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 I. 
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 VIII. 
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With joy,—with grief, that healing hand I see;
Ah! too conspicuous! it is fix'd on high.
On high?—What means my frenzy? I blaspheme!
Alas! how low! how far beneath the skies!
The skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me—
But bleeds the balm I want,—yet still it bleeds;
Draw the dire steel—ah no!—the dreadful blessing
What heart or can sustain, or dares forego?
There hangs all human hope; that nail supports
The falling universe: that gone, we drop;
Horror receives us, and the dismal wish
Creation had been smother'd in her birth—
Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust;
When stars and sun are dust beneath his throne!
In heaven itself can such indulgence dwell?
O what a groan was there! a groan not His.
He seized our dreadful right; the load sustain'd;
And heaved the mountain from a guilty world.
A thousand worlds, so bought, were bought too dear:
Sensations new in angels' bosoms rise,
Suspend their song, and make a pause in bliss.