To doubt if beams, set out at Nature's birth,
Are yet arrived at this so foreign world,
Though nothing half so rapid as their flight.
An eye of awe and wonder let me roll,
And roll for ever. Who can satiate sight
In such a scene? in such an ocean wide
Of deep astonishment? where depth, height, breadth,
Are ost in their extremes; and where to count
The chick-sown glories in this field of fire,
Perhaps a seraph's computation fails.
Now go, Ambition! boast thy boundless might
In conquest o'er the tenth part of a grain.
And yet Lorenzo calls for miracles,
To give his tottering faith a solid base.
Why call for less than is already thine?
Thou art no novice in theology;
What is a miracle?-Tis a reproach,
'Tis an implicit satire on mankind, And while it satisfies, it censures too.
To common sense great Nature's course proclaims
A Deity: When mankind falls asleep,
A miracle is sent as an alarm
To wake the world, and prove him o'er again,
By recent argument, but not more strong.
Say which imports more plenitude of power,
Or Nature's laws to fix, or to repeal?
To make a Sun, or stop his mid career?
To countermand his orders, and send back
The flaming courier to the frighted East,
Warm'd and astonish'd at his evening ray;
Or bid the Moon, as with her journey tired,
In Ajalon's soft flowery vale repose?
Great things are these? still greater to create.
From Adam's bower look down through the whole train
Of miracles ;-resistless is their power?
They do not, cannot, more amaze the mind,
Than this, call'd unmiraculous survey,
If duly weigh'd, if rationally seen,
If seen with human eyes. The brute, indeed,
Sees nought but spangles here; the fool, no more.
Say'st thou,' The course of Nature governs all?' 1266
The course of Nature is the Art of God.
The miracles, thou call'st for, this attest:
For say, could Nature Nature's course control ?
But, miracles apart, who sees him not
Nature's Controller, Author, Guide, and End ?
Who turns his eye on Nature's midnight face,
But must inquire-' What hand behind the scene,
What arm Almighty, put these wheeling globes
In motion, and wound up the vast machine?
Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs?
Who bowl'd them flaming through the dark profound,
Numerous as glittering gems of morning dew,
Or sparks from populous cities in a blaze,
And set the bosom of old Night on fire,
Peopled her desert, and made Horror smile?'
Or if the military style delights thee,
(For stars have fought their battles, leagued with man) 'Who marshals this bright host? enrols their names, Appoints their post, their marches, and returns, 1285 Punctual, at stated periods? who disbands
These veteran troops, their final duty done,
If e'er disbanded?'-He, whose potent word,
Like the loud trumpet, levied first their powers
In Night's inglorious empire, where they slept 1290
In beds of darkness; arm'd them with fierce flames;
Arranged, and disciplined, and clothed in gold,
And call'd them out of Chaos to the field,
Where now they war with Vice and Unbelief.
O let us join this army joining these
Will give us hearts intrepid, at that hour
When brighter flames shall cut a darker night;
When these strong demonstrations of a God
Shall hide their heads, or tumble from their spheres, And one eternal curtain cover all !
Struck at that thought, as new-awaked, I lift
A more enlighten'd eye, and read the stars
To man still more propitious, and their aid
(Though guiltless of idolatry) implore,
Nor longer rob them of their noblest name.
O ye dividers of my time! ye bright
Accomptants of my days, and months, and years,
In your fair calendar distinctly mark'd!
Since that authentic, radiant register,
Though man inspects it not, stands good against him ;
Since you and years roll on, though man stands still,
Teach me my days to number, and apply
My trembling heart to wisdom, now beyond
All shadow of excuse for fooling on.
Age smooths our path to prudence, sweeps aside 1315
The snares keen appetite and passion spread
To catch stray souls; and woe to that gray head
Whose folly would undo what age has done!
Aid, then, aid, all ye Stars!-Much rather Thou,
Great Artist! Thou whose finger set aright
This exquisite machine, with all its wheels,
Though intervolved, exact; and pointing out
Life's rapid and irrevocable flight,
With such an index fair as none can miss
Who lifts an eye, nor sleeps till it is closed.
Open mine eye, dread Deity! to read
The tacit doctrine of thy works; to see
Things as they are, unalter'd through the glass
Of worldly wishes. Time, Eternity!
("Tis these, mismeasured, ruin all mankind)
Set them before me; let me lay them both
In equal scale, and learn their various weight.
Let time appear a moment, as it is;
And let Eternity's full orb, at once,
Turn on my soul, and strike it into Heaven.
When shall I see far more than charms me now
Gaze on Creation's model in thy breast
Unveil'd, nor wonder at the transcript more.
When this vile, foreign dust, which smothers all
That travel earth's deep vale, shall I shake off?
When shall my soul her incarnation quit,
And, readopted to thy bless'd embrace,
Obtain her apotheosis in thee?—
Dost think, Lorenzo, this is wandering wide?
No; 'tis directly striking at the mark.
To wake thy dead devotion was my point;
And how I bless Night's consecrating shades,
Which to a temple turn a universe;
Fill us with great ideas, full of heaven,
And antidote the pestilential earth!
In every storm, that either frowns or falls,
What an asylum has the soul in prayer!
And what a fane is this, in which to pray!
And what a God must dwell in such a fane!
O what a genius must inform the skies!
And is Lorenzo's salamander heart
Cold, and untouch'd, amid these sacred fires?
O ye nocturnal sparks! ye glowing embers,
On Heaven's broad hearth! Who burn, or burn no more,
Who blaze, or die, as great Jehovah's breath
Or blows you or forbears, assist my song!
Pour your whole influence; exercise his heart,
So long possess'd, and bring him back to man.
And is Lorenzo a demurrer still?
Pride in thy parts provokes thee to contest
Truths which, contested, put thy parts to shame :
Nor shame they more Lorenzo's head than heart,
A faithless heart, how despicably small!
Too straight, aught great or generous to receive.!
Fill'd with an atom! fill'd and foul'd with self!
And self-mistaken! self, that lasts an hour!
Instincts and passions of the nobler kind
Lie suffocated there; or they alone,
Reason apart, would wake high hope, and open,
To ravish'd thought, that intellectual sphere,
Where Order, Wisdom, Goodness, Providence,
Their endless miracles of love display,
And promise all the truly great desire.
The mind that would be happy must be great;
Great in its wishes, great in its surveys.
Extended views a narrow mind extend,
Push out its corrugate, expansive make,
Which, ere long, more than planets shall embrace.
A man of compass makes a man of worth:
Divine contemplate, and become divine!
As man was made for glory and for bliss,
All littleness is an approach to woe.
Open thy bosom, set thy wishes wide,
And let in manhood; let in happiness;
Admit the boundless theatre of thought
From nothing, up to God; which makes a man.
Take God from Nature, nothing great is left;
Man's mind is in a pit, and nothing sees;
Man's heart is in a jakes, and loves the mire.
Emerge from thy profound; erect thine eye;
See thy distress! how close art thou besieged!
Besieged by Nature, the proud sceptic's foe!
Enclosed by these innumerable worlds,
Sparkling conviction on the darkest mind,
As in a golden net of Providence,
How art thou caught, sure captive of belief!
From this thy bless'd captivity what art,
What blasphemy to reason, sets thee free!
This scene is Heaven's indulgent violence;
Canst thou bear up against this tide of glory'
What is earth, bosom'd in these ambient orbs,
But faith in God imposed, and press'd on man?
Darest thou still litigate thy desperate cause,
Spite of these numerous, awful witnesses,
And doubt the deposition of the skies?
O how laborious is thy way to ruin !
Laborious? 'tis impracticable quite :
To sink beyond a doubt in this debate,
With all his weight of wisdom and of will,
And crime flagitious, I defy a fool.
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