Like a poor lunatic that makes his moan,
And for a while beguiles his lookers on;
He reasons well, his eyes their wildness lose,
He vows the keepers his wrong'd sense abuse :
But if you hit the cause that hurt his brain,
Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his chair
His eye-balls roll, and he is mad again.
The dead are only happy, and the dying:
The dead are still, and lasting slumbers hold 'em.
He who is near his death, but turns about,
Shuffles awhile to make his pillow easy,
Then slips into his shroud, and rests for ever.
4. THE SAME.
Death is not dreadful to a mind resolved;
It seems as natural as to be born.
Groans and convulsions, and discoloured faces,
Friends weeping round us, blacks, and obsequies,
Make death a terrible thing: the pomp of death
Is far more terrible than death itself.
When the sun sets, shadows that showed at noon But small appear most long and terrible;
So when we think fate hovers o'er our heads,
Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds:
Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death ·
Nature's worst vermin scare her god-like sons;
Echoes, the very leavings of a voice,
Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves.
Each molehill thought swells to a huge Olympus;
While we fantastic dreamers heave and puff,
And sweat with an imagination's weight.
'Tis night, dead night, and weary nature lies So fast, as if she never were to rise:
No breath of wind now whispers thro' the trees,
No noise on land nor murmurs in the seas:
Lean wolves forget to howl at night's pale noon;
Nor wakeful dogs bark at the silent moon;
Nor bay the ghosts that glide with horror by,
To view the caverns where their bodies lie;
The ravens perch, and no presages give,
Nor to the windows of the dying cleave:
The owls forget to scream; no midnight sound
Calls drowsy echo from the hollow ground.
In vaults the waking fires extinguish'd lie;
The stars, heav'n's sentry, wink, and seem to die.
The world is full of beaten roads,
But yet so slippery withal,
That where one walks secure, 'tis odds
A hundred and a hundred fall.
Untrodden paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure;
And he comes soonest to his rest,
Whose journey has been most secure.
It is content alone that makes
Our pilgrimage a pleasure here:
And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes
An ill commodity too dear.
But he has fortune's worst withstood,
And happiness can never miss,
Can covet naught, but where he stood,
And thinks him happy where he is.
LXXXVII.* ANONYMOUS.
THE LOVE-DISTRACTED LADY.
From rosy bowers, where sleeps the god of love,
Hither, ye little wanton cupids, fly;
Teach me in soft melodious strains to move
With tender passion my heart's darling joy:
Ah! let the soul of music tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.
Or, if more influencing
Ís to be brisk and airy,
With a step and a bound,
With a frisk from the ground
I'll trip like any fairy.
As once on Ida dancing
Were three celestial bodies;
With an air, and a face,
And a shape, and a grace,
I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.
Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!
Death and despair must end the fatal pain :
Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,
Falls on my heart; bleak winds in tempest blow;
My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow :
My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,
And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.
Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown,
Shall I thaw myself, and drown
Among the foaming billows?
Increasing all with tears I shed,
On beds of ooze and crystal pillows,
Lay down, lay down my love-sick head?
No, no, I'll strait run mad, mad, mad;
That soon my heart will warm;
When once the sense is fled, is fled,
Love has no power to charm.
Wild through the woods I'll fly, I'll fly,
Robes, locks-shall thus be tore !
A thousand, thousand times I'll die,
Ere thus, thus, in vain-ere thus in vain adore.
LXXXVII. HENRY DELAUNE.
ON THE FRAIL THINGS OF THIS WORLD
Ere God on Sodom stretched his flaming hand,
He had a care to send just Lot away;
So mostly still, when He will scourge a land,
Whom He best loves He puts out of the way.
Early set forth to eternal race,
The ascent is steep and craggy you must climb: God, at all times, has promised sinners grace If they repent; but He ne'er promised time. Cheat not yourselves, as most, who then prepare For death, when life is almost turned to fume; One thief was saved that no man might despair; And but one thief, that no man might presume.
Wealth, honour, friends, wife, children, kindred, all We so much doat on, and wherein we trust, Are withering gourds, blossoms that fade and fall; Landscapes in water, and deeds drawn in dust. How many has the morn beheld to rise
In their youth's prime, as glorious as the sun, Who, like a flower cropt, have had their eyes Closed up by death before the day was done.
Poison, a knife, a pistol, thousands more
Sad instruments, set periods to our fates.
Nature lets into life but at one door;
But to go forth death opens many gates.
All dark and comfortless!
Where are those various objects that but now
Employed my busy eyes? where are those eyes?
Dead are their piercing rays, that lately shot
O'er flow'ry vales to distant sunny hills,
And drew with joy the vast horizon in.
These groping hands are now my only guides,
And feeling all my sight.
Shut from the living while among the living!
Dark as the grave amidst the bustling world!
At once from bus'ness and from pleasure barred!
No more to view the beauty of the spring!
Nor see the face of kindred or of friend!
LXXXIX. JOHN OLDHAM.
1. WISDOM.
Wisdom's an evenness of soul,
A steady temper which no cares control,
No passions ruffle, no desires inflame ;
Still constant to itself, and still the same.
2. IMPUDENCE.
Get that great gift and talent, Impudence,
Accomplished mankind's highest excellence :
'Tis that alone prefers, alone makes great.
Confers alone wealth, titles, and estate;
Gains place at court, can make a fool a peer,
An ass a bish'p: can vilest blockheads rear
To wear red hats and sit in porph'ry chair :
'Tis learning, parts, and skill, and wit, and sense
Worth, merit, honour, virtue, innocence.
Make me a bowl, a mighty bowl!
Large as my capacious soul!
Vast as my thrift is! let it have
Depth enough to be my grave!
I mean the grave of all my care,
For I intend to bury't there.
Let it of silver fashion'd be,
Worthy of wine, worthy of me:
Yet draw no shapes of armour there,
No casque, nor shield, nor sword, nor spear;
Nor wars of Thebes, nor wars of Troy,
Nor any other martial toy :
For what do I vain armour prize,
Who mind not such rough exercise?
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