The Poetical Works of Mark Akenside. Mark Akenside

Of justice and of wisdom, to evolve

       The latent honours of his generous frame;

       Till thy conducting hand shall raise his lot

       From earth's dim scene to these ethereal walks,

       The temple of thy glory. But not me,

       Not my directing voice he oft requires,

       Or hears delighted: this enchanting maid, 460

       The associate thou hast given me, her alone

       He loves, O Father! absent, her he craves;

       And but for her glad presence ever join'd,

       Rejoices not in mine: that all my hopes

       This thy benignant purpose to fulfil,

       I deem uncertain: and my daily cares

       Unfruitful all and vain, unless by thee

       Still further aided in the work divine.'

      She ceased; a voice more awful thus replied:—

       'O thou, in whom for ever I delight, 470

       Fairer than all the inhabitants of Heaven,

       Best image of thy Author! far from thee

       Be disappointment, or distaste, or blame;

       Who soon or late shalt every work fulfil,

       And no resistance find. If man refuse

       To hearken to thy dictates; or, allured

       By meaner joys, to any other power

       Transfer the honours due to thee alone;

       That joy which he pursues he ne'er shall taste,

       That power in whom delighteth ne'er behold. 480

       Go then, once more, and happy be thy toil;

       Go then! but let not this thy smiling friend

       Partake thy footsteps. In her stead, behold!

       With thee the son of Nemesis I send;

       The fiend abhorr'd! whose vengeance takes account

       Of sacred order's violated laws.

       See where he calls thee, burning to be gone,

       Pierce to exhaust the tempest of his wrath

       On yon devoted head. But thou, my child,

       Control his cruel frenzy, and protect 490

       Thy tender charge; that when despair shall grasp

       His agonising bosom, he may learn,

       Then he may learn to love the gracious hand

       Alone sufficient in the hour of ill,

       To save his feeble spirit; then confess

       Thy genuine honours, O excelling fair!

       When all the plagues that wait the deadly will

       Of this avenging demon, all the storms

       Of night infernal, serve but to display

       The energy of thy superior charms 500

       With mildest awe triumphant o'er his rage,

       And shining clearer in the horrid gloom.'