Climb the aërial heights, and glide along
Athwart the severing clouds: but the faint eye, Flung backward in the chase, soon drops its hold, Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing. Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in; Nor are his friends shut out: as some great prince Not for himself alone procures admission, But for his train; it was his royal will, That where he is, there should his followers be. Death only lies between, a gloomy path, Made yet more gloomy by our coward fear! But nor untrod, nor tedious: the fatigue Will soon go off. Besides, there's no by-road To bliss. Then why, like ill-condition'd children, Start we at transient hardships in the way That leads to purer air and softer skies,
And a ne'er-setting sun? Fools that we are! We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom; But straight our wish revoke, and will not go. So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by the rivulet's brink, a youngster play : How wishfully he looks to stem the tide ! This moment resolute, next unresolved: At last he dips his foot; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From the inoffensive stream, unmindful now Of all the flowers that paint the further bank, And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome Death! That after many a painful bleeding step,
Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe On the long wish'd-for shore.
Prodigious change! Our bane turn'd to a blessing! Death disarm'd Loses his fellness quite; all thanks to him
Who scourged the venom out! Sure the last end
Of the good man is peace. How calm his exit ! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening-tide of life, A life well speut, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green : By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting! High in his faith and hopes, look, how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away! Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest. Then ! O then! Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of naught. O how he longs To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd! 'Tis done, and now he's happy! The glad soul Has not a wish uncrown'd. Ev'n the lag flesh Rests too in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain: the time draws on When not a single spot of burial-earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long committed dust Inviolate and faithfully shall these
Make up the full account; not the least atom Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. Each soul shall have a body ready-furnish'd; And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane Ask not how this can be. Sure the same Power That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts, And put them as they were; Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd Through length of days; and what he can he will: His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust,
Not unattentive to the call, shall wake; And every joint possess its proper place, With a new elegance of form, unknown To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul Mistake its partner: but amidst the crowd, Singling its other half, into its arms
Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home, who, having long been absent,
With haste runs over every different room,
In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.
"Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day; Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away.
BY DR. PORTEUS, BISHOP OF LONDON.
FRIEND to the wretch whom every friend forsakes, I woo thee, Death! in Fancy's fairy paths Let the gay songster rove, and gently trill The strain of empty joy. Life and its joys
I leave to those that prize them. At this hour, This solemn hour, when silence rules the world, And wearied nature makes a general pause; Wrapt in night's sable robe, through cloisters drear And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng Of meagre phantoms shooting cross my path With silent glance, I seek the shadowy vale Of Death. Deep in a murky cave's recess, Laved by Oblivion's listless stream, and fenced By shelving rocks, and intermingled horrors Of yew and cypress shade, from all intrusion Of busy noontide beam, the Monarch sits In unsubstantial majesty enthroned. At his right hand, nearest himself in place And fruitfulness of form, his parent Sin, With fatal industry and cruel care Busies herself in pointing all his stings, And tipping every shaft with venom drawn From her infernal store: around him ranged In terrible array, and mixture strange
Of uncouth shapes, stand his dread ministers. Foremost Old Age, his natural ally
And firmest friend; next him diseases thick, A motley train; Fever with cheek of fire;
Consumption wan; Palsy, half-warm with life, And half a clay-cold lump; joint-torturing Gout; And ever-gnawing Rheum; Convulsion wild; Swoln Dropsy; panting Asthma; Apoplex Full-gorged. There too the Pestilence that walks In darkness, and the Sickness that destroys At broad noon-day. These, and a thousand more, Horrid to tell, attentive wait; and, when
By Heaven's command Death waves his ebon wand, Sudden rush forth to execute his purpose, And scatter desolation o'er the earth.
Ill-fated Man, for whom such various forms- Of misery wait, and mark their future prey! Ah! why, all-righteous Father, didst thou make This creature, Man? Why wake the unconscious dust To life and wretchedness"? O better far Still had he slept in uncreated night, If this the lot of being! Was it for this Thy breath divine kindled within his breast The vital flame? For this was thy fair image Stamp'd on his soul in godlike lineaments? For this dominion given him absolute
O'er all thy works, only that he might reign Supreme in woe? From the bless'd source of Good Could Pain and Death proceed? Could such foul ills Fall from fair Mercy's hands? Far be the thought, The impious thought! God never made a creature But what was good. He made a living Soul; The wretched Mortal was the work of man. Forth from his Maker's hands he sprung to life, Fresh with immortal bloom: no pain he knew, No fear of change, no check to his desires, Save one command. That one command, which stood "Twixt him and Death, the test of his obedience, Urged on by wanton curiosity,
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