Слике страница
PDF
ePub

Climb the aërial heights, and glide along

Athwart the severing clouds: but the faint eye,
Flung backward in the chase, soon drops its hold,
Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing.
Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in;
Nor are his friends shut out: as some great prince
Not for himself alone procures admission,
But for his train; it was his royal will,
That where he is, there should his followers be.
Death only lies between, a gloomy path,
Made yet more gloomy by our coward fear!
But nor untrod, nor tedious: the fatigue
Will soon go off. Besides, there's no by-road
To bliss. Then why, like ill-condition'd children,
Start we at transient hardships in the way
That leads to purer air and softer skies,

And a ne'er-setting sun? Fools that we are!
We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom;
But straight our wish revoke, and will not go.
So have I seen, upon a summer's even,
Fast by the rivulet's brink, a youngster play :
How wishfully he looks to stem the tide !
This moment resolute, next unresolved:
At last he dips his foot; but as he dips,
His fears redouble, and he runs away
From the inoffensive stream, unmindful now
Of all the flowers that paint the further bank,
And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome Death!
That after many a painful bleeding step,

Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe
On the long wish'd-for shore.

Prodigious change! Our bane turn'd to a blessing! Death disarm'd Loses his fellness quite; all thanks to him

Who scourged the venom out! Sure the last end

Of the good man is peace. How calm his exit !
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Behold him in the evening-tide of life,
A life well speut, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green :
By unperceived degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting!
High in his faith and hopes, look, how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away!
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast-coming harvest. Then ! O then!
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of naught. O how he longs
To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd!
'Tis done, and now he's happy! The glad soul
Has not a wish uncrown'd. Ev'n the lag flesh
Rests too in hope of meeting once again
Its better half, never to sunder more.
Nor shall it hope in vain: the time draws on
When not a single spot of burial-earth,
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long committed dust
Inviolate and faithfully shall these

Make up the full account; not the least atom
Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale.
Each soul shall have a body ready-furnish'd;
And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane
Ask not how this can be. Sure the same Power
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,
Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And put them as they were; Almighty God

D

Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd
Through length of days; and what he can he will:
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering
dust,

Not unattentive to the call, shall wake;
And every joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form, unknown
To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner: but amidst the crowd,
Singling its other half, into its arms

Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home, who, having long been absent,

With haste runs over every different room,

In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.

"Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day; Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away.

DEATH.

BY DR. PORTEUS, BISHOP OF LONDON.

FRIEND to the wretch whom every friend forsakes,
I woo thee, Death! in Fancy's fairy paths
Let the gay songster rove, and gently trill
The strain of empty joy. Life and its joys

I leave to those that prize them. At this hour,
This solemn hour, when silence rules the world,
And wearied nature makes a general pause;
Wrapt in night's sable robe, through cloisters drear
And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng
Of meagre phantoms shooting cross my path
With silent glance, I seek the shadowy vale
Of Death. Deep in a murky cave's recess,
Laved by Oblivion's listless stream, and fenced
By shelving rocks, and intermingled horrors
Of yew and cypress shade, from all intrusion
Of busy noontide beam, the Monarch sits
In unsubstantial majesty enthroned.
At his right hand, nearest himself in place
And fruitfulness of form, his parent Sin,
With fatal industry and cruel care
Busies herself in pointing all his stings,
And tipping every shaft with venom drawn
From her infernal store: around him ranged
In terrible array, and mixture strange

Of uncouth shapes, stand his dread ministers.
Foremost Old Age, his natural ally

And firmest friend; next him diseases thick,
A motley train; Fever with cheek of fire;

Consumption wan; Palsy, half-warm with life,
And half a clay-cold lump; joint-torturing Gout;
And ever-gnawing Rheum; Convulsion wild;
Swoln Dropsy; panting Asthma; Apoplex
Full-gorged. There too the Pestilence that walks
In darkness, and the Sickness that destroys
At broad noon-day. These, and a thousand more,
Horrid to tell, attentive wait; and, when

By Heaven's command Death waves his ebon wand,
Sudden rush forth to execute his purpose,
And scatter desolation o'er the earth.

Ill-fated Man, for whom such various forms-
Of misery wait, and mark their future prey!
Ah! why, all-righteous Father, didst thou make
This creature, Man? Why wake the unconscious dust
To life and wretchedness"? O better far
Still had he slept in uncreated night,
If this the lot of being! Was it for this
Thy breath divine kindled within his breast
The vital flame? For this was thy fair image
Stamp'd on his soul in godlike lineaments?
For this dominion given him absolute

O'er all thy works, only that he might reign
Supreme in woe? From the bless'd source of Good
Could Pain and Death proceed? Could such foul ills
Fall from fair Mercy's hands? Far be the thought,
The impious thought! God never made a creature
But what was good. He made a living Soul;
The wretched Mortal was the work of man.
Forth from his Maker's hands he sprung to life,
Fresh with immortal bloom: no pain he knew,
No fear of change, no check to his desires,
Save one command. That one command, which stood
"Twixt him and Death, the test of his obedience,
Urged on by wanton curiosity,

« ПретходнаНастави »