4

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, aërial, 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,

Dated June 27, 1796, by R. Edwards, No. 142, New Broad Street.

D. H. Transl. of the original, by R. E. Edwards. 4th New York Edition.

(These charts are for monitor calibration only)

97L

50L

20L

Yale Center for British Art, 2010