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DISTRESS
I
Heaven surely has some purpose unreveal'dIn making mortals for this state of care,
Else, why so prodigal, in flood and field,
And in the tribes that wing the breezy air,
Of art and wisdom—why so patient plan,
From soft and plastic childhood to the lair
Of stiff and aching age, the creature Man,
Were all of life on earth within its narrow span?
II
As beauteous light descending from the sunHave come the tidings of another state,
And for the news, on all His will be done—
Yes; upon all the Mighty may create!
But, wherefore should these mortal suff'rings be—
These pains and sorrows that in death abate,
From which, in life, we never once are free,
And yet such joys around, like Tantalus still see?
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III
What subtile sceptic, in his questing hour,Would dare to question Heaven's eternal scheme,
Or deem the twinkle of a mortal's power,
In brightest life, was other than a gleam—
A glance that perishes, yet in that space—
That brief illusion of a thought or dream—
What mis'ries, numberless, may we not trace?
For life is but a ray athwart a dismal place.
IV
Oh! why is woe?—Can Heaven in woe delight,That thus its creatures are convolv'd with pain?
We never, Awful, did Thy power invite
To bring us forth from still Oblivion's reign,
Where sound in nothingness we nothing lay—
Tremendous, tell!—what we by being gain?—
Who is responsible for that allay
Of good or ill in us, that Thou dost so essay?
V
Why is this constant struggle, care and ail?Hell can but punish for offences done,
But seeming causeless torments life assail,
And Satan reigns the angel of the sun.
Why, ever writhing on his burning bed,
Must the poor mortal seek in death to shun
The wrathful vials Vengeance loves to shed?—
Oh, wherefore is the earth thus ever dark and dread?
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VI
Mysterious Heaven! Thou irresponsible!Heed not the ravings of a wretch forlorn,
Nor rack him farther than endurable;—
Thou know'st 'twas not his fault that he was born—
'Twas not his sin, that he should piteous lie,
For but to be is to incur Thy scorn;—
Oh, mitigate this sense of misery,
Or give that guilty grief that makes it penalty!
VII
Yes; I, methinks, were this fell grasp of woeA just atonement, could serenely bear,
But still unconscious—why this overthrow—
Why thus gratuitous afflictions share?
There's mitigation by remorse in pain,
Which tempers agony the most severe,
And, justice felt, the gnawing thoughts restrain,
Which justify in woe the tortur'd to complain.
VIII
But yet, oh, yet! my rash upbraidings pass;—This seeming causeless grief may worse prevent;
For what I suffer now may be, alas,
To save from guilt and from its punishment.
Teach me, then, rather at the beauteous world
To ever gaze, with unalloy'd content,
And far, far from me, be those doubtings hurl'd—
Laocoon anguish tears, but which around are curl'd.
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IX
Give me again the bright unbounded sea—The mountain's brow—the forest's murmuring caves—
The ocean cliffs—the breezy and the free—
To hear the anthems of the mighty waves
Peal on the shore; or where, its flow forgot,
The lingering stream the verdant valley laves,
While, on its stillness, anchor'd lilies float,—
Wish!—join the hopes of youth—it is not in my lot!
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