Where look for fuccour? Where, but up to thee, | Lets fall a fupernumerary horror,
Almighty Father? Save, O fave, thy fuppliant
From horrors fuch as thefe! 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. O rather lend
Thy kindly aid to mitigate his ftroke;
And at that hour when all aghast 1 ftand
(A trembling candidate for thy compaffion)
On this World's brink, and lock into the next;
When my foul starting from the dark unknown
Cafts back a wishful look, and fondly clings
To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd
From this fair feene, 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

And only ferves to make thy night more irksome,
Well do I know thee by thy trufty yew,
Cheerless, unfocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midft fcalls 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.

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,
Cherifh'd in carlieft 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 Pityonce led down from Heav'n
To bleed for man, to teach him how to live,
And, oh! ftill harder leffon! how to die;
Difdain not Thou to fmooth the reftlefs bed
Of 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 Extafy upborne,
Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life.

$56. The Grave. ROBT. BLAIR.
The house appointed for all living. JOE.
W
THILST fome affect the fun, and some the
fhade,

Some flee the city, fome the hermitage
(Their aims as various as the roads they take
In journeying through life) the talk be mine
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb;
Th'appointed place of rendezvous, where all
Thefe trav'llers meet. Thy fuccours I implore,
Eternal King! whofe potent arm fuftains

The keys of hell and death. The Grave, dread
thing!

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

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 illustrious 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 screams loud; the gloomy iles
Black plafter'd, and hung round with shreds 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,
Gri horrible, and obftinately 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 branchlefs trunks: others fo thin a-top,
That scarce two crows could lodge in the fame
[pen'd here:

tree.

Strange things, the neighbours fay, have hap
Wild thrieks have iffued from the hollow tombs:
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, chequ'ring thro' the

trees,

The fchool-boy, with his fatchel in his hand,
Whiftling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat ftones
(With nettles skirted, 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'erfone new-open'd grave; and, ftrange to tell!
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

The new-made widow too P've fometimes fpied,
Sad fight flow moving o'er the proftrate dead i
Littlefs the crawls along in doleful black,
While burfts of forrow gufh from either eye,
Faft falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lonely grave of the dear man
She drops; whilft bufy meddling memory,
In barbarous fucceffion, mufters up

The

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

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

Some paffage of his life. Thus, hand in hand,
The fot has walk'd with death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a fmuttier tale; when drunkards meet,
None fings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds
That foon fome trufty brother of the trade [not
Shall do for him what he has done for thoufands.
On this fide, and on that, men fee their friends
Drop off, like leaves in Autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegen'rate days
Could scarce have leifure for; fools that we are!
Never to think of death and of ourselves
At the fame time as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours. O more than fottish!
For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood
To frolic on eternity's dread brink
Unapprehenfive; when for aught we know
The very firft fwoln furge fhall fweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on
With a refiftless unremitting ftream,
Yet treads more foft than e'er did midnight thief,
That slides his hand under the mifer's pillow,
And carries off his prize. What is this world?
What but a fpacious burial-field unwall'd,
Strew'd with death's fpoils, the fpoils of animals,
Savage and tame, and full of dead mens bones!
The very turf on which we tread once liv'd;
And we that live muft lend our carcafes
To cover our own offspring: in their turns
They too must cover theirs. 'Tis here all meet!
The fhiv'ring Icelander, and fun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before,
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, theChriftian.
Here the proud prince, and favorite yet prouder,
His fov'reign's keeper, and the people's fcourge,
Are huddled out of fight. Here lie abash'd
The great negociators of the earth,
And celebrated mafters of the balance,
Deep read in ftratagems and wiles of courts:
How vain their treaty-fkill! Death fcorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded flave flings down his burthen
From his gall'd shoulders; and when the cruel
tyrant,

With all his guards and tools of pow'r about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his fhort arm, and quick as thought escapes,
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary reft.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool fhade,
The tell-tale echo, and the bubbling stream,
Time out of mind the fav'rite feats of love,
Faft by his gentle iniftrefs lays him down
Unblafted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes
Lie clofe, unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn rob'd prelate and plain prefbyter,
Ere while that flood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like fister-ftreams
That fome rude interpofing rock had split.
Here is the large-limb'd peafant; here the child
Of a span long, that never saw the fun,
Nor prefs'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch;
Here is the mother with her fons and daughters;
The barren wife; the long-demurring maid,
Whofe lonely unappropriated sweets

Smil'd like yon knot of cowflips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude fevere, and gay coquette,
The fober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropp'd like a rofe, before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightfome vacant heart,
Whole ev'ry day was made of melody, [fhrew,
Hears not the voice of mirth: the thrill-tongu'd
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wife, the gen'rous, and the brave;
The juft, the good, the worthlefs, the profane,
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the fcoundrel, and the mean,
The fupple ftatefman, and the patriot ftern;
The wrecks of nations, and the fpoils of time,
With all the lumber of fix thousand years.

Poor man! how happy once in thy firft state!
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand,
He ftamp'd thee with his image, and well pleas'd,
Smil'd on his laft fair work! Then all was well:
Sound was the body, and the foul ferene;
Like two fweet inftruments ne'er out of tune,
That play their feveral parts. Nor head, nor heart,
Offer'd to ache; nor was there cause they should,
For all was pure within: no fell remorse,
Nor anxious caftings up of what may be,
Alarm'd his peaceful bofom: fummer feas
Shew not more smooth when kifs'd by southern
Just ready to expire. Scarce importun'd, [winds,
The gen'rous foil with a luxuriant hand
Offer'd the various produce of the year,
And ev'ry thing moft perfect in its kind.
Blessed, thrice bleffed days! but ah, how short!
Blefs'd as the pleafing dreams of holy men,
But fugitive, like thofe, and quickly gone.
O flipp'ry state of things! What sudden turns,
What ftrange viciffitudes, in the first leaf
Of man's fad hiftory! to-day moft happy,
And ere to-morrow's fun has fet, most abject!
How fcant the fpace between thefe vaft extremes!
Thus far'd it with our Sire; Not long he enjoy'd
His paradife! fcarce had the happy tenant
Of the fair fpot due time to prove its fweets,
Or fum them up, when straight he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again. And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire offence
Of erring man? Like one that is condemn'd,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain.
Not all the lavifh odours of the place,
Offer'd in incenfe, can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel
With flaming fword forbids his longer stay,
And drives the loit'rer forth; nor muft he take
One laft and farewell round. At once he loft
His glory and his God. If mortal now,
And forely maim'd, no wonder! Man has finn'd.
Sick of his blifs, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he would needs try: nor try'd in vain.
Dreadful experiment! deftructive meafure!
Where the worst thing could happen, is fuccefs.
Alas! too well he fped: the good he fcorn'd
Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghoft,

No!