5

In infidel distress ? Are angels there ?
Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ?

They live ! they greatly live a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceived ! and from an eye
Of tenderness, let heavenly pity fall
On me, more justly number'd with the dead.

This is the desart, this the solitude :
How populous, how vital, is the grave !

This is creation's melancholy vault,
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom;
The land of apparitions, empty shades !
All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond

Is substance : the reverse is folly's creed :
How solid all, where change shall be no more !

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn,
The twilight of our day, the vestibule;
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death,
Strong death alone can heave the massy bar,
This gross impediment of clay remove,
And make us, embryos of existence, free.

From real life, but little more remote
Is he, not yet a candidate for light,
The future embryo, slumb'ring in his sire :

Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell,
Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life,
The life of gods, O transport ! and of man.

Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts;
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh :
Pris'ner of earth, and pent beneath the moon,
Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by heaven

An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust !
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite !
A worm ! a God ! — I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost ! At home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast;
And wond'ring at her own: how reason reels !
O what a miracle to man is man,
Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy, what dread !
Alternately transported, and alarm'd !
What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave—
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

'Tis past conjecture: all things rise in proof.
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread:
* What, though my soul fantastick measures trod
  O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom
Of pathless woods; or down the craggy steep
Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool;
Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow winds,
With antick shapes wild natives of the brain ?
Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod:
Active, aerial, tow'ring, unconfined,
Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall.
Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal;
Even silent night proclaims eternal day.
For human weal, Heaven husbands all events;
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.
Why then their loss deplore that are not lost ?
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around,

In infidel distress ? Are angels there ?
Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ?
They live ! they greatly live a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceived ! and from an eye
Of tenderness, let heavenly pity fall
On me, more justly number'd with the dead.
This is the desart, this the solitude :
How populous, how vital, is the grave !
This is creation's melancholy vault,
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom;
The land of apparitions, empty shades !
All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond
Is substance: the reverse is folly's creed :
How solid all, where change shall be no more !

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn,
The twilight of our day, the vestibule :
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death,
Strong death alone can heave the massy bar,
This gross impediment of clay remove,
And make us, embryos of existence, free.
From real life, but little more remote
Is he, not yet a candidate for light,
The future embryo, slumb'ring in his sire :
Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell,
Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life,
The life of gods, O transport ! and of man.
Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts :
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh :
Pris'ner of earth, and pent beneath the moon,
Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by heaven

B1978.43.1344 ba-obj-2263-0001

Yale Center for British Art, 2010