In fullen filence stalks forth Peftilence :
Contagion cufe behind taints all her steps
With passous dew; no fmiting hand is feen,
No found is heard, but foon her fecret path
Is marked with defolation; heaps on heaps
Prezioas drop. No friend, no refuge, near;
Aal, is falte and treacherous around;
A that they touch, or tafte, or breathe, is Death.
But ah! what means that ruinous roar? why fail
Thefe 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 genral devaftation, millions find
One common grave; not ev'n a widow left
To wall her fons: the houfe, that fhould protect,
Es its mafter; and the faithlefs plain,
If there he flies for help, with fudden yawn
Starts from beneath him. Shield me, gracious
Heav'n,
O fnatch me from deftruction! If this Globe,
This kad 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,
Ric up with rage unnatural to devour
Her watched offspring, whither fhall I fly?
Where look for fuccour? Where, but up to thee,
Almighty Father Save, O fave, thy fuppliant
Frum 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 aghaft I stand
(A trembling candidate for thy compallion)
On this World's brink, and look into the next;
When my foul, ftarting from the dark unknown,
Cafts back a wifhful look, and fondly clings
To her fail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd
From this fair feene, from all her cuftom'd joys,
And all the lovely relatives of life;
Then thed 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 themicives round my couch in grim array,
And fab my bleeding heart with two-cdg'd
Safe of paft guilt, and dread of future woe.
er be the ghaltly crew! And in their ftead
Let cheerful Meinory 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 contcious innocence. But chiefly, Thou,
Whom foft-cyed Pity once led down from Heav'n
To bleed for man, to teach him how to live,
And, oh! ftill harder leffon! how to die;
Dakin not Thou to fmooth the reftlefs bed
Sickness and of Pain. Forgive the tear
Teble Nature drops, calm all her fears,
Take 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.
The boufe appointed for all living. Joв.
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 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 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 fculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms;
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embodied thick, perform their mystic 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 lic 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 plafter'd, and hung round with fhreds 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 spectres rife, [flumbers,
Grin horrible, and obftinately fullen
Pats 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,
Coaval near with that, all ragged thew,
Long lafh'd by the rude winds: feme rift half down
Their branchlets 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 fhricks have iffued from the hollow tombs;
Dead
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd. Such tales their chcer, at wake or golfiping, When it draws near to witching-time of night. Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've feen, By glimpfe of moon-thine, cheq ring thro' the
The fchool-boy, with his fatchel in his hand,
Whitling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat ftones
(With nettles fkirted, 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 bursts of forrow guth from either eye,
Fatt-falling down her now untafted check.
Prone on the lonely grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst bufy meddling memory
In barbarous fucceffion, mutters up
The paft endearments of their fofter hours,
Tenacious of its theme Still, ftill the 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 stubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! myfterious cement of the foul!
Sweet'ner of life, and folder of society!
I owe thee much. Thou haft deferv'd from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have 1 prov'd the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gent heart
Anxious to please. O! when my friend and I
In fome thick wood have wanaer cheedlefs on,
Hid from the vulgar eve india 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 fhrill-tongued
Mended his fong of love; the footy blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and foften'd ev'ry note;
The eglantine fmell'd fweeter, and the rofe
Affum'd a dye more deep; whilft ev'ry flow'r
Vied with his fellow-plant in luxury
Of drefs. Oh! then the longeft fummer'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 guture was a joke
To clapping theatres and fhouting crowds,
And made ev'n thick-lipp'd mufing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a fimile
Before the was aware? Ah! fullen now,
And dumb as the green turf that covers them!
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war?
The Roman Cafars and the Grecian chiefs,
The boast of ftory? 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 enough to do its work? [per'd,
Alas! how flim, dishonourably flim!
And cramm'd into a space we blush to name.
Proud royalty! how alter'd in tay 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 newborn infant bound in his fwathes,
up
Or victim tumbled flat upon his back,
That throbs beneath the facrificer's knife;
Mute must thou bear the ftrife of little tongues,
And coward infults of the bafe-born crowd,
That grudge a privilege thou never hadit,
But only hop'd for in the peaceful Grave,
Of being unmolested and alone.
Araby's gums and odoriferous drugs,
And honours by the heralds duly paid
In mode and form, cv'n to a very fcruple;
O cruel 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 ftate!
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 difgrace, and in the nostril
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
Strik'ft out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, And ev'ry fmirking feature from the face;
Proud lineage, now how little thou appear'ft!
Below the envy of the private man!
Honor, that meddiefome officious ill,
Purtues thee e'en to death; nor there stops fhort.
Strange perfecution! when the grave itself
Is ae protection from rude fufferance.
And to think to over-reach the grave,
And from the wreck of names to refcue ours!
The beft concerted fchemes men lay for fame
Die fat away only theinfelves die fafter.
The far-tam'd fculptor, and the laurel'd bard,
Thole 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! whofe fpiky top
Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outliv'd
The angry thaking of the winter's ftoim;
Yet fpent at laft by th' injuries of heav'n,
Shaner'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years,
The uytic cone with hieroglyphics crufted,
Gives way. O lamentable light! at once
The labour of whole ages lumbers down;
A hideous and mil-fhapen length of ruins.
Sepulchral columns wreftle but in vain
With all-tubduing Time; her cank'ring hand
With catin deuberate malice wafteth them:
Worn on the edge of days, the brafs confumes,
The betto moulders, and the deep-cut marble,
Unfeady 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'oppreflive, 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 form that's fpent,
Lie hufh'd, and meanly fneak behind thy covert.
Vain thought! to hide them from the gen'ral icorn.
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,
Aad grip'd them like fome lordly beaft of prey,
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger,
And pitcous plaintive voice of mifery
(As if a lave was not a shred 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 worin his
Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground
Precedency's a jeft; vaffal 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.
That fteals fo foftly o'er the ftripling's heart,
Beauty thou pretty plaything! dear deceit
And gives it a new pulfe unknown Before !
The grave difcredits thee: thy charms 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 glafs,
T'improve thofe charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the fpoiler thanks thee not Foul feeder!
Coarfe fare and carrion please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relifh on the fenfe.
Look how the fair one weeps! the confcious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flow'rs:
Honeft effufion! the fioln heart in vain
Works hard to put a glofs on its diftrefs.
Strength, too! thou furly, and lefs gentle boast
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring!
A fit of common ficknefs pulls thee down,
With greater eafe than e'er thou didst the ftripling
That rafhly dar'd thee to th'unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? deep groan indeed!
With anguith heavy laden! let me trace it:
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong 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 ghastly!
Whilft the diffemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up. Heard you that groan?
It was his laft. See how the great Goliath,
Jutt like a child that brawi'd itfelf to reft, [boafter
Lics 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 flackness of his arm,
Trufts only in the well-invented knife !
With ftudy pale, and midnight vigils spent
The ftar-furveying fage, clofe to his eye
Applies the fight-invigorating tube;
And trav'lling thro' the boundlets length of space,
Marks well the courfes of the far-teen 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 darkfome 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,
Till, forc'd at laft to the tremendous verge,.
At once the finks to everlasting ruin.
Sure 'tis a serious 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 repafs'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 muft part;
Fond couple! link'd more close 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 noisome grave,
Like a difabled pitcher of no ufe.
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 firft they fprung; then might the debau-
Untrembling mouth the heav'ns; then might the
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 breaft
Unceafing. Ah! where is the lifted arm,
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 check.
Here the great mafters of the healing art,
Thefe mighty mock defrauders of the tomb!
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Reign to fate. Proud Efculapius' 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 fhy retiring virtues out,
And vex'd them in the fire: nor fly, nor infect,
Nor writhy fnake, efcap'd thy deep research.
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 more filly, when the cheat's found out.
Here the lank-fided mifer, worft of felons!
Who meanly ftole, difcreditable shift!
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 appetite's no longer tea2'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 cafe in his poffeffions;
Whe, counting on long years of pleafure here,The common damn'd fhun their fociety,
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 wifhfully the looks
On all the's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
O might the day to wash away her ftains,
And it her for her paffage! mournful fight!
ller 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,
Punfues her clofe through ev'ry lane of life,
Nor miles once the track, but preffes on;
Recl 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 ftcaling out of being when he pleas'd,
And by what way; whether by hemp or steel:
Death's thoufand 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 shame,
That makes her the reproach of neighb'ring ftates.
Shall nature, fwerving from her earliest 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-slaughter, in a rage
To ruth 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;
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 pemiflion.
Like centries that must keep their deftin'd stand,
And wait th'appointed hour, till they're rehev'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 wort
Will feon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
By boldly vent ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark; 'tis mad:
No frenzy half fo defperate as this.
Tell us, y dead! will none of you in pity To thofe rou left behind difclofe the fecret? O' the fine courteous ghost would blab it out, What is you are, and we must shortly be. I've heard, that fouls departed have fometimes Forwardmen of their death: 'twas kindly done To knock and give th'alarum. But what means The finted charity? 'tis but lame kindness That does its work by halves. Why might you not Tell us what 'tis to die? Do the ftrict laws Of your fociety forbid your fpeaking Upon a point to nice? I'll afk no more; Sullen, like lamps in fepulchres, your fhine Enlightens but yourfelves: well-tis no matter: A very little time will clear up all, And make us learn'd as you are, and as close. Death's fhafts fly thick! Here falls the village fain, [round, And there his pamper'd lord! The cup goes And who fo artful as to put it by? 'Tis long fince death had the majority; Yet, frange the living lay it not to heart. See vender maker of the dead man's bed, The xtc, beary-headed chronicle! Of hard utmaning face, down which ne'er ftole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance By far his juniors! Scarce a fcull's caft up, But well he knew its owner, and can tell Some paffage of his life. Thus, hand in hand, The fut has walk'd with death twice twenty years; And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder, Or clubs a futtier tale: when drunkards meet, None fings a inerrier catch, or lends a hand [not More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds That foon fome trufty brother of the trade 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 Isto fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegen'rate days Could fearce 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 fottifh! For creatures of a day, in gamefome mood To frolic on eternity's dread brink, Unapprchenfive; when for aught we know
very firft fwoln furge thall fweep us in. Think we, or think we not, time hurries on With a refiftlefs unremitting ftream, Yet treads more foft than e'er did midnight thief, That flides 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 men's bones: The very rurf 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 muft cover theirs. 'Tis here all meet! The thivring Icelander, and fun-burnt Moor; Men of all clunes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Chriftian.
Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His fov'reign's keeper, and the people's feourge,
Are huddled out of fight. Heie lie abah'd
The great negociators of the earth,
And celebrated mafters of the balance,
Deep read in-stratagems, and wiles of courts:
Now vain their treaty-fkill! Death fcorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded flave flings down his burthen
From his gall'd thoulders; and when the cruel
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 efcapes,
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 miftrefs 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 fhy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like fifter-ftreams
That fome rude interpofing rock had iplit.
Here is the large-limb'd peafant; here the child
Of a fpan long, that never faw the fun,
Nor piefs'd the nipple, ftrangled in life's porch :
Here is the mother with her fons and daughters;
The barren wife; the long-demurring maid,
Whofe lonely unappropriated fweets
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 difclos'd. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightfome vacant heart,
Whose ev'ry day was made of melody, [fhrew,
Hears not the voice of mirth: the thrill-tongued
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wife, the gen'rous, and the brave;
The juft, the good, the worthless, 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 first state!
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand,
Heftamp'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 fercne;
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 caufe they should,
For all was pure within: no fell remotfe,
Nor anxious caftings up of what may be,
Alarm'd his peaceful bofom : fummer feas
Shew not more fmooth when kifs'd by fouthern
Juft ready-to expire. Scarce importun'd, [winds,
The gen'rous foil with a luxuriant hand
Offer'd the various produce of the year,
|