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 Bond Street.