Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

846.-DEATH.

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul, What a strange moment it must be, when

near

Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view!

That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd
To tell what's doing on the other side.
Nature runs back and shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of
parting;

For part they must: body and soul must part;

Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair.

This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge: That drops into the dark and noisome grave, Like a disabled pitcher of no use.

Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746.

847.-THE GRAVE.

Death's shafts fly thick!-Here falls the village-swain,

And there his pamper'd lord!-The cup goes round;

And who so artful as to put it by?
'Tis long since death had the majority;
Yet, strange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle;

Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole

A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand Digs through whole rows of 'kindred and acquaintance,

By far his juniors.-Scarce a skull's cast up,

But well he knew its owner, and can tell Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand

The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years;

And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder,

Or clubs a smuttier tale: when drunkards meet,

None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup.-Poor wretch he

minds not,

That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.

On this side, and on that, men see their friends

Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out

Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for.-Fools that we

are !

[blocks in formation]

Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones!

The very turf on which we tread once lived;
And we that live must lend our carcases
To cover our own offspring: in their turns
They too must cover theirs.-'Tis here all
meet!

The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the
Christian.

Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,

His sovereign's keeper, and the people's

scourge,

Are huddled out of sight.-Here lie abash'd
The great negotiators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,
Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts.
Now vain their treaty skill: death scorns to
treat.

Here the o'er-loaded slave flings down his burden

From his gall'd shoulders ;-and when the cruel tyrant,

With all his guards and tools of power about him,

Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, Mocks his short arm,-and, quick as thought,

escapes

Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream
(Time out of mind the favourite seats of love),
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue.-Here friends and
foes

Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-robed prelate and plain presbyter,
Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock had split.
Here is the large-limb'd peasant ;-here the
child

Of a span long, that never saw the sun,
Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's
porch.

[blocks in formation]

849.-THE RESURRECTION.

Even 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 reassemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And put them as they were.-Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm im-
pair'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; and, 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.

Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746.

850. THE ROSE.

How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May!

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,

And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field;

When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the

rose;

But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,

Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well-doing my duty;

This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748.

851.-A SUMMER EVENING.

How fine has the day been, how bright was

the sun,

How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,

And there followed some droppings of rain!

But now the fair traveller's come to the west,

His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;

He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,

And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian; his course he begins,

Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins,

And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,

And travels his heavenly way :

But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,

And gives a sure hope at the end of his days, Of rising in brighter array.

Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,

As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold
To dull embraces move :

So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer bliss destroy;

On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T' improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,

Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:"
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.

Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748.

852.-FEW HAPPY MATCHES. Say, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares.

853. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. When the fierce north wind, with his airy forces,

Roars up the Baltic to a foamy fury;
And the red lightning, with a storm of hail,

comes

Rushing amain down,

[blocks in formation]

You, whose capacious powers survey
Largely beyond our eyes of clay,
Yet what a narrow portion too
Is seen or thought or known by you!

How flat your highest praises fall
Before th' immense Original!
Weak creatures we, that strive in vain
To reach an uncreated strain.

Great God forgive our feeble lays,
Sound out thine own eternal praise;
A song so vast, a theme so high,
Call for the voice that tuned the sky.
Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748.

855.-NIGHT.

These thoughts, O Night! are thine; From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,

Her shepherd cheered; of her enamoured less

Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung, Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing?

Immortal silence! where shall I begin? Where end? or how steal music from the

spheres

To soothe their goddess?

O majestic Night!

Nature's great ancestor! Day's elder born!
And fated to survive the transient sun!
By mortals and immortals seen with awe!
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns,
An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's
loom

Wrought through varieties of shape and shade,

In ample folds of drapery divine,

Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven through. out,

Voluminously pour thy pompous train: Thy gloomy grandeurs-Nature's most august,

Inspiring aspect!-claim a grateful verse; And, like a sable curtain starr'd with gold, Drawn o'er my labours past, shall clothe the

scene.

Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765.

856.-ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he for-

sakes:

Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

:

From short (as usual) and disturbed repose I wake how happy they who wake no more! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.

I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wrecked desponding thought

From wave to wave of fancied misery

At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain

(A bitter change!) severer for severe :

The day too short for my distress; and
night,

E'en in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.
Night, sable goddess!
throne,

from her ebon

In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world.
Silence how dead! and darkness how pro-

found!

Nor eye nor list'ning ear an object finds;
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled:
Fate drop the curtain; I can lose no more.
Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters!
twins

From ancient Night, who nurse the tender
thought

To reason, and on reason build resolve
(That column of true majesty in man),
Assist me: I will thank you in the grave;
The grave your kingdom: there this frame
shall fall

A victim sacred to your dreary shrine.
But what are ye?

Thou, who didst put to flight
Primeval Silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball;

Oh Thou! whose word from solid darkness
struck

That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul;

My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure,

As misers to their gold, while others rest.

Through this opaque of nature and of
soul,

This double night, transmit one pitying ray,
To lighten and to cheer. Oh lead my mind
(A mind that fain would wander from its
woe),

Lead it through various scenes of life and
death,

And from each scene the noblest truths in-
spire.

Nor less inspire my conduct than my song;
Teach my best reason, reason; my best will
Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear:
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, poured

On this devoted head, be poured in vain.
How poor, how rich, how abject,
august,

how

How complicate, how wonderful is man!
How passing wonder He who made him

such!

Who centred in our make such

extremes,

strange

From different natures marvellously mixed,
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguished link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!

A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust:
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

A worm a god! I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised,
aghast,

And wondering at her own.

reels!

How reason

Oh what a miracle to man is man!
Triumphantly distressed! what joy!

dread!

Alternately transported and alarmed!

what

What can preserve my life! or what destroy!
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the

[blocks in formation]

Of subtler essence than the common clod: **
Even silent night proclaims my soul im-
mortal!
Why, then, their loss deplore that are not
lost ?

* *

This is the desert, this the solitude:
How populous, how vital is the grave!
This is creation's melancholy vault,
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom;
The land of apparitions, empty shades!
All, all on earth, is shadow, all beyond
Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed;
How solid all, where change shall be no
more!

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn,
The twilight of our day, the vestibule ;
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death,
Strong death alone can heave the massy bar,
This gross impediment of clay remove,
And make us embryos of existence free

« AnteriorContinuar »