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To be completely wretched, haftes to fill up The measure of his woes.-'Twas Man himself Brought Death into the world; and Man himself Gave keennefs to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiply'd deftruction on mankind.

Firft Envy, eldeft-born of Hell, embrued
Her hands in blood, and taught the Sons of Men
To make a Death which Nature never made,
And 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 faw, and foon improv'd
The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough
By fubtle fraud to fnatch a fingle life,
Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell
To fate the luft of power: more horrid ftill,
The fouleft ftain and fcandal of our nature,
Became its boaft. One Murder made a Villain;
Millions a Hero. Princes were privileg'd
To kill, and numbers fanctified the crime.
Ah! why will Kings forget that they are Men?
And Men that they are brethren? Why delight
In human facrifice? Why burit the ties
Of Nature, that fhould knit their fouls together
In one foft bond of amity and love?
Yet ftill they breathe deftruction, still go on
Inhumanly ingenious to find out

New pains for life, new terrors for the grave,
Artificers of Death! Still Monarchs dream
Of univerfal empire growing up
From univerfal ruin. Blaft the defign,
Great God of Hofts, nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied victims at Ambition's farine!

Yet fay, fhould Tyrants learn at last to feel, And the loud din of battle ceafe to bray; Should dove-eyed Peace o'er all the earth extend Her olive branch, and give the world repofe, Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and ftrength, and youth

Defy his pow'r? Has he no arts in ftore,
No other fhafts fave thofe of war? Alas!
Ev'n in the fimile of Peace, that finile which fheds
A heav'nly funshine o'er the foul, there basks
That ferpent Luxury. War its thoufands flays;
Peace its ten thousands. In th'embattled plain,
Tho' Death exults, and claps his raven wings,
Yet reigns he not ev'n there fo abfolute,
So mercilefs, as in yon frantic fcenes
Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth,
Where in th' intoxicating draught conceal'd,
Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless love,
Mefnares the fimple youth, whonoughtiufpecting,
Means to be bleft-but finds himself undone.
Down the fimooth ftream of life the ftripling darts,
Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal iky,
Hope fwells his fails, and paffion fteers his courle.
Safe glides his little bark along the fhore
Where virtue takes her ftand; but if too far
He launches forth beyond difcretion's mark,
Sudden the tempeft fcowls, the furges roar,
Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep.
O fad but fure mifchance! O happier far
To lie like gallant Howe 'midft Indian wilds
A brechtleis confe, cut off by lavage hands

In earliest prime, a generous facrifice
To freedom's holy caufe; than fo to fall,
Torn immature from life's meridian joys,
A prey to Vice, Intemp'rance, and Difcafe.

Yet die ev'n thus, thus rather perifh ftill,
Ye Sons of Pleafure, by th'Almighty strick'n,
Than ever dare (though oft, alas! ye dare)
To lift against yourfelves the murd'rous fteel,
To wreft from God's own hand the fword of
Justice,

And be your own avengers! Hold, rash Man,
Though with anticipating fpeed thou'ft rang'd
Through every region of delight, nor left
One joy to gild the evening of thy days;
Though life feem one uncomfortable void,
Guilt at thy heels, before thy face defpair;
Yet gay this fcene, and light this load of woe,
Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think, O think,
And, ere thou plunge into the vast abyss,
Paufe on the verge a while: look down and fee
Thy future manfion. Why that start of horror?
From thy flack hand why drops th'uplifted feel?
Didft thou not think fuch vengeance muft await
The wretch, that with his crimes all fresh about
Rufhes irreverent, unprepar'd, uncall'd, [him
Into Lis Maker's prefence, throwing back
With infolent difdain his choiceft gift?

Live then, while Heav'n in pity lends thee life,
And think it all too fhort to wash away,
By penitential tears and deep contrition,
The fearlet of thy crimes. So fhalt thou find
Reft to thy foul, fo unappall'd fhalt meet
Death when he comes, not wantonly invite
His ling'ring ftroke. Be it thy fole concern
With innocence to live with patience wait
Th'appointed hour; too foon that hour will come,
Tho' Nature run her courfe. But Nature's God,
If need require, by thoufind various ways,
Without thy aid, can fhorten that short fpan,
And quench the lamp of life. O when he comes,
Rous'd by the cry of wickedness extreme,
To Heav'n afcending from fome guilty land,
Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes array'd
In all the terrors of Almighty wrath,
Forth from his bofoin plucks his ling'ring arm,
And on the mifcreants pours deftruction down;
Who can abide his coming? Who can bear
His whole difpleafure? In no common form
Death then appears, but ftarting into fize
Enormous, meafures with gigantic ftride
Th'aftonifh'd Earth, and from his looks throws
Unutterable horror and difinay. [round
All Nature lends her aid. Each Element
Arms in his caufe. Ope fly the doors of Heav'n;
The fountains of the deep their barriers break;
Above, below, the rival torrents pour,
And drown Creation; or in floods of fire
Defcends a livid cataract, and confumes
An impious race. Sometimes, when all feems peace,
Wakes the grim whirlwind, andwith rude embrace
Sweeps nations to their grave, or in the deep
Whelms the proud wooden world; full many a
Floats on his wat'ry bier, or lies unwept [youth
On fome fad defait hore' At dead of night,

In fullen filence ftalks forth Peftilence:
Contagion close behind taints all her feps
With pois'nous dew; no fmiting hand is feen,
No found is heard, but foon hei fecret path
I: mark'd with defolation; heaps on heaps
Promifcuous drop. No friend, no refuge, near;
All, all, is falfe and treacherous around;
All that they touch, or tafte, or breathe, is Death.
Bah' what means that ruinous roar? why fail
Thule tott ring feet? Earth to its center feels
The Godhead's pow'r, and trembling at his touch
Through all its pillars, and in ev'ry pore,
Hurls to the ground, with one convulfive heave,
Precipitating domes, and towns, and tow'rs,
The work of ages. Crush'd beneath the weight
Of gen'ral devastation, millions find
One common grave; not ev'n a widow left
To wall her fons: the houfe, that should protect,
Entombs its mafter; and the faithlefs plain,
If there he flies for help, with fudden
Starts from beneath him. Shield me, gracious
Heav'n,

yawn

O fratch me from deftruction! If this Globe,
This folid Globe, which thine own hand hath made
So firm and fure, if this my fteps betray;
If my own mother Earth, from whence I fprung,
Rife up with rage unnatural to devour
Her wretched offspring, whither fhall I fly?
Where look for fuccour Where, but up to thee,
Almighty Father? Save, O fave, thy fuppliant
From herrors fuch as thefe! At thy good time
Let Death approach; I rock not-let him but come
In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd,
Too much for man to bear. O rather lend
Thy kindly aid to mitigate his stroke;
And at that hour when all aghaft I stand
(A trembling candidate for thy compaflion)
On this World's brink, and look into the next;
When my foul, ftarting from the dark unknown,
Cats back a wifhful look, and fondly clings
To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd
From this fair fcene, from all her cuftom'd joys,
And all the lovely relatives of life;

Then fhed thy comforts o'er me, then put on
The gentleft of thy looks. Let no dark crimes,
In all their hideous forms then starting up,
Plant themfelves round my couch in grim array,
And ftab my bleeding heart with two-edg'd

torture,

Senfe of paft guilt, and dread of future woe.
Far be the ghaftly crew! And in their stead
Let cheerful Memory from her pureft cells
Lead forth a goodly train of Virtues fair,
Cherish'd in earlieft youth, now paying back
With tenfold ufury the pious care,

And pouring o'er my wounds the heav'nly balm
Of conscious innocence. But chiefly, Thou,
Whom foft-eyed Pity once led down from Heav'n
To biced for man, to teach him how to live,
And, oh! ftill harder leffon! how to die;
Didain not Thou to fmooth the reftlefs bed
Or Sickness and of Pain. Forgive the tear
That feeble Nature drops, calm all her fears,
Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith,

Till my rapt Soul, anticipating Heav'n,
Burfts from the thraldom of incumb'ring clay,
And on the wing of Ecftafy upborne,
Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life.

§ 46. The Grave. BLAIR.

fhade,

The house appointed for all living. JOB. WHILST fome affect the fun, and fome the Some flee the city, fome the hermitage, Their aims as various as the roads they take In journeying through life; the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb; Th'appointed place of rendezvous, where all Thefe travllers meet. Thy fuccours I implore, Eternal King! whofe potent arm fuftains The keys of hell and death. The Grave, dread thing!

Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd: Nature appal'd
Shakes off her wonted firmnefs. Ah! how dark
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes;
Where nought but filence reigns, and night, dark
Dark as was Chaos ere the infant Sun [night,

Was roll'd together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound! The fickly taper,
By glimm'ring thro' thy low-brow'd mifty vaults
Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy flime,
Lets fall a fupernumerary horror,
And only ferves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trufty yew,
Cheerlefs, unfocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midft feulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms;
Where light-heel'd ghofts, and vifionary fhades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embodied thick, perform their myftic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work
Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot,
And buried midft the wreck of things which were:
There lie interr'd the more illuftrious dead.
The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks,
Till now, I never heard a found fo dreary: [bird
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul
Rook'd in the fpire fcreams loud; the gloomy ifles
Black plaster'd, and hung round with threds of
fcutcheons,

And tatter'd coats of arms, fend back the found
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The manfions of the dead. Rous'd from their
In grim array the grizly fpectres rife, [flumbers,
Grin horrible, and obstinately fullen
Pafs and repafs, hufh'd as the foot of night.
Again! the fcreech-owl fhricks: ungracious found!
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.

Quite round the pile, a row of rev'rend elms,
Coeval near with that, all ragged fhew,
Long lafh'd by the rude winds: fome rift half down
Their branch.defs trunks; others fo thin a-top,
That fearce two crows could lodge in the fame
[pen'd here:
Strange things, the neighbours fay, have hap-
Wild thricks have inued from the hollow tombs;
Ded

tree.

Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd. Such tales their cheer, at wake or goffiping, When it draws near to witching-time of night. Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've feen, By glimpse of moon-thine, cheq'ring thro' the

trees,

The fchool-boy, with his fatchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat ftones
(With nettles kirted, and with mofs o'ergrown)
That tell in homely phrafe who lie below;
Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears,
The found of fomething purring at his heels:
Full faft he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghaftly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er fome new-open'd grave; and, ftrange to tell!
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

The new-made widow too I've fometimes fpied,
Sad fight! flow moving o'er the proftrate dead:
Littlefs, the crawls along in doleful black,
While burfts of forrow guth from either eye,
Faft-falling down her now untafted check.
Prone on the lonely grave of the dear man
She dreps; whilft bufy meddling memory
In barbarous fucceflion, mufters up

The paft endearments of their fofter hours,
Tenacious of its theme Still, ftill fhe thinks
She fees him, and indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more clofely to the fenfelefs turf,
Nor heeds the paffenger who looks that way.
Invidious Grave! how doft thou rend in funder
Whom love has knit, and fympathy made one!
A tie more ftubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! myfterious cement of the foul!
Sweet'ner of life, and folder of fociety!
I owe thee much. Thou haft deferv'd from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gent cheart
Anxious to pleafe. O! when my friend and I
In fome thick wood have wander cheedlefs on,
Hid from the vulgar eye andia tus down
Upon the floping cowflip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid ftream has flid along
In grateful errors thro' the underwood [thrush
Sweet murm ring; methought, the thrill-tongued
Mended his fong of love; the footy blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and foften'd ev'ry note;
The eglantine imell'd fweeter, and the rofe
Afum'd a dye more deep; whilft ev'ry flow'r
Vied with his fellow-plant in luxury

Of drefs. Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in hafte; ftill the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness
Too exquifite to laft. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jetters now? the man of health
Complexionally pleafant? where the droll?
Whofe ev'ry look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and flouting crowds,
And made ev'n thick-lipp'd mufing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a fmile
Before fhe was aware? Ah! fullen now,
And dumb as the green turf that covers them!
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war ?
The Roman Cæfars and the Grecian chiefs,
The boast of story? Where the hot-brain'd youth?
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore
From kings of all the then difcover'd globe;
And cried, forfooth, because his arm was ham-
And had not room cnough to do its work? [per'd,
Alas! how ilim, dishonourably flim!
And cramm'd into a space we blush to name.
Proud royalty! how alter'd in thy looks!
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?
Where haft thou hid thy many-spangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes
Felt from afar? Pliant and pow'rlets now,
Like new-born infant bound up in his fwathes,
Or victim tumbled flat upon his back,
That throbs beneath the facrificer's knife:
Mute muft thou bear the ftrife of little tongues,
And coward infults of the bafe-born crowd,
That grudge a privilege thou never hadft,
But only hop'd for in the peaceful Grave,
Of being unmolefted and alone.
Araby's gums and odoriferous drugs,
And honours by the heralds duly paid
In mode and form, ev'n to a very scruple;
O crucl irony! thefe come too late;
And only mock whom they were meant to honor.
Surely, there's not a dungeon-flave that's buried
In the highway, unfhrouded and uncoffin'd,
But lies as foft, and fleeps as found, as he.
Sorry pre-eminence of high defcent
Above the vulgar-born, to rot in state!

[on,

But fee! the well-plum'd hearfe comes nodding
Stately and flow; and properly attended
By the whole fable tribe, that painful watch
The fick man's door, and live upon the dead,
By letting out their perfons by the hour
To mimic forrow, when the heart's not fad!
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd
And glitt'ring in the fun! triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,
In glory fcarce exceed. Great gluts of people
Retard th' unwieldy fhow; whilst from the
cafements,

And houfes tops, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd,
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this wafte?
Why this ado in earthing up a carcafe
That's fall'n into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us,
'Midft all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,

Dull Grave! thou spoil'ft the dance of youth-Why is the principal conceal'd, for which

ful blood,

Strik'ft out the dimple from the check of mirth, And ev'ry finirking feature from the face;

You make this mighty ftir? 'Tis wifely done: What would offend the eye in a good picture, The Painter cafts difcreetly into fhades.

Proud

Proud lineage, now how little thou appear'ft! | The grave difcredits thee: thy charms
Below the envy of the private man !
Honor, that meddlefome officious ill,
Purfues thee e'en to death; nor there ftops fhort.
Strange perfecution! when the grave itself
Is no protection from rude fufferance.

Abfurd! to think to over-reach the grave,
And from the wreck of names to refcue ours!
The beft concerted schemes men lay for fame
Die faft away only theinfelves die faster.
The far-fam'd fculptor, and the laurel'd bard,
Those bold infurers of eternal fame,
Supply their little feeble aids in vain.
The tap'ring pyramid, th' Egyptian's pride,
And wonder of the world! whole fpiky top
Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outliv'd
The angry thaking of the winter's storm;
Yet fpent at laft by th' injuries of heav'n,
Shatter'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years,
The myftic cone with hieroglyphics crufted,
Gives way. O lamentable fight! at once
The labour of whole ages lumbers down;
A hideous and mif-shapen length of ruins.
Sepulchral columns wreftle but in vain
With all-fubduing Time; her cank`ring hand
With calin deliberate malice wafteth them:
Worn on the edge of days, the brafs confumes,
The bufto moulders, and the deep-cut marble,
Unfteady to the fteel, gives up its charge.
Ambition, half convicted of her folly,
Hangs down the head, and reddens at the tale.

Here all the mighty troublers of the earth
Who fwam to fov'reign rule thro' feas of blood;
Th'oppreffive, fturdy, man-deftroying villains,
Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires wafte,
And in a cruel wantonnefs of pow'r
Thinn'd ftates of half their people, and gave up
To want the reft; now, like a storm that's spent,
Lie hufh'd, and meanly fneak behind thy covert.
Vain thought! to hide them from the gen'ral fcorn.
That haunts and dogs them like an injur'd ghoft
Implacable. Here too, the petty tyrant,
Whofe fcant domains geographer ne'er notic'd,
And, well for neighb'ring grounds, of arm as fhort,
Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor,
And grip'd them like fome lordly beaft of prey,
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger,
And pitcous plaintive voice of mitery
(As if a flave was not a fhred of nature,
Of the fame common nature with his lord);
Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd,
Shakes hands with duft, and calls the worm his
kinfman ;

Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground
Precedency's a jeft; vassal and lord,
Grofsly familiar, fide by fide confume.

When felf-esteem, or others adulation,
Would cunningly perfuade us we were fomething
Above the common level of our kind; [flatt'ry,
The grave gainfays the fmooth-complexion'd
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.
Beauty! thou pretty plaything! dear deceit!
That fteals fo foftly o'er the ftripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulfe unknown before!

'd,

expung'd

Thy rofes faded, and thy lilies foil'd,
What haft thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?
Methinks I fee thee with thy head low laid;
Whilft furfeited upon thy damask cheek,
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,
Riots unfcar'd. For this was all thy caution?
For this thy painful labours at thy glass,
T'improve thofe charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not? Foul feeder!
Coarfe fare and carrion pleafe thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the fenfe.
Look how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flow'rs:
Honeft effufion! the fwoln heart in vain
Works hard to put a glofs on its diftrefs.

Strength, too! thou furly, and lefs gentle boaft
Of thofe that laugh loud at the village ring!,
A fit of common fickness pulls thce down,
With greater cafe than e'er thou didst the tripling
That rafhly dar'd thee to th'unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? deep groan indeed!
With anguifh heavy laden! let me trace it:
From yonder bed it comes, where the ftrong man
By ftronger arm belabour'd, gaips for breath
Like a hard-hunted beaft. How his great heart
Beats thick his roomy cheft by far too fcant
To give the lungs full play! What now avail
The ftrong-built finewy limbs, and well-fpread

fhoulders?

See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pain! eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grafps it hard,
Juft like a creature drowning! hideous fight!
Oh! how his eyes ftand out, and ftare full ghaftly!
Whilft the diftemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow crofs his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up. Heard you that groan?
It was his laft. See how the great Goliath,
Juft like a child that brawl'd itfelf to reft, [boaster
Lies ftill. What mean'ft thou then, O mighty
To vaunt of nerves of thine? What means the bull,
Unconscious of his ftrength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man;
That, knowing well the flacknefs of his arm,
Trufts only in the well-invented knife!

With ftudy pale, and midnight vigils spent
The ftar-furveying fage, clote to his eye
Applies the fight-invigorating tube;
And trav'lling thro' the boundlets length of space,
Marks well the courfes of the far-feen orbs,
That roll with regular confufion there,
In ecftaly of thought. But ah! proud man!
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head;
Soon, very foon, thy firmeft footing fails;
And down thou dropp'ft into that dark fome place,
Where nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Here the tongue-warrior lies! difabled now,
Difarm'd, difhonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg`d,
And cannot tell his ail to paffers-by. [change?
Great man of language! whence this mighty
This dumb defpair, and drooping of the head?
Though ftrong perfuafion hung upon thy lip,

And

And fly Infinuation's fofter arts
In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue;
Alas! how chop-fall'n now! thick mifts and filence
Reft, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceafing. Ah! where is the lifted arın,
The ftrength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd voice,
With all the leffer ornaments of phrafe?
Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been!
Raz'd from the book of fame: or, more provoking,
Perhaps fome hackney hunger-bitten fcribbler
Infults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhimes
With heavy halting pace that drawl along;
Enough to roufe a dead man into rage,
And warm with red refentment the wan cheek.
Here the great mafters of the healing art,
Thefe mighty mock defrauders of the tomb!
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Refign to fate. Proud fculapius' fon,
Where are thy boafted implements of art,
And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as fhip could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook,
Efcap'd thy rifling hand: from ftubborn fhrubs
Thou wrung'ft their thy retiring virtues out,
And vex'd them in the fire: nor fly, nor infect,
Nor writhy fnake, efcap'd thy deep refearch.
But why this apparatus? why this coft?
Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave!
Where are thy recipes and cordials now,
With the long lift of vouchers for thy cures ?
Alas! thou fpeakeft not. The bold impoftor
Looks not inore filly, when the cheat's found out.
Here the lank-fided mifer, worft of felons!
Who meanly ftole, difcreditable fhift!
From back and belly too, their proper cheer;
Eas'd of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay
To his own carcafe, now lies cheaply lodg'd,
By clam'rous appetites no longer teaz'd,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs.
But, ah! where are his rents, his comings in?
Aye! now you've made the rich man poor indeed:
Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind?
O curfed luft of gold! when for thy fake
The fool throws up his int'reft in both worlds,
Firft ftarv'd in this, then damn'd in that to come.
How fhocking muft thy fummons be, O Death!
To him that is at eafe in his poffeffions;
Who, counting on long years of pleafure here,
Is quite unfurnifh'd for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic foul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and thricks for help,
But fhricks in vain! how withfully the looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,

O might the flay to wash away her ftains,
And hit her for her paffage! mournful fight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and ev'ry groan
She heaves is big with horror: but the foe,
Like a ftaunch murd'rer fteady to his purpofe,
Panfues her clofe through ev'ry lane of life,
Nor miles once the track, but prefes on;

Till, forc'd at laft to the tremendous verge,
At once the finks to everlafting ruin.

Sure 'tis a ferious thing to die! my foul!
What a ftrange moment inuft it be, when near
Thy journey's end thou haft the gulph in view!
That awful gulph no mortal e'er repass'd
To tell what's doing on the other fide!
Nature runs back and fhudders at the fight,
And ev'ry life-ftring bleeds at thoughts of parting!
For part they muft: body and foul must part;
Fond couple! link'd more clofe than wedded pair.
This wings its way to its Almighty Source,
The witnefs of its actions, now its judge;
That drops into the dark and noifome grave,
Like a difabled pitcher of no use.

If death was nothing, and nought after death;
If, when men died, at once they ceas'd to be,
Returning to the barren womb of nothing, [chee
Whence first they fprung; then might the debau-
Untrembling mouth the heav'ns; then might the
drunkard

Reel over his full bowl, and when 'tis drain'd,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh [wretch
At the poor bug-bear Death; then might the
That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life,
At once give each inquietude the flip,
By ftealing out of being when he pleas'd,
And by what way; whether by hemp or fteel:
Death's thousand doors ftand open. Who could
The ill-pleas'd gueft to fit out his full time, [force
Or blame him if he goes? Sure! he does well
That helps himself as timely as he can.
When able. But if there is an bereafter,
And that there is, confcience uninfluenc'd,
And fuffer'd to fpeak out, tells ev'ry man,
Then muft it be an awful thing to die;
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.
Self-murder! name it not; our island's fhame,
That makes her the reproach of neighb'ring ftates.
Shall nature, fwerving from her earlieft dictate,
Self-prefervation, fall by her own act ?
Forbid it, Heav'n! let not upon difguft
The fhamelefs hand be foully crimfon'd o'er
With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt!
Juft reeking from felf-flaughter, in a rage
To rush into the prefence of our Judge!
As if we challeng'd him to do his worst,
And matter'd not his wrath. Unheard-of tortures
Must be referv'd for fuch: thefe herd together;
The common damn'd fhun their fociety,
And look upon themfelves as fiends lefs foul.
Our time is fix'd; and all our days are number'd;
How long, how fhort, we know not: this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the fummons,
Nor dare to ftir till Heav'n fhall give pemiffion.
Like centries that must keep their deftin'd stand,
And wait th'appointed hour, till they're reliev'd.
Thofe only are the brave who keep their ground,
And keep it to the laft. To run away
Is but a coward's trick: to run away
From this world's ills, that at the very worst
Will foon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourfelves
By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark; 'tis raad:

No

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