V. The Complaint.
Lord, who shall dwell in thy tabernacle, or who shall rest on thy holy hill?
We cannot pray, strange mystery! here is known
No wearying—no deceivings of sick Hope,
No aching limb, or brow, wherewith to cope—
No pallid after-thoughts—and of the boon
No half-surmis'd upbraiding—no cold frown
Bidding us come again—no lengthening slope
Tiring the eye from far. These portals ope
To dwellings lucid as th'autumnal moon,
But we along the world's slow sluggish strand
Are fostering vanity, which joint by joint
Climbs, like Nile's reed, into a tufted crown,
And woos each wind that waves its golden down,
All hollow, soon a barbed shaft 'twill point,
Or staff, to pierce light heart or trusting hand.
