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';
Thefe 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 thoufand deaths, in fearing one.

But were death frightful, what has age to fear?
If prudent, age should meet the friendly foe,
And shelter in his hofpitable gloom.

I scarce can meet a monument, but holds
My younger; ev'ry dates cries-" Come away."
And what recalls me? Look the world around,
And tell me what: The wisest 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 best; 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 fight,
And spend itself in fighs, for future scenes.

But grant to life (and juft it is to grant
To lucky life) fome perquifites of joy;
A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale,
Long-rifled life of fweet can yield no more,

But

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, fouls are bid unrobe,
Tofs fortune back her tinfel, and her plume,
And drop this mask of flesh behind the fcene.
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 push me from the scene, or hifs me there.
What a pert race farts up! the ftrangers gaze,
And I at them; my neighbour is unknown;
Nor that the worft: 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 fight,
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 fpent on ftubborn Troy," Court favour, yet untaken, I befiege; Ambition's ill judg'd effort to be rich.

Alas!

Alas! ambition makes my little less;

Embitt'ring the poffefs'd: Why wish for more?
Wishing, of all employments, is the worst;
Philofophy's reverse; and health's decay!
Were I as plump as ftall'd theology,
Wishing would wafte me to this fhade again.
Were 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 stately bark, on dang'rous feas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril;
Here, on a fingle plank, thrown fafe afhore,
I hear the tumult of the distant throng,
As that of feas remote, or dying ftorms:
And meditate on scenes, more silent still ;
Purfue my theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Here, like a fhepherd 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,
Burft 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?

Earth's highest station ends in, "Here he lies: "
And" duft to duft" concludes her roblest fong.
If this fong 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 ftate;
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 clofer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched foil ?
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 bede?
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 rufh 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 stricter on their guard, and fitter far
To play life's fubtle game, I fcarce believe

VOL. III.

E

I fill

I ftill furvive: And am I fond of life,

Who fcarce can think it poffible, I live?
Alive by miracle! or, what is next,

Alive by MEAD! if I am ftill alive,

Who long have bury'd what gives life to live,
Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought.
Life's lee is not more shallow, than impure,
And vapid; Senfe and Reafon fhew the door,
Call for my bier, and point me to the duft.
O thou great arbiter of life and death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial fun!
Whofe all-prolific beam late call'd me forth
From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay
The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath
The duft I tread on, high to bear my brow,
To drink the fpirit of the golden-day,
And triumph in existence; and could know
No motive, but my bliss; and hast ordain'd
A rife in bleffing! with the Patriach's joy,
Thy call I follow to the land unknown ;
I truft in thee, and know in whom I trust;
Or life, or death, is equal; neither weighs :
All weight in this-O let me live to thee!

Tho' Nature's terrors, thus, may be repreft;
Still frowns grim Death; guilt points the tyrant's fpear.
And whence all human guilt? From death forgot.
Ah me! too long I fet at nought the swarm
Of friendly warnings, which around me flew ;
And smil'd, unfmitten: Small my cause to smile!
Death's admonitions, like fhafts upwards fhot,

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