And scatter desolation o'er the earth.
Ill-fated man, for whom such various forms Of mis'ry wait, and mark their future prey; Ah! why, all-righteous father, didst thou make This creature, man? why wake th' unconscious
To life and wretchedness? O better far Still had he slept in uncreated night, If this the lot of being! Was it for this Thy breath divine kindled within his breast The vital flame? For this was thy fair image Stampt on his soul in godlike lineaments? For this dominion giv'n him absolute O'er all thy works, only that he might reign Supreme in woe? From the blest source of good, Could pain and death proceed? Could such foul
Fall from fair mercy's hands? Far be the thought, The impious thought! God never made a crea
But what was good. He made a living soul; The wretched mortal was the work of man.
Forth from his maker's hands he sprung to life, Fresh with immortal bloom; no pain he knew, No fear of change, no check to his desires, Save one command. That one command, which stood
'Twixt him and death, the test of his obedience, Urg'd on by wanton curiosity,
He broke. There in one moment was undone
The fairest of God's works. The same rash band, That pluck'd in evil hour the fatal fruit,
Unbari d the gates of hell. and let loose sin And death, and all the family of pain, To prey upon mankind. Young nature saw The monstrous crew, and shook thro' all her frame. Then fled her new-born lustre, then began
Heaven's cheerful face to low'r, then vapours croak'd
The troubled air, and form'd a veil of clouds To hide the willing sun. The earth convuls'd With painful throes threw forth a bristly crop Of thorns and briars; and insect, bird, and beast, That wont before with admiration fond To gaze at man, and fearless crowd around him, Now fled before his face, shunning in haste Th' infection of his misery. He alone Who justly might, th' offended Lord of man, Turn'd not away his face; he, full of pity, Forsook not in this uttermost distress
His best lov'd work. That comfort still remain'd (That best, that greatest comfort in affliction) The countenance of God, and thro' the gloom, Shot forth some kindly gleams, to cheer and warm Th' offender's sinking soul. Hope sent from heav'n Uprais'd his drooping head, and shew'd afar A happier scene of things; the promis'd seed Trampling on the serpent's humbled crest: Death of his sting disarm'd; and the dark grave, Made pervious to the realms of endless day,
No more the limit but the gate of life.
Cheer'd with the view, man went to till the ground
From whence he rose; sentenc'd indeed to toil As to a punishment, yet (ev'n in wrath, So merciful is heav'n) this toil became The solace of his woes, the sweet employ Of many a live-long hour, and surest guard Against disease and death. Death, tho' denounc'd Was yet a distant ill, by feeble arm
Of age, his sole support, led slowly on.
Not then, as since the short-liv❜d sons of men Flock'd to his realms in countless multitudes; Scarce in the course of twice five hundred years, One solitary ghost went shiv`r`ng down To his unpeopied shore. In sober state, Through the sequester'd vale of rural life, The venerable patriarch guileiess farid The tenour of his way; labour prepar'd His simple fare, and temperance rut'd his board. Tir'd with his daily toil, at early eve
He sunk to sudden rest, gentle and pure
As breath of evening zephyr, and as sweet, Were all his slumbers; with the sun he rose, Alert and vigorous as he, to run
His destin'd course. Thus nerv'd with giant strength
He stemm'd the tide of time, and stood the shock
Of ages rolling harmless o'er his head.
At life's meridian point arriv'd, he stood,
And, looking round saw all the valleys fill'd With nations from his loins: full-well content To leave his race thus scatter'd o'er the earth, Along the gentle slope of life's decline He bent his gradual way, till, full of years, He dropp'd like mellow fruit into his grave. Such in the infancy of time was man; So calm was life, so impotent was death! O had he but preserv'd these few remains, The shatter'd fragments, of lost happiness. Snatch'd by the hand of heav'n from the sad wreck Of innocence primæval; still had he liv'd In ruin great; tho' fall'n, yet not forlorn, Though mortal, yet not every where beset With death in every shape! But he, impatient To be completely wretched, hastes to fill up The measure of his woes.-'Twas man himself Brought death into the world; and man himself Gave keeness to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiply'd destruction on mankind.
First envy, eldest born of hell, embrued Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of men To make a death which nature never made, And God abhorr'd; with violence rude to break The thread of life ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy ambition saw, and soon improv'd The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough By subtle fraud to snatch a single life, Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell
To sate the lust of pow'r: more horrid still, The foulest stain and scandel of our nature, Became its boast. One murder made a villain; Millions a hero. Princes were privileg'd To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. Ah! why will kings forget that they are men? And men that they are brethren? Why delight In human sacrifice? Why burst the ties
Of nature, that should knit their souls together In one soft bond of amity and love?
Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on Inhumanly ingenious to find out
New pains for life, new terrors for the grave, Artificers of death! Still monarchs dream Of universal empire growing up
From universal ruin. Blast the design Great God of hosts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at ambition's shrine!
Yet say should tyrants learn at last to feel, And the loud din of battle cease to bray; Should dove-ey'd peace o'er all the earth extend Her olive branch, and give the world repose, Would death be foil'd? Would health, and strength, and youth
Defy his pow'r? Has he no arts in store,
No other shafts save those of war? Alas!
Ev'n in the smile of peace, that smile which sheds A heav'nly sunshine o'er the soul, there basks That serpent luxury. War its thousand slays; Peace its ten thousands. In th' embattled plain,
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