The Poetical Works of Edward Young | Page 2

date,
(A
dreadful secret in the book of fate!)
This hour, for aught all human
wisdom knows,
Or when ten thousand harvests more have rose;

When scenes are chang'd on this revolving earth,
Old empires fall,
and give new empires birth;
While other Bourbons rule in other lands,

And (if man's sin forbids not) other Annes;
While the still busy
world is treading o'er
The paths they trod five thousand years before,

Thoughtless as those who now life's mazes run,
Of earth dissolv'd,
or an extinguish'd sun;
(Ye sublunary worlds, awake, awake!
Ye
rulers of the nation, hear, and shake!)
Thick clouds of darkness shall
arise on day;
In sudden night all earth's dominions lay;
Impetuous
winds the scatter'd forests rend;
Eternal mountains, like their cedars,
bend:
The valleys yawn, the troubled ocean roar,
And break the
bondage of his wonted shore;
A sanguine stain the silver moon
o'erspread;
Darkness the circle of the sun invade;
From inmost
heaven incessant thunders roll,
And the strong echo bound from pole
to pole.
When, lo, a mighty trump, one half conceal'd
In clouds, one
half to mortal eye reveal'd,
Shall pour a dreadful note; the piercing
call
Shall rattle in the centre of the ball;
Th' extended circuit of
creation shake,
The living die with fear, the dead awake.
Oh
powerful blast! to which no equal sound
Did e'er the frighted ear of

nature wound,
Tho' rival clarions have been strain'd on high,
And
kindled wars immortal thro' the sky,
Tho' God's whole enginery
discharg'd, and all
The rebel angels bellow'd in their fall.
Have
angels sinn'd? and shall not man beware?
How shall a son of earth
decline the snare?
Not folded arms, and slackness of the mind,
Can
promise for the safety of mankind:
None are supinely good: thro' care
and pain
And various arts, the steep ascent we gain.
This is the
scene of combat, not of rest,
Man's is laborious happiness at best;

On this side death his dangers never cease,
His joys are joys of
conquest, not of peace.
If then, obsequious to the will of fate,
And
bending to the terms of human state,
When guilty joys invite us to
their arms,
When beauty smiles, or grandeur spreads her charms,

The conscious soul would this great scene display,
Call down th'
immortal hosts in dread array,
The trumpet sound, the Christian
banner spread,
And raise from silent graves the trembling dead;

Such deep impression would the picture make,
No power on earth her
firm resolve could shake;
Engag'd with angels she would greatly
stand,
And look regardless down on sea and land;
Not proffer'd
worlds her ardour could restrain,
And death might shake his
threat'ning lance in vain!
Her certain conquest would endear the sight,

And danger serve but to exalt delight.
Instructed thus to shun the
fatal spring,
Whence flow the terrors of that day I sing;
More boldly
we our labours may pursue,
And all the dreadful image set to view.

The sparkling eye, the sleek and painted breast,
The burnish'd scale,
curl'd train, and rising crest,
All that is lovely in the noxious snake,

Provokes our fear, and bids us flee the brake:
The sting once drawn,
his guiltless beauties rise
In pleasing lustre, and detain our eyes;

We
view with joy, what once did horror move,
And strong aversion
softens into love.
Say then, my muse, whom dismal scenes delight,

Frequent at tombs, and in the realms of night;
Say, melancholy maid,
if bold to dare
The last extremes of terror and despair;
Oh say, what
change on earth, what heart in man,
This blackest moment since the
world began.
Ah mournful turn! the blissful earth, who late
At

leisure on her axle roll'd in state;
While thousand golden planets
knew no rest,
Still onward in their circling journey prest;
A grateful
change of seasons some to bring,
And sweet vicissitude of fall and
spring:
Some thro' vast oceans to conduct the keel,
And some those
watery worlds to sink, or swell:
Around her some their splendours to
display,
And gild her globe with tributary day:
This world so great,
of joy the bright abode,
Heaven's darling child, and fav'rite of her
God,
Now looks an exile from her father's care,
Deliver'd o'er to
darkness and despair.
No sun in radiant glory shines on high;
No
light, but from the terrors of the sky:
Fall'n are her mountains, her
fam'd rivers lost,
And all into a second chaos tost:
One universal
ruin spreads abroad;
Nothing is safe beneath the throne of God.

Such, earth, thy fate: what then canst thou afford
To comfort and
support thy guilty lord?
Man, haughty lord of all beneath the moon,

How must he bend his soul's ambition down
Prostrate, the reptile own,
and disavow
His boasted stature, and assuming brow?
Claim
kindred with the clay, and curse his form,
That speaks distinction
from his sister worm?
What dreadful pangs the trembling heart
invade?
Lord, why dost thou forsake whom thou hast made?
Who
can sustain thy anger? who can stand
Beneath the terrors of thy lifted
hand?
It flies the reach of thought; oh, save me, Power
Of powers
supreme, in that tremendous hour!
Thou who beneath the frown of
fate hast stood,
And in thy dreadful agony sweat blood;
Thou, who
for me, thro' every throbbing vein,
Hast felt the keenest edge of
mortal pain;
Whom death led captive thro' the realms below,
And
taught those horrid mysteries of woe;

Defend me, O my God! Oh,
save