Much-indebted Mufe, O YORKE! intrudes.
Amid the Smiles of Fortune, and of Youth,
Thine Ear is patient of a ferious Song.
How deep implanted in the Breast of Man
The Dread of Death? Ifing its fov'reign Cure.
Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd,
Is paft; not come, or gone, He's never bere.
Ere Hope, Senfation fails; Black-boding Man
Receives, not fuffers Death's tremendous Blow.
The Knell, the Shroud, the Mattock, and the Grave;
The deep damp Vault, the Darkness, and the Worm;
These are the Bugbears of a Winter's Eve,
The Terrors of the Living, not the Dead.
Imagination's Fool, and Error's Wretch,
Man makes a Death, which Nature never made;
Then on the Point of his own Fancy falls;
And feels a thousand Deaths, in fearing one.
But was Death frightful, what has Age to fear?
If prudent, Age fhould meet the friendly Foe,
And shelter in his hofpitable Gloom.
I fcarce can meet a Monument, but holds
My Younger; every Date cries- Come away."
And what recalls me? Look the World around,
And tell me what: The Wifeft cannot tell..
Should any born of Woman give his Thought
Full Range, on juft Diflike's unbounded Field;
Of Things, the Vanity; of Men, the Flaws;
Flaws in the Beft; the Many, Flaw all o'er,
As Leopards, fpotted, or, as Ethiops, dark;
Vivacious Ill; Good dying immature ;
(How immature, NARCISSA's Marble tells)
And at its Death bequeathing endless Pain;
His Heart, tho' bold, would ficken at the Sight,
And spend itself in Sighs, for future Scenes.
But grant to Life (and just it is to grant
To lucky Life) fome Perquifites of Joy;
A Time there is, when, like a thrice-told Tale,
And that of no great Moment, or Delight,
Long-rifled Life of Sweet can yield no more,
But from our Comment on the Comedy,
Pleafing Reflections on Parts well-fuftain'd,
Or purpos'd Emendations where we fail'd,
Or Hopes of Plaudits from our candid Judge,
When, on their Exit, Souls are bid unrobe,
Tofs Fortune back her Tinfel, and her Plume,
And drop this Mask of Flesh behind the Scene.
With me, that Time is come; my World is dead;
A new World rifes, and new Manners reign:
Foreign Comedians, a fpruce Band! arrive,
To puth me from the Scene, or hifs me there.
What a pert Race ftarts up! the Strange aze,
And I at them; my Neighbour is unknown;
Nor that the worst: Ah me! the dire Effect
Of loit'ring here, of Death defrauded long;
Of old fo gracious (and let that fuffice),
My very Mafter knows me not.-
Shall I dare fay, Peculiar is the Fate ?
I've been fo long remember'd, I'm forgot.
An Object ever preffing dims the Sight,
And hides behind its Ardor to be feen.
When in his Courtiers Ears I pour my Plaint,
They drink it as the Nectar of the Great ;
And squeeze my Hand, and beg me come To-morrow;
Refufal! canft thou wear a smoother Form?
Indulge me, nor conceive I drop my Theme :
Who cheapens Life, abates the Fear of Death:
Twice-told the Period spent on stubborn Troy,
Court-Favour, yet untaken, I befiege;
Ambition's ill-judg'd Effort to be rich.
Alas! Ambition makes my Little, less;
Embitt'ring the Poffefs'd: Why with for more?
Wishing, of all Employments, is the Worft;
Philofophy's Reverfe! and Health's Decay!
Was I as plump, as ftall'd Theology,
Wishing would wafte me to this Shade again.
Was I as wealthy as a South-Sea Dream,
Wishing is an Expedient to be poor.
Wishing, that conftant Hectic of a Fool;
Caught at a Court; purg'd off by purer Air,
And fimpler Diet; Gifts of rural Life!
Bleft be that Hand divine, which gently laid
My Heart at Reft, beneath this humble Shed.
The World's a ftately Bark, on dang'rous Seas,
With Pleasure feen, but boarded at our Peril :
Here, on a fingle Plank, thrown safe afhore,
I hear the Tumult of the diftant Throng,
As that of Seas remote, or dying Storms;
And meditate on Scenes, more filent ftill;
Purfue my Theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Here, like a Shepherd gazing from his Hut,
Touching his Reed, or leaning on his Staff,
Eager Ambition's fiery Chace I fee;
I fee the circling Hunt, of noify Men,
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Burt Law's Inclosure, leap the Mounds of Right,
Pursuing, and purfu'd, each other's Prey;
As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles;
Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all.
Why all this Toil for Triumphs of an Hour?
What, tho' we wade in Wealth, or foar in Fame ?
Earths highest Station ends in, "Here he lies :"
And " Duft to Duft" concludes her nobleft Song.
If this Song lives, Pofterity fhall know
One, tho' in Britain born, with Courtiers bred,
Who thought ev'n Gold might come a Day too late;
Nor on his fubtle Death-bed plann'd his Scheme
For future Vacancies in Church or State;
Some Avocation deeming it
to die; Unbit by Rage canine of dying Rich;
Guilt's Blunder! and the loudeft Laugh of Hell.
O my Coëvals! Remnants of yourselves!
Poor human Ruins, tott'ring o'er the Grave!
Shall we, fhall aged Men, like aged Trees,
Strike deeper their vile Root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched Soil?
Shall our pale, wither'd Hands be ftill ftretch'd out,
Trembling, at once, with Eagerness and Age?
With Av'rice, and Convulfions grasping hard?
Grafping at Air! for what has Earth befide?
Man wants but Little; nor that Little, long;
How foon must he refign his very Duft;
Which frugal Nature lent him for an Hour!
Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous Ills;
And foon as Man, expert from Time, has found
The Key of Life, it opes the Gates of Death.
When in this Vale of Years I backward look,
And mifs fuch Numbers, Numbers too of fuch,
Firmer in Health, and greener in their Age,
And ftricter on their Guard, and fitter far
To play Life's fubtle Game, I fcarce believe
I ftill furvive: And am I fond of Life,
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