Uprais'd his drooping head, and shew'd afar
A happier scene of things; the promis'd Seed
Trampling upon the Serpent's humbled crest;
Death of his sting disarm'd; and the dark grave,
Made pervious to the realms of endless day,
No more the limit but the gate of life.

Cheer'd with the view, Man went to till the ground,
From whence he rose; sentenc'd indeed to toil
As to a punishment, yet (ev'n in wrath,
So merciful is Heav'n) this toil became
The solace of his woes, the sweet employ
Of many a live-long hour, and surest guard.
Against Disease and Death. Death, tho' denounc'd,
Was yet a distant ill, by feeble arm

Of Age, his sole support, led slowly on.
Not then, as since, the short-liv'd sons of men
Flock'd to his realms in countless multitudes;
Scarce in the course of twice five hundred years,
One solitary ghost went shiv'ring down
To his unpeopled shore. In sober state,
Through the sequester'd vale of rural life,
The venerable Patriarch guileless held
The tenor of his way; Labour prepar'd
His simple fare, and Temp'rance rul'd his board.
Tir'd with his daily toil, at early eve

He sunk to sudden rest; gentle and pure

As breath of evening Zephyr, and as sweet,

Were all his slumbers; with the Sun he rose,

Alert and vigorous as He, to run

His destin'd course. Thus nerv'd with giant strength

He stemm'd the tide of time, and stood the shock.
Of ages rolling harmless o'er his head.

At life's meridian point arriv'd, he stood,
And, looking round, saw all the valleys fill'd
With nations from his loins; full-well content
To leave his race thus scatter'd o'er the earth,
Along the gentle slope of life's decline
He bent his gradual way, till, full of years,
He dropp'd like mellow fruit into his grave
Such in the infancy of Time was Man;
So calm was life, so impotent was Death!
O had he but preserv'd these few remains,
The shatter'd fragments, of lost happiness,
Snatch'd by the hand of Heav'n from the sad wreck
Of innocence primeval; still had he liv'd

In ruin great; tho' fall'n, yet not forlorn;
Though mortal, yet not every where beset
With Death in ev'ry shape! But he, impatient
To be completely wretched, hastes to fill up
The measure of his woes-'Twas Man himself
Brought Death into the world; and Man himself
Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace,
And multiply'd destruction on mankind.

First Envy, eldest born of Hell, embrued
Her hands in blood, and taught the Sons of Men
To make a Death which Nature never made.
And God abhorr'd; with violence rude to break
The thread of life ere half its length was run,
And rob a wretched brother of his being.

With joy Ambition saw, and soon improv'd

The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough

By subtle fraud to snatch a single life,
Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell
To sate the lust of power: more horrid still,

The foulest stain and scandel of our nature,

Became its boast.

Millions a Hero.

One Murder made a Villain;
Princes were privileg'd

To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime,
Ah! why will Kings forget that they are Men?
And Men that they are brethren? Why delight
In human sacrifice; Why burst the ties

Of Nature, that should knit their souls together
In one soft bond of amity and love?

Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on
Inhumanly ingenious to find out

New pains for life, new terrors for the grave,
Artificers of Death! Still Monarchs dream
Of universal empire growing up
From universal ruin. Blast the design
Great God of Hosts, let not thy creatures fall
Unpitied victims at ambition's shrine!

Yet say, should Tyrants learn at last to feel,
And the loud din of battle cease to bray;

Should dove-eyed Peace o'er all the earth extend

Her olive branch, and give the world repose,

Would Death be foild? Would health, and strength, and Defy his pow'r? Has he no arts in store,

No other shafts save those of war? Alas!

[youth,

Ev'n in the smile of Peace, that smile which sheds
A heav'nly sunshine o'er the soul; there basks
That serpent Luxury War its thousands slays;
Peace its ten thousands. In th' embattled plain,

Tho' Death exults, and claps his raven wings,
Yet reigns he not ev'n there so absolute,
So merciless, as in yon frantic scenes
Of midnight revel and tumultucus mirth,

Where in th' intoxicating draught conceal'd,
Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless lovė,
He snares the simple youth, who nought suspecting
Means to be blest-but finds himself undone.

Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts,
Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky,
Hope swells his sails, and passion steers his course,
Safe glides his little bark along the shore
Where Virtue takes her stand; but if too far
He launches forth beyond Discretion's mark,
Sudden the tempest scowls,, the surges roar,
Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep.
O sad but sure mischance! O happier far
To lie like gallant Howe 'midst Indian wilds
A breathless corse, cut off by savage hands
In earliest prime, a generous sacrifice
To fredom's holy cause; than so to fall,
Torn immature from life's meridian joys,
A prey to Vice, Intemp'rance, and Disease,
Yet die ev❜n thus, thus rather perish still,
Ye sons of Pleasure, by the Almighty strick'n,
Than ever dare (though oft alas! ye dare)
To lift against yourselves the murd'rous steel,
To wrest from God's own hand the sword of Justice,
And be your own avengers! Hold, rash Man,
Though with anticipating speed thou'st rang'd'
Through emery region of delight, nor left
One joy to gild the evening of thy days;
Though life seem one uncomfortable void,
Guilt at thy heels, before thy face despair;
Yet gay this scene, and light this load of woe
Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think, O think

And, ere thou plunge into the vast abyss,
Pause on the verge a while: look down and see
Thy future mansion. Why that start of horror?
From thy slack hand why drops the uplifted steel?
Didst thou not think such vengeance must await
The wretch, that with his crimes all fresh about him
Rushes irreverant, unprepar'd, uncall'd,

Into his Maker's presence, throwing back
With insolent disdain, his choicest gift?

Live then, while Heav'n in pity lends thee life,
And think it all too short to wash away,
By penitential tears and deep contrition,
The scarlet of thy crimes. So shalt thou find
Rest to thy soul; so unappall'd shall meet
Death when he comes, not wantonly invite
His ling'ring stroke. Be it thy sole concern
With innocence to live with patience wait
Th' appointed hour: too soon that hour will come,
Tho' nature run her course. But nature's God,
If need require, by thousand various ways,
Without thy aid, can shorten that short span,
And quench the lamp of life. O when he comes,
Rous'd by the cry of wickedness extreme,
To heav'n ascending from some guilty land,
Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes array'd
In all the terrors of almighty wrath,

Forth from his bosom plucks his ling'ring arm,
And on the miscreants pours destruction down;
Who can abide his coming? who can bear
His whole displeasure? In no common form
Death then appears, but starting into size
Enormous, measures with gigantic stride