NIGHT the FOURTH.

THE

CHRISTIAN TRIUMP H.

Containing

Our only CURE for the FEAR of
DEATH.

And Proper SENTIMENTS of HEART on that Ineftimable Bleffing.

Humbly Infcribed

To the Honourable Mr. YORKE,

A

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? 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 bere. Ere Hope, Senfation fails; Black-boding Man

Receives,

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 were Death frightful, what has Age to fear?
If prudent, Age fhould meet the friendly Foe,
And fhelter in his hofpitable Gloom.

I scarce 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 just Dislike'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 fpend 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 Talę,
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 push me from the Scene, or hiss me there.
What a pert Race ftarts up! the Strangers gaze,
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 suffice),
My very Master 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

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, lefs;
Embitt'ring the Poffefs'd: Why wish for more?
Wishing, of all Employments, is the worft;
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 be that Hand divine, which gently laid
My Heart at Reft, beneath this humble Shed.
The World's a stately Bark, on dang'rous Seas,
With Pleafure seen, but boarded at our Peril :
Here, on a fingle Plank, thrown fafe ashore,
I hear the Tumult of the diftant Throng,
As that of Seas remote, or dying Storms;

And

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 Mẹn,

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 higheft 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 clofer cling,