No Blifs has Life to boast, till Death can give
Far greater; Life's a Debtor to the Grave,
Dark Lattice! letting in eternal Day.

LORENZO! blush at Fondness for a Life,
Which fends celeftial Souls on Errands vile,
To cater for the Sense; and ferve at Boards,
Where ev'ry Ranger of the Wilds, perhaps
Each Reptile, justly claims our upper Hand.
Luxurious Feaft! a Soul, a Soul immortal,
In all the Dainties of a Brute bemir'd!
LORENZO! blush at Terror for a Death,
Which gives thee to repofe in feftive Bow'rs,
Where Nectars fparkle, Angels minifter,

And more than Angels share, and raise, and crown,
And eternize, the Birth, Bloom, Burfts of Blifs.
What need I more? O Death, the Palm is thine.
Then welcome, Death! thy dreaded Harbingers,
Age, and Difeafe; Disease, tho' long my Gueft;
That plucks my Nerves, thofe tender Strings of Life;
Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the Bell,
That calls my few Friends to my Funeral;
Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a Tear,
While Reafon and Religion, better taught,
Congratulate the Dead, and crown his Tomb
With Wreath triumphant. Death is Victory;
It binds in Chains the raging Ills of Life;
Luft and Ambition, Wrath and Avarice,
Dragg'd at his Chariot-wheel, applaud his Power.
That Ills corrofive, Cares importunate,
Are not immortal too, O Death! is Thine.
Our Day of Diffolution !-Name it right;
'Tis our great Pay-day; 'tis our Harvest, rich
And ripe: What tho' the Sickle, fometimes keen,
Juft fcars us as we reap the golden Grain ?

More than thy Balm, O Gilead heals the Wound.

I

Birth's

i

Birth's feeble Cry, and Death's deep dismal Groan,
Are flender Tributes low-taxt Nature pays
For mighty Gain: The Gain of each, a Life!
But O! the last the former so transcends,

Life dies, compar'd; Life lives beyond the Grave.
And feel I, Death! no Joy from Thought of Thee?
Death, the great Counsellor, who Man infpires
With ev'ry nobler Thought, and fairer Deed!
Death, the Deliv'rer, who refcues Man!

Death, the Rewarder, who the Refcu'd crowns!
Death, that abfolves my Birth; a Curfe without it!
Rich Death, that realizes all my Cares,

Toils, Virtues, Hopes; without it a Chimera!
Death, of all Pain the Period, not of Joy;
Joy's Source, and Subject, still subsist unhurt;
One, in my Soul; and One, in her great Sire;
Tho' the four Winds were warring for my Duft.
Yes, and from Winds, and Waves, and central Night,
Tho' prifon'd there, my Duft too I reclaim,
(To Duft when drop proud Nature's proudest Spheres)
And live entire. Death is the Crown of Life:
Were Death deny'd, poor Man would live in vain;
Were Death deny'd, to live would not be Life ;
Were Death deny'd, ev'n Fools would wish to die.
Death wounds to cure: We fall; we rife; we reign!
Spring from our Fetters; faften in the Skies;
Where blooming Eden withers in our Sight:
Death gives us more than was in Eden loft.
This King of Terrors is the Prince of Peace.
When shall I die to Vanity, Pain, Death?
When fhall I die?-When fhall I live for ever?

NIGHT the FOURTH.

THE

CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH.

CONTAINING

Our only CURE for the FEAR of DEATH,

And Proper SENTIMENTS of HEART on that Inestimable Bleffing.

A

Much-indebted Mufe, O YORKE! intrudes.

Amid the Smiles of Fortune, and of Youth,

Thine Ear is patient of a serious Song.

How deep implanted in the Breast of Man
The Dread of Death! I fing its fov'reign Cure.
Why ftart at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd,
Is paft; not come, or gone, He's never here.
Ere Hope, Senfation fails; Black-boding Man
Receives, not Juffers, Death's tremendous Blow.

The Knell, the Shroud, the Mattock, and the Grave;
The deep damp Vault, the Darkness, and the Worm;

1

Thefe

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 were 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; ev'ry 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 Æthiops, 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-tɔld Tale,
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 bil unrobe,
Tols Fortune back her Tinfel, and her Plume,
And drop this Mask of Flesh behind the Scene.

i

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 starts up! The Strangers 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 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 fqueeze my Hand, and beg me come To-morrow;
Refufal! can't 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 ftubborn Troy,
Court-Favour, yet untaken, I befiege;
Ambition's ill-judg'd Effort to be rich.
Alas! Ambition makes my Little, lefs;
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 waste me to this Shade 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