Death: A Seatonian Prize Poem

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J. Spragg, 1803 - Death - 66 pages

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Page vi - The other shape, If shape it might be call'd that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either: black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as Hell, And shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
Page v - POETICAL•. SEATONIAN PRIZE. The Rev. Thomas Seaton, MA late Fellow of Clare Hall, bequeathed to the University the rents of his Kislingbury estate, now producing clear 40. per annum, to be given yearly to that Master of Arts who shall write the best English Poem on a sacred subject.
Page ix - Unterrified, and like a comet burn'd, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war.
Page 19 - Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on Inhumanly ingenious to find out New pains for life, new terrors for the grave. Artificers of Death ! Still monarchs dream Of universal empire growing up From universal ruin. Blast the design, Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine...
Page 20 - Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn ; bright glows the vernal sky, Hope swells his sails, and passion steers his course, Safe glides his little bark along the shore Where virtue takes her stand ; but if too far He launches forth beyond discretion's mark, Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep.
Page ix - At dead of night. In sullen silence stalks forth PESTILENCE ; CONTAGION close behind taints all her steps With poisonous dew ; no smiting hand is seen, No sound is heard, but soon her secret path Is marked with desolation ; heaps on heaps Promiscuous drop. No friend, no refuge, near ; All, all is false and treacherous around, All that they touch, or taste, or breathe, is DEATH.
Page 18 - God abhorr'd, with violence rude to break The thread of life, ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition saw, and soon improved The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough, By subtle Fraud, to snatch a single life, Puny impiety...
Page 17 - He dropp'd like mellow fruit into his grave. Such in the infancy of time was man; So calm was life, so impotent was Death!
Page 25 - At thy good time Let Death approach ; I reck not — let him but come In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd, Too much for man to bear.
Page 18 - Twas Man himself Brought Death into the world ; and Man himself Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiplied destruction on mankind.

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