Yes, and from winds, and waves, and central night,
Though prison'd there, my duft too I reclaim,
(To duft when drop proud nature's proudeft fpheres) 525
And live intire. 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! 530
Spring from our fetters; fasten in the skies;
Where blooming Eden withers in our fight:
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?
Our only Cure for the Fear of Death; and proper
Sentiments of that inestimable Blessing.
THE HONOURABLE MR. YORKE.
Much-indebted Mufe, O Yorke! intrudes.
Amid the fmiles 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 fovereign cure.
Why start at death? Where is he? Death arriv'd,
Is paft; not come, or gone, he 's never here.
Ere hope, fenfation fails; black-boding man
Receives, not fuffers, death's tremendous blow.
The knell, the fhroud, the mattock, and the grave; 10
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 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, bur holds
My younger; every date cries
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 just 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, Narciffa's marble tells !)
And at his death bequeathing endless pain;
His heart, though bold, would ficken at the fight,
And spend itself in fighs, 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,
Long-rifled life of fweet 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, fouls 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 spruce band! arrive,
To push me from the scene, or hiss me there.
What a pert race starts up! the strangers gaze,
And I at them; my neighbour is unknown;
Nor that the worst: Ah me! the dire effect
Of loitering here, of death defrauded long;
Of old fo gracious (and let that suffice),
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 ardour to be seen.
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;
Embittering the poffeft: Why wish for more?
Wifbing, of all employments, is the worft;
Philofophy's reverfe; and health's decay!
Were I as plump as stall'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.
Wifbing, that constant 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 fhed.
The world's a ftately bark, on dangerous feas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril;
Here, on a fingle plank, thrown safe ashore,
I hear the tumult of the diftant throng,
As that of feas remote, or dying storms:
And meditate on scenes, more filent 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 inclofure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing, and pursued, 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 though we wade in wealth, or foar in fame?
Earth's highest station ends in, " Here he lies,"
And "duft to duft" concludes her nobleft fong. 100
If this fong lives, pofterity fhall know
One, though 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,
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