As the chas'd hart, amid the desert waste,

1690

Pants for the living stream; for HIM who made her, So pants the thirsty soul, amid the blank

1696

Of sublunary joys. Say, goddess! where,
Where blazes his bright court? Where burns his throne?
Thou know'st; for thou art near him; by thee, round
His grand pavilion, sacred Fame reports
The sable curtain's drawn. If not, can none
Of thy fair daughter-train, so swift of wing,
Who travel far, discover where He dwells?
A star his dwelling pointed out below.
Ye PLEIADES! ARCTURUS! MAZAROTH!
And thou, ORION! of still keener eye!

Say ye, who guide the wilder'd in the waves,
And bring them out of tempest into port!

1700

1706

On which hand must I bend my course to find HIM?
These courtiers keep the secret of their King;
I wake whole nights, in vain, to steal it from them.
I wake; and waking, climb Night's radiant scale,
From sphere to sphere; the steps by Nature set
For Man's ascent; at once to tempt and aid;
To tempt his eye, and aid his tow'ring thought;
Till it arrives at the great goal of all.

In ardent Contemplation's rapid car,

From earth, as from my barrier, I set out.

1710

How swift I mount! diminish'd earth recedes; 1715

I

pass the moon; and, from her farther side,

Pierce Heav'n's blue curtain; strike into remote;

Where, with his lifted tube, the subtile sage
His artificial, airy journey takes,

And to celestial lengthens human sight,
I pause at ev'ry planet on my road,

1720

1725

And ask for HIM who gives their orbs to roll,
Their foreheads fair to shine. From SATURN's ring,
In which, of earths an army might be lost,
With the bold comet, take my bolder flight,
Amid those sov'reign glories of the skies,
Of independent, native lustre, proud;
The souls of systems! and the lords of life,

1730

Through their wide empires!-What behold I now?
A wilderness of wonders burning round;
Where larger suns inhabit higher spheres;
Perhaps the villas of descending gods!
Nor halt I here; my toil is but begun;
'Tis but the threshold of the DEITY;
Or, far beneath it, I am groveling still.
Nor is it strange; I built on a mistake;

The grandeur of his works, whence folly sought
For aid, to reason sets his glory higher;

1735

Who built thus high for worms (mere worms to HIM;)
O where, LORENZO! must the Builder dwell? 1740
Pause, then; and, for a moment, here respire-
If human thought can keep its station here.
Where am I?-Where is earth?-Nay, where art thou,
O Sun? Is the sun turn'd recluse?-And are
His boasted expeditions short to mine?

To mine, how short! On Nature's ALPS I stand,
And see a thousand firmaments beneath!
A thousand systems! as a thousand grains!
So much a stranger, and so late arriv'd,
How can Man's curious spirit not inquire,
What are the natives of this world sublime,
Of this so foreign, un-terrestrial sphere,
Where mortal, untranslated, never, stray'd?

1745

1750

1755

1760

"O ye, as distant from my little home, "As swiftest sun-beams in an age can fly! "Far from my native element I roam, "In quest of new, and wonderful, to Man. "What province this, of his immense domain, "Whom all obey? Or mortals here, or gods? "Ye bord'rers on the coasts of bliss! what are you?" "A colony from Heav'n? or only rais'd, "By frequent visit from Heav'n's neighb'ring realms, "To secondary gods, and half-divine?— "Whate'er your nature, this is past dispute, "Far other life you live, far other tongue "You talk, far other thought, perhaps, you think, "Than Man. How various are the works of GOD! "But say, What thought? Is reason here enthron'd, "And absolute? Or sense in arms against her? "Have you two lights? Or need you no reveal'd?

66

1765

Enjoy your happy realms their golden age? 1771 "And had your EDEN an abstemious EVE?

"Our EVE's fair daughters prove their pedigree, "And ask their ADAMS- Who would not be wise?"

1775

"Or, if your mother fell, are you redeem'd?
"And if redeem'd-is your REDEEMER scorn'd?
"Is this your final residence? If not,

Change you your scene, translated? Or by death? "And if by death; what death?-Know you disease? "Or horrid war?-With war, this fatal hour, 1780 "EUROPA groans (so call we a small field, "Where kings run mad.) In our world, Death deputes "Intemperance to do the work of Age! "And, hanging up the quiver Nature gave him, "As slow of execution, for dispatch

1785