NIGHT. Aldborough, 1779. The sober stillness of the night That fills the silent air, And all that breathes along the shore, Invite to solemn prayer. Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord! Which points the sacred way, And let thy creatures here below Instruct me how to pray. FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. Aldborough, 1779. Oh, great Apollo! by whose equal aid The verse is written and the med'cine made, Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers, In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours? Insulting quack! on thy sad business go, And land the stranger on this world of woe. Still I pass on, and now before me find The restless ocean, emblem of my mind; There wave on wave, here thought on thought succeeds, Their produce idle works and idle weeds. 10 Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea, But not more dark than my sad views to me; Yet from the rising moon the light beams dance In troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse; So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright, The Muse pours comfort in a flood of light.-- Shine out, fair flood! until the day-star flings His brighter rays on all sublunar things. "Why in such haste? by all the powers of wit, I have against thee neither bond nor writ. 20 If thou'rt a poet, now indulge the flight Of thy fine fancy in this dubious light; Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme, And all things meet to form the true sublime."-- "Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place, With abject rhymes a doctor's name disgrace? Nor doctor solely, in the healing art I'm all in all, and all in every part; Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be Which gave me right to claim the golden fee. 30 Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due, For mine th' advice and operation too; And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe, I make myself the med'cines I prescribe. Mine, too, the chemic art; and not a drop Goes to my patients from a vulgar shop. But chief my fame and fortune I command From the rare skill of this obstetric hand: This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow, With her who calls me from thy wonder now." 40 MIDNIGHT A POEM. [About 1779.] Life is a Dream;--it steals upon the Man, He knows not how, but thinks himself awake; 'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep, That turns its glossy surface to the Sun, Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proud Of momentary Being--then it breaks-- To some tremendous Billow drops a prey, And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang. But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care, How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream, 10 And some--hard Fortune theirs--of Care alone.