A thousand miseries we feel,
Till sunk in misery.

LXXV.

Cloy'd with a glut of all we wish,
Our wish we relish less:

Success, a sort of suicide,

Is ruin'd by success.

LXXVI.

Sometimes he led me near to death,
And pointing to the grave,

Bid Terror whisper kind advice,

And taught the tomb to save.

LXXVII.

To raise my thoughts beyond where worlds,
As spangles, o'er us shine,

One day he gave, and bid the next

My soul's delight resign.

LXXVIII.

We to ourselves, but thro' the means

Of mirrors, are unknown;

In this my fate can you descry

No features of your own?

LXXIX.

And if you can, let that excuse
These self-recording lines;
A record modesty forbids,
Or to small bound confines.

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LXXX.

In grief why deep ingulf'd? you see
You suffer nothing rare;

Uncommon grief for common fate;

That Wisdom cannot bear.

LXXXI.

When streams flow backward to their source,

And humbled flames descend,

And mountains wing'd shall fly aloft,

Then human sorrows end:

LXXXII.

But human prudence, too, must cease

When sorrows domineer,

When fortitude has lost its fire,
And freezes into fear.

LXXXIII.

The pang most poignant of my life

Now heightens my delight;

I see a fair creation rise

From Chaos and old Night.

LXXXIV.

From what seem'd horror and despair,

The richest harvest rose,

And gave me, in the nod divine,

An absolute repose.

LXXXV.

Of all the blunders of mankind,

More gross, or frequent, none,

Than in their grief and joy misplac
Eternally are shown.

LXXXVI.

But whether points all this parade?
It says, that near you lies
A book, perhaps, yet unperus'd,
Which you should greatly prize.

LXXXVII.

Of self-perusal, science rare!

Few knew the mighty gain;

Learn'd prelates, self-unread, may read
Their Bibles o'er in vain.

LXXXVIII.

Self-knowledge, which from heav'n itself

(So sages tell us) came,

What is it but a daughter fair

Of my maternal theme?

LXXXIX.

Unletter'd and untravell'd men

An oracle might find,

Would they consult their own contents,
The Delphos of the mind.

XC.

Enter your bosom; there you'll find,

A revelation new,

A revelation personal,

Which none can read but you.

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XCI.

There will you clearly read reveal'd
In your enlighten'd thought,
By mercies manifold, thro' life,
To fresh remembrance brought,

XCII.

A mighty Being! and in him

A complicated friend,

A father, brother, spouse; no dread
Of death, divorce, or end.

Who such a matchless friend embrace,

And lodge him in their heart,

My short advice to you may sound

Obscure, or somewhat odd,

Tho' 'tis the best that man can give, "Ev'n be content with God."

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XCVI.

Thro' love he gave you the deceas'd;
Thro' greater took him hence:

This reason fully could evince,

Tho' murmur'd at by Sense.

XCVII.

This friend far past the kindest kind;
Is past the greatest great;

His greatness let me touch in points
Not foreign to your state.

XCVIII.

His eye, this instant, reads your heart,
A truth less obvious hear,

This instant its most secret thoughts
Are sounding in his ear.

XCIX.

Dispute you this? O stand in awe,
And cease your sorrow; know,

That tear, now trickling down, he saw
Ten thousand years ago;

C.

And twice ten thousand hence, if you
Your temper reconcile

To Reason's bound, will he behold;
Your prudence with a smile;

CT.

A smile which thro' eternity
Diffuses so bright rays,
The dimmest deifies ev'n guilt,
If guilt at last obeys.

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