University of Virginia Library

Job curs'd his Birth, and bade his Curses flow
In Words of Grief, and Eloquence of Woe:
Lost be that Day which dragg'd me to my Doom,
Recent to Life, and struggling from the Womb;
Whose Beams with such malignant Lustre shone,
Whence all my Years in anxious Circles run.
Lost be that Night in undetermin'd Space,
And veil with deeper Shades her gloomy Face,
Which crowded up with Woes this slender Span,
While the dull Mass rose quick'ning into Man.

O'er that curs'd Day let sable Darkness rise,
Shrowd the blue Vault, and blacken all the Skies;
May God o'er-look it from his heav'nly Throne,
Nor rouze from sleep the sedentary Sun,
O'er its dark Face to shed his genial Ray,
And warm to Joy the melancholy Day.
May the Clouds frown, and livid Poisons breathe,
And stain Heav'n's Azure with the Shade of Death.

May ten-fold Darkness form that dreadful Night,
Seize and arrest the straggling Gleams of Light,
To pay due Vengeance for its fatal Crime,
Still be it banish'd from the Train of Time;
Nor in the radiant List of Months appear,
To stain the shining Circle of the Year:
There thro' her dusky Range may Silence roam,
There may no Ray, no Glimpse of Gladness come,
No Voice to cheer the solitary Gloom.
May every Star his gaudy Light with-hold,
Nor thro' the Vapour shoot his beamy Gold:
Nor let the Dawn with radiant Skirts come on,
Tipp'd with the Glories of the Rising-Sun;
Because that dreadful Period fix'd my Doom,
Nor seal'd the dark Recesses of the Womb.
To that Original my Ills I owe,
Heir of Affliction, and the Son of Woe.
Oh! had I dy'd unexercis'd in Pain,
And wake'd to Life, to sleep in Death again!
Why did not Fate attend me at my Birth,
And give me back to my congenial Earth?
Why was I, when an Infant, sooth'd to rest,
Lull'd on the Knee, or hung upon the Breast?
For now the Grave would all my Cares compose,
Conceal my Sorrows, and interr my Woes:
There wrapp'd and lock'd within his cold Embrace,
Safe had I slumber'd in the Arms of Peace;
There with the mighty Kings, who lie inroll'd
In Clouds of Incense, and in Beds of Gold:
There with the Princes, who in Grandeur shone,
And aw'd the trembling Nations from the Throne;
Afflicted Job an equal Rest might have,
And share the dark Retirement of the Grave;
Or as a shapeless Embryo seek the Tomb,
Rude and imperfect from th'abortive Womb:
E'er Motion's early Principle began,
Or the dim Substance kindled into Man.

There from their monstrous Crimes the Wicked cease,
Their lab'ring Guilt is weary'd into Peace:
There blended sleep the Coward and the Brave,
Stretch'd with his Lord, the undistinguish'd Slave
Enjoys the common Refuge of the Grave.
An equal Lot the mighty Victor shares,
And lies amidst the Captives of his Wars;
With His, those Captives mingle their Remains,
The same in Death, nor lessen'd by their Chains.
Why are we doom'd to view the genial Ray?
Why curst to bear the painful Light of Day?
Oh! with what Joy the Wretches yield their Breath?
And pant in Bitterness of Soul for Death?
As a rich Prize, the distant Bliss they crave,
And find the glorious Treasure in the Grave.
Why is the Wretch condemn'd without Relief,
To combat Woe, and tread the Round of Grief,
Whom in the Toils of Fate his God has bound,
And drawn the Line of Miseries around?

When Nature calls for aid, my Sighs intrude,
My Tears prevent my necessary Food:
Like a full Stream o'ercharg'd, my Sorrows flow,
In Bursts of Anguish, and a Tide of Woe;
For now the dire Affliction which I fled,
Pours like a roaring Torrent on my Head.
My Terrors still the Phantom view'd, and wrought
The dreadful Image into every Thought:
At length pluck'd down, the fatal stroke I feel,
And lose the fancy'd in the real Ill.