenda quidem , scirent si ignoscere manes . — Virg. From dreams , where Thought in Fancy's maze runs mad , To reason , that heaven-lighted lamp in man , Once more I wake ; and at the destined hour , Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn , I keep my assignation with my woe . O , lost to virtue , lost to manly thought , Lost to the noble sallies of the soul , Who think it solitude to be alone ! Communion sweet ! communion large and high ! Our reason , guardian angel , and our God ! Then nearest these , when others most remote ; And all , ere long , shall be remote but these . How dreadful then to meet them all alone , A stranger , unacknowledged , unapproved ! Now woo them , wed them , bind them to thy breast : To win thy wish , creation has no more . Or if we wish a fourth , it is a friend — But friends how mortal ! dangerous the desire . Take Phoebus to yourselves , ye basking bards ! Inebriate at fair Fortune's fountain-head , And reeling through the wilderness of joy ; Where Sense runs savage , broke from Reason's chain , And sings false peace , till smother'd by the pall . My fortune is unlike , unlike my song , Unlike the deity my song invokes . I to Day's soft-eyed sister pay my court , ( Endymion's rival ! ) and her aid implore ; Now first implored in succour to the Muse . Thou who didst lately borrow Cynthia's form , At the Duke of Norfolk's masquerade . And modestly forego thine own ! O thou Who didst thyself , at midnight hours , inspire ! Say , why not Cynthia , patroness of song ? As thou her crescent , she thy character , Assumes : still more a goddess by the change . Are there demurring wits , who dare dispute This revolution in the world inspired ? Yet train Pierian ! to the lunar sphere , In silent hour , address your ardent call For aid immortal ; less her brother's right . She , with the spheres harmonious , nightly leads The mazy dance , and hears their matchless strain ; A strain for gods , denied to mortal ear . Transmit it heard , thou silver queen of heaven ! What title , or what name , endears thee most ? " Cynthia , " " Cyllene , " " Phoebe ? " — or dost hear , With higher gust , " fair Portland of the skies ? " Is that the soft enchantment calls thee down , More powerful than of old Circean charm ? Come ; but from heavenly banquets with thee bring The soul of song , and whisper in mine ear The theft divine ; or in propitious dreams ( For dreams are thine ) transfuse it through the breast Of thy first votary — but not thy last , If , like thy namesake , thou art ever kind . And kind thou wilt be , kind on such a theme ; A theme so like thee , a quite lunar theme , Soft , modest , melancholy , female , fair ! A theme that rose all pale , and told my soul 'T was night ; on her fond hopes perpetual night ; A night which struck a damp , a deadlier damp Than that which smote me from Philander's tomb . Narcissa follows , ere his tomb is closed . Woes cluster ; rare are solitary woes ; They love a train ; they tread each other's heel : Her death invades his mournful right , and claims The grief that started from my lids for him ; Seizes the faithless , alienated tear , Or shares it ere it falls . So frequent Death , Sorrow he more than causes , he confounds ; For human sighs his rival strokes contend , And make distress distraction . O Philander ! What was thy fate ? A double fate to me ; Portent and pain ! a menace and a blow ! Like the black raven hovering o'er my peace , Not less a bird of omen than of prey . It call'd Narcissa long before her hour ; It call'd her tender soul by break of bliss , From the first blossom , from the buds of joy ; Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves In this inclement clime of human life . Sweet harmonist ! and beautiful as sweet ! And young as beautiful ! and soft as young ! And gay as soft ! and innocent as gay ! And happy ( if aught happy here ) as good ! For fortune fond had built her nest on high , Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume , Transfix'd by Fate , ( who loves a lofty mark , ) How from the summit of the grove she fell , And left it unharmonious ! all its charm Extinguish'd in the wonders of her song ! Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd ear , Still melting there , and with voluptuous pain ( O to forget her ! ) thrilling through my heart ! Song , beauty , youth , love , virtue , joy ! this group Of bright ideas , flowers of paradise , As yet unforfeit , in one blaze we bind , Kneel , and present it to the skies ; as all We guess of heaven : and these were all her own . And she was mine ; and I was — was most bless'd — Gay title of the deepest misery ! As bodies grow more ponderous robb'd of life ; Good lost weighs more in grief , than gain'd in joy . Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm , Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay ; And if in death still lovely , lovelier there ; Far lovelier ! Pity swells the tide of love . And will not the severe excuse a sigh ? Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep ; Our tears indulged indeed deserve our shame . Ye that e'er lost an angel , pity me ! Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye , Dawning a dimmer day on human sight ; And on her cheek , the residence of Spring , Pale Omen sat , and scatter'd fears around On all that saw ; ( and who would cease to gaze , That once had seen ? ) with haste , parental haste , I flew , I snatch'd her from the rigid north , Her native bed , on which bleak Boreas blew , And bore her nearer to the Sun : the Sun ( As if the Sun could envy ) check'd his beam , Denied his wonted succour ; nor with more Regret beheld her drooping than the bells Of lilies ! fairest lilies , not so fair ! Queen lilies ! and ye painted populace Who dwell in fields , and lead ambrosial lives ; In morn and evening dew your beauties bathe , And drink the sun ; which gives your cheeks to glow , And outblush ( mine excepted ) every fair ! You gladlier grew , ambitious of her hand Which often cropp'd your odours , incense meet To thought so pure ! Ye lovely fugitives ! Coeval race with man ! for man you smile ; Why not smile at him too ? You share indeed His sudden pass , but not his constant pain . So man is made , nought ministers delight But what his glowing passions can engage ; And glowing passions bent on aught below Must , soon or late , with anguish turn the scale ; And anguish , after rapture , how severe ! Rapture ? Bold man , who tempts the wrath Divine , By plucking fruit denied to mortal taste , While here , presuming on the rights of heaven ! For transport dost thou call on every hour , Lorenzo ? At thy friend's expense be wise : Lean not on earth ; 't will pierce thee to the heart ; A broken reed at best ; but oft a spear ; On its sharp point Peace bleeds , and Hope expires . Turn , hopeless thought ! turn from her : — Thought , repell'd , Resenting rallies , and wakes every woe . Snatch'd ere thy prime , and in thy bridal hour ! And when kind Fortune , with thy lover , smiled ! And when high-flavour'd thy fresh opening joys ! And when blind man pronounced thy bliss complete ! And on a foreign shore , where strangers wept ! Strangers to thee , and , more surprising still , Strangers to kindness , wept ; their eyes let fall Inhuman tears ; strange tears , that trickled down From marble hearts ! obdurate tenderness ! A tenderness that call'd them more severe , In spite of Nature's soft persuasion steel'd . While Nature melted , Superstition raved : That mourn'd the dead ; and this denied a grave . Their sighs incensed ; sighs foreign to the will ! Their will , the tiger-suck'd , out-raged the storm . For , O the cursed ungodliness of zeal ! While sinful flesh relented , spirit nursed In blind Infallibility's embrace , The sainted spirit petrified the breast ; Denied the charity of dust to spread O'er dust ! a charity their dogs enjoy . What could I do ? what succour , what resource ? With pious sacrilege a grave I stole ; With impious piety that grave I wrong'd ; Short in my duty ; coward in my grief ! More like her murderer than friend , I crept With soft-suspended step , and , muffled deep In midnight darkness , whisper'd my last sigh . I whisper'd what should echo through their realms ; Nor writ her name , whose tomb should pierce the skies . Presumptuous fear ! how durst I dread her foes , While Nature's loudest dictates I obey'd ? ( Pardon necessity , blest shade ! ) Of grief And indignation rival bursts I pour'd ; Half execration mingled with my prayer ; Kindled at man , while I his God adored ; Sore grudged the savage land her sacred dust ; Stamp'd the cursed soil ; and with humanity ( Denied Narcissa ) wish'd them all a grave . Glows my resentment into guilt ? What guilt Can equal violations of the dead ? The dead how sacred ! sacred is the dust Of this heaven-labour'd form , erect , divine ! This heaven-assumed majestic robe of earth He deign'd to wear , who hung the vast expanse With azure bright , and clothed the sun in gold . When every passion sleeps that can offend ; When strikes us every motive that can melt ; When man can wreak his rancour uncontroll'd , That strongest curb on insult and ill-will ; Then , spleen to dust ? the dust of innocence ? An angel's dust ? — This Lucifer transcends : When he contended for the patriarch's bones , 'T was not the strife of malice , but of pride ; The strife of pontiff pride , not pontiff gall . Far less than this is shocking in a race Most wretched but from streams of mutual love ; And uncreated but for love divine ; And , but for love divine , this moment lost , By fate resorb'd , and sunk in endless night . Man hard of heart to man ! of horrid things Most horrid ! 'mid stupendous , highly strange ! Yet oft his courtesies are smoother wrongs ; Pride brandishes the favours he confers , And contumelious his humanity : What then his vengeance ? Hear it not , ye stars ! And thou , pale moon , turn paler at the sound ; Man is to man the sorest , surest ill . A previous blast foretells the rising storm ; O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall ; Volcanoes bellow ere they disembogue ; Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour ; And smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire : Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near , And sends the dreadful tidings in the blow . Is this the flight of fancy ? Would it were ! Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings , but himself , That hideous sight , a naked human heart . Fired is the muse ? and let the muse be fired : Who not inflamed , when what he speaks he feels , And in the nerve most tender , — in his friends ? Shame to mankind ! Philander had his foes : He felt the truths I sing , and I in him : But he , nor I , feel more . Past ills , Narcissa , Are sunk in thee , thou recent wound of heart ! Which bleeds with other cares , with other pangs ; Pangs numerous , as the numerous ills that swarm'd O'er thy distinguish'd fate , and , clustering there Thick as the locust on the land of Nile , Made death more deadly , and more dark the grave . Reflect , ( if not forgot my touching tale , ) How was each circumstance with aspics arm'd ! An aspic each ; and all a hydra-woe . What strong Herculean virtue could suffice ? — Or is it virtue to be conquer'd here ? This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews ; And each tear mourns its own distinct distress ; And each distress , distinctly mourn'd , demands Of grief still more , as heighten'd by the whole . A grief like this proprietors excludes : Not friends alone such obsequies deplore ; They make mankind the mourner ; carry sighs Far as the fatal Fame can wing her way ; And turn the gayest thought of gayest age Down their right channel , through the vale of death . The vale of death ! that hush'd Cimmerian vale , Where darkness , brooding o'er unfinish'd fates , With raven wing incumbent , waits the day ( Dread day ! ) that interdicts all future change ! That subterranean world , that land of ruin ! Fit walk , Lorenzo , for proud human thought ! There let my thought expatiate ; and explore Balsamic truths , and healing sentiments , Of all most wanted and most welcome here . For gay Lorenzo's sake , and for thy own , My soul , " the fruits of dying friends survey ; Expose the vain of life ; weigh life and death ; Give death his eulogy ; thy fear subdue ; And labour that first palm of noble minds , A manly scorn of terror from the tomb . " This harvest reap from thy Narcissa's grave . As poets feign'd from Ajax' streaming blood Arose , with grief inscribed , a mournful flower ; Let wisdom blossom from my mortal wound . And first , of dying friends ; what fruit from these ? It brings us more than triple aid ; an aid To chase our thoughtlessness , fear , pride , and guilt . Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud , To damp our brainless ardours , and abate That glare of life which often blinds the wise . Our dying friends are pioneers , to smooth Our rugged pass to death ; to break those bars Of terror and abhorrence Nature throws Cross our obstructed way ; and thus to make Welcome , as safe , our port from every storm . Each friend by Fate snatch'd from us is a plume Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity , Which makes us stoop from our aerial heights , And , damp'd with omen of our own decease , On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd , Just skim earth's surface , ere we break it up , O'er putrid pride to scratch a little dust , And save the world a nuisance . Smitten friends Are angels sent on errands full of love ; For us they languish , and for us they die : And shall they languish , shall they die , in vain ? Ungrateful , shall we grieve their hovering shades , Which wait the revolution in our hearts ? Shall we disdain their silent , soft address ; Their posthumous advice , and pious prayer ? Senseless , as herds that graze their hallow'd graves , Tread under foot their agonies and groans , Frustrate their anguish , and destroy their deaths ? Lorenzo ! no ; the thought of death indulge ; Give it its wholesome empire ! let it reign , That kind chastiser of thy soul in joy ! Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far , And still the tumults of thy ruffled breast : Auspicious era ! golden days , begin ! The thought of death shall , like a god , inspire . And why not think on death ? Is life the theme Of every thought , and wish of every hour , And song of every joy ? Surprising truth ! The beaten spaniel's fondness not so strange . To wave the numerous ills that seize on life As their own property , their lawful prey ; Ere man has measured half his weary stage , His luxuries have left him no reserve , No maiden relishes , unbroach'd delights ; On cold-served repetitions he subsists , And in the tasteless present chews the past ; Disgusted chews , and scarce can swallow down . Like lavish ancestors , his earlier years Have disinherited his future hours , Which starve on orts , and glean their former field . Live ever here , Lorenzo ? — Shocking thought ! So shocking , they who wish disown it too ; Disown from shame what they from folly crave , Live ever in the womb , nor see the light ? For what live ever here ? — With labouring step To tread our former footsteps ? pace the round Eternal ? to climb life's worn , heavy wheel , Which draws up nothing new ? to beat , and beat The beaten track ? to bid each wretched day The former mock ? to surfeit on the same , And yawn our joys ? or thank a misery For change , though sad ? to see what we have seen ? Hear , till unheard , the same old slabber'd tale ? To taste the tasted , and at each return Less tasteful ? o'er our palates to decant Another vintage ? strain a flatter year , Through loaded vessels , and a laser tone ? Crazy machines , to grind earth's wasted fruits ! Ill-ground , and worse-concocted ! load , not life ! The rational foul kennels of excess ! Still streaming thoroughfares of dull debauch ! Trembling each gulp , lest Death should snatch the bowl . Such of our fine ones is the wish refined ! So would they have it . Elegant desire ! Why not invite the bellowing stalls and wilds ? But such examples might their riot awe . Through want of virtue , that is , want of thought , ( Though on bright thought they father all their flights , ) To what are they reduced ? To love and hate The same vain world ; to censure and espouse This painted shrew of life , who calls them fool Each moment of each day ; to flatter bad Through dread of worse ; to cling to this rude rock , Barren , to them , of good , and sharp with ills , And hourly blacken'd with impending storms , And infamous for wrecks of human hope , — Scared at the gloomy gulf , that yawns beneath . Such are their triumphs , such their pangs of joy ! 'T is time , high time , to shift this dismal scene . This hugg'd , this hideous state , what art can cure ? One only ; but that one , what all may reach , — Virtue . She ( wonder-working goddess ! ) charms That rock to bloom ; and tames the painted shrew ; And , what will more surprise , Lorenzo ! gives To life's sick , nauseous iteration , change ; And straightens Nature's circle to a line . Believest thou this , Lorenzo ? Lend an ear , A patient ear , thou'lt blush to disbelieve . A languid , leaden iteration reigns , And ever must , o'er those whose joys are joys Of sight , smell , taste ; the cuckoo-seasons sing The same dull note to such as nothing prize But what those seasons , from the teeming earth , To doting sense indulge . But nobler minds , Which relish fruits unripen'd by the sun , Make their days various ; various as the dyes On the dove's neck , which wanton in his rays . On minds of dove-like innocence possess'd , On lighten'd minds , that bask in Virtue's beams , Nothing hangs tedious ; nothing old revolves In that for which they long , for which they live . Their glorious efforts , wing'd with heavenly hope , Each rising morning sees still higher rise ; Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents , To worth maturing , new strength , lustre , fame ; While Nature's circle , like a chariot-wheel Rolling beneath their elevated aims , Makes their fair prospect fairer every hour ; Advancing virtue in a line to bliss ; Virtue , which Christian motives best inspire ! And bliss , which Christian schemes alone insure ! And shall we then , for Virtue's sake , commence Apostates , and turn infidels for joy ? A truth it is few doubt , but fewer trust , " He sins against this life who slights the next . " What is this life ? How few their favourite know ! Fond in the dark , and blind in our embrace , By passionately loving life we make Loved life unlovely , hugging her to death . We give to Time Eternity's regard ; And , dreaming , take our passage for our port . Life has no value as an end , but means ; An end deplorable , a means divine ! When 't is our all , 't is nothing ; worse than nought ; A nest of pains : when held as nothing , much . Like some fair humourists , life is most enjoy'd When courted least ; most worth , when disesteem'd : Then 't is the seat of comfort , rich in peace ; In prospect richer far ; important , awful ! Not to be mention'd but with shouts of praise ! Not to be thought on but with tides of joy ! The mighty basis of eternal bliss ! Where now the barren rock , the painted shrew ? Where now , Lorenzo , life's eternal round ? Have I not made my triple promise good ? Vain is the world ; but only to the vain . To what compare we then this varying scene , Whose worth ambiguous rises , and declines , Waxes , and wanes ? ( In all propitious , Night Assists me here . ) Compare it to the Moon ; Dark in herself , and indigent ; but rich In borrow'd lustre from a higher sphere . When gross guilt interposes , labouring Earth , O'ershadow'd , mourns a deep eclipse of joy ; Her joys , at brightest , pallid to that font Of full effulgent glory , whence they flow . Nor is that glory distant . O , Lorenzo ! A good man and an angel ! these between How thin the barrier ! What divides their fate ? Perhaps a moment , or perhaps a year : Or if an age , it is a moment still ; A moment , or eternity's forgot . Then be what once they were who now are gods ; Be what Philander was , and claim the skies . Starts timid Nature at the gloomy pass ? " The soft transition " call it ; and be cheer'd : Such it is often , and why not to thee ? To hope the best is pious , brave , and wise ; And may itself procure what it presumes , Life is much flatter'd , Death is much traduced ; Compare the rivals , and the kinder crown . " Strange competition ! " — True , Lorenzo ! strange ! So little life can cast into the scale . Life makes the soul dependent on the dust ; Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres . Through chinks , styled organs , dim life peeps at light ; Death bursts the' involving cloud , and all is day ; All eye , all ear , the disembodied power . Death has feign'd evils Nature shall not feel Life , ills substantial , Wisdom cannot shun . Is not the mighty mind , that son of heaven , By tyrant life dethroned , imprison'd , pain'd ? By Death enlarged , ennobled , deified ? Death but entombs the body ; life , the soul . " Is Death then guiltless ? How he marks his way With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine , — Art , genius , fortune , elevated power ! With various lustres these light up the world , Which Death puts out , and darkens human race . " I grant , Lorenzo , this indictment just : The sage , peer , potentate , king , conqueror , — Death humbles these ; more barbarous life , the man . Life is the triumph of our mouldering clay ; Death , of the spirit infinite , divine . Death has no dread but what frail life imparts ; Nor life true joy but what kind Death improves . No bliss has life to boast , till Death can give Far greater ; life's a debtor to the grave , — Dark lattice , letting in eternal day . Lorenzo ! blush at fondness for a life Which sends celestial souls on errands vile , To cater for the sense ; and serve at boards , Where every ranger of the wilds , perhaps Each reptile , justly claims our upper hand . Luxurious feast ! a soul , a soul immortal , In all the dainties of a brute bemired ! Lorenzo ! blush at terror for a death Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers , Where nectars sparkle , angels minister , And more than angels share , and raise , and crown , And eternize the birth , bloom , bursts of bliss . What need I more ? O Death , the palm is thine . Then welcome , Death , thy dreaded harbingers , Age and Disease : Disease , though long my guest , — That plucks my nerves , those tender strings of life ; Which , pluck'd a little more , will toll the bell That calls my few friends to my funeral ; Where feeble Nature drops , perhaps , a tear , While Reason and Religion , better taught , Congratulate the dead , and crown his tomb With wreath triumphant . Death is victory ; It binds in chains the raging ills of life : Lust and Ambition , Wrath and Avarice , Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel , applaud his power . That ills corrosive , cares importunate , Are not immortal too , O Death ! is thine . Our day of dissolution ! — name it right ; 'T is our great pay-day ; 't is our harvest , rich And ripe . What , though the sickle , sometimes keen , Just scars us as we reap the golden grain ? More than thy balm , O Gilead , heals the wound . Birth's feeble cry , and Death's deep dismal groan , Are slender tributes low-tax'd Nature pays For mighty gain : the gain of each , a life ! But O , the last the former so transcends , Life dies , compared ; Life lives beyond the grave . And feel I , Death , no joy from thought of thee ? Death , the great counsellor , who man inspires With every nobler thought , and fairer deed ! Death , the deliverer , who rescues man ! Death , the rewarder , who the rescued crowns ! Death , that absolves my birth ; a curse without it ! Rich Death , that realizes all my cares , Toils , virtues , hopes ; without it , a chimera ! Death , of all pain the period , not of joy ! Joy's source and subject still subsist unhurt , — One in my soul , and one in her great Sire ; Though the four winds were warring for my dust . Yes , and from winds , and waves , and central night , Though prison'd there , my dust too I reclaim , ( To dust when drop proud Nature's proudest spheres , ) And live entire . Death is the crown of life : Were death denied , poor man would live in vain ; Were death denied , to live would not be life ; Were death denied , e'en fools would wish to die . Death wounds to cure : we fall ; we rise ; we reign ! Spring from our fetters ; fasten in the skies , Where blooming Eden withers in our sight : Death gives us more than was in Eden lost . This King of Terrors is the Prince of Peace . When shall I die to vanity , pain , death ? When shall I die ? — when shall I live for ever ?