Through Time's rough billows into Night's abyss. Say, in this rapid tide of human ruin, Is there no rock, on which man's tossing thought 908 Can rest from terror, dare his fate survey, And boldly think it something to be born? Amid such hourly wrecks of being fair, Is there no central, all-sustaining base, All-realising, all-connecting power, Which, as it call'd forth all things, can recall, And force Destruction to refund her spoil? Command the grave restore her taken prey? Bid death's dark vale its human harvest yield, And earth, and ocean, pay their debt of man, True to the grand deposit trusted there? Is there no potentate, whose outstretch'd arm, 920 When ripening time calls forth th' appointed hour, Pluck'd from foul Devastation's famish'd maw, Binds present, past, and future, to his throne? His throne, how glorious, thus divinely graced, By germinating beings clustering round! A garland worthy the divinity! A throne, by Heaven's omnipotence in smiles, Built (like a Pharos towering in the waves) Amidst immense effusions of his love! An ocean of communicated bliss! 930 An all-prolific, all-preserving God! This were a God indeed.--And such is man, As here presumed: he rises from his fall. Think'st thou Omnipotence a naked root, Each blossom fair of Deity destroy'd? Nothing is dead; nay, nothing sleeps; each soul, That ever animated human clay, Now wakes; is on the wing: and where, oh! where, Will the swarm settle?--When the trumpet's call, As sounding brass, collects us, round Heaven's throne Conglobed, we bask in everlasting day, 941 (Paternal splendour!) and adhere for ever. 942 Had not the soul this outlet to the skies, In this vast vessel of the universe, How should we gasp, as in an empty void! How in the pangs of famish'd hope expire? How bright my prospect shines! how gloomy, thine! A trembling world! and a devouring God! Earth, but the shambles of Omnipotence! Heaven's face all stain'd with causeless massacres 950 Of countless millions, born to feel the pang Of being lost. Lorenzo! can it be? This bids us shudder at the thoughts of life. Who would be born to such a phantom world, Where nought substantial but our misery? Where joy (if joy) but heightens our distress, So soon to perish, and revive no more? The greater such a joy, the more it pains. A world, so far from great, (and yet how great It shines to thee!) there's nothing real in it; 960 Being, a shadow; consciousness, a dream! A dream, how dreadful! universal blank Before it, and behind! Poor man, a spark From non-existence struck by wrath divine, Glittering a moment, nor that moment sure, 'Midst upper, nether, and surrounding night, His sad, sure, sudden, and eternal tomb!