osphere's intestine[57] wars, 620
Rain's fountain-head, the magazine of hail;
Above the northern nests of feather'd snows,
The brew of thunders, and the flaming forge
That forms the crooked lightning; 'bove the caves
Where infant tempests wait their growing wings,
And tune their tender voices to that roar,
Which soon, perhaps, shall shake a guilty world; 627
Above misconstrued omens of the sky,
Far-travell'd comets' calculated blaze;
Elance[58] thy thought, and think of more than man.
Thy soul, till now, contracted, wither'd, shrunk,
Blighted by blasts of earth's unwholesome air,
Will blossom here; spread all her faculties
To these bright ardours; every power unfold,
And rise into sublimities of thought.
Stars teach, as well as shine. At Nature's birth,
Thus their commission ran--"Be kind to Man."
Where art thou, poor benighted traveller?
The stars will light thee, though the moon should fail.
Where art thou, more benighted! more astray! 640
In ways immoral? The stars call thee back;
And, if obey'd their counsel, set thee right.
This prospect vast, what is it?--Weigh'd aright,
'Tis Nature's system of divinity,
And every student of the Night inspires.
'Tis elder Scripture, writ by God's own hand:
Scripture authentic! uncorrupt by man.
Lorenzo! with my radius (the rich gift
Of thought nocturnal!) I'll point out to thee
Its various lessons; some that may surprise 650
An un-adept in mysteries of Night;
Little, perhaps, expected in her school,
Nor thought to grow on planet, or on star.
Bulls, lions, scorpions, monsters here we feign;
Ourselves more monstrous, not to see what here
Exists indeed;--a lecture to mankind.
What read we here?--Th' existence of a God?
Yes; and of other beings, man above;
Natives of ether! sons of higher climes!
And, what may move Lorenzo's wonder more, 660
Eternity is written in the skies. 661
And whose eternity?--Lorenzo! thine
Mankind's eternity. Nor Faith alone,
Virtue grows here; here springs the sovereign cure
Of almost every vice; but chiefly thine;
Wrath, Pride, Ambition, and impure Desire.
Lorenzo! thou canst wake at midnight too,
Though not on morals bent: Ambition, Pleasure!
Those tyrants I for thee so lately fought,[59]
Afford thei