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So call'd, fo thought-And then he fled the Field.
Lefs Base the Fear of Death, than Fear of Life.
O Britain, infamous for Suicide !

An Island in thy Manners! far disjoin'd
From the whole World of Rationals befide.
In ambient Waves plunge thy polluted Head,
Wash the dire Stain, nor shock the Continent.
But Thou be fhock'd, while I detect the Caufe
Of Self-affault, expofe the Monster's Birth,
And bid Abhorrence hifs it round the World.
Blame not thy Clime, nor chide the diftant Sun;
The Sun is innocent, thy Clime abfolv'd,
Immoral Climes kind Nature never made.
The Caufe, I fing, in Eden might prevail,
And proves, It is thy Folly, not thy Fate.

The Soul of Man, (let Man in Homage bow
Who names his Soul) a Native of the Skies!
High-born, and free, her Freedom should maintain,
Unfold, unmortgag'd for Earth's little Bribes.
Th' illuftrious Stranger, in this foreign Land,
Like Strangers, jealous of her Dignity,
Studious of Home, and ardent to return,
Of Earth fufpicious, Earth's inchanted Cup
With cool Reserve light-touching, fhould indulge:
On Immortality, her Godlike Taste ;

There take large Draughts; make her chief Banquet there But fome reject this Suftenance Divine

To beggarly vile Appetites defcend;

Afk Alms of Earth, for Guests that came from Heav'n;
Sink into Slaves; and fell, for prefent Hire,

Their rich reverfion, and (what shares its Fate,)
Their native Freedom, to the Prince who fways
This nether World. And when his Payments fail,
When his foul Basket gorges them no more;
Or their pall'd Palates loath the Basket full,
Are, inftantly, with wild Demoniac Rage,

For

For breaking all the Chains of Providence,
And bursting their Confinement; tho' faft barr'd
By Laws divine and human; guarded strong
With Horrors doubled to defend the Pass,

The blackest Nature, or dire Guilt can raise;
And moated round, with fathomless Destruction,
Sure to receive and whelm them in their Fall.
Such, Britons! is the Caufe, to you unknown,
Or worse, o'erlook'd; o'erlook'd by Magiftrates,
Thus, Criminals themselves. I grant the Deed
Is Madness; but the Madness of the Heart.
And what is that? our utmost bound of Guilt.
A fenfual, unreflecting Life is big

With monftrous Births, and Suicide, to crown
The black infernal Brood. The Bold to break
Heav'n's Law fupreme, and desperately rush
Thro' facred Nature's Murder, on their own.
Because they never think of Death, they die.
'Tis equally Man's Duty, Glory, Gain,
At once to shun, and meditate, his End.
When by the Bed of Languishment we fit,
(The Seat of Wisdom! if our Choice, not Fate)
Or, o'er our dying Friends, in Anguish hang,
Wipe the cold dew, or stay the finking Head,
Number their Moments, and in ev'ry Clock,
Start at the Voice of an Eternity;

See the dim Lamp of Life just feebly lift
An agonizing Beam, at us to gaze,
Then fink again, and quiver into Death,
That most Pathetick Herald of our own;
How read we fuch fad Scenes ? as fent to Man
In perfect Vengeance? no; in Pity fent,

To melt him down, like Wax, and then imprefs
Indelible, Death's Image on his Heart;
Bleeding for others, Trembling for himself.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile.

The

The Mind turns Fool, before the Cheek is dry..
Our quick-returning Folly cancels all;
As the Tide's rushing rases what is writ

In yielding Sands, and smooths the Letter'd Shore.
Lorenzo! haft thou ever weigh'd a Sigh?

Or ftudy'd the Philofophy of Tears?

(A Science, yet unlectur'd in our Schools.):
Haft thou defcended deep into the Breast,

And feen their Source? If not, defcend with me,
And trace thefe briny Riv'lets to their Springs..

Our Fun'ral Tears, from diff'rent Causes, rise.
As if, from fep'rate Cisterns in the Soul,

Of various Kinds, they flow. From tender Hearts,.
By foft Contagion call'd, fome burft at once,
And ftream obfequious to the leading Eye.
Some, afk more Time, by curious Art distill'd.
Some Hearts in fecret hard, unapt to melt,
Struck by the Magic of the Public eye,
Like Mofes' fmitten Rock, gush out amain..
Some weep
to share the Fame of the Deceas'd,
So high in Merit, and to them fo Dear..

They dwell on Praises, which they think they share,.
And thus, without a Blush, commend Themselves.
Some mourn in Proof that fomething they could love..
They weep not to relieve their Grief, but few..
Some weep in perfect Juftice to the Dead,
As Conscious all their Love is in Arrear.
Some mischievously weep, not unappriz'd,.
Tears, fometimes, aid the Conqueft of an Eye.
With what Address the soft Ephefians draw
Their Sable Net-work o'er entangled Hearts ?
As feen through Cryftal, how their Rofes glow,.
While liquid Pearl runs trickling down their Cheek ?
Of hers, not prouder Egypt's wanton Queen,
Caroufing Gems, herself diffolv'd in Love.
Some weep at Death, abftracted from the Dead,

And

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And celebrate, like Charles, their own Decease.
By kind Conftruction some are deem'd to weep,
Because a decent Veil conceals their Joy.

Some weep in Earnest; and yet weep in Vain ;
As deep in Indiscretion, as in Woe.

Paffion, blind Paffion! impotently pours

Tears, that defer ve more Tears; while Reason fleeps,.

Or gazes, like an Idiot, unconcern'd;

Nor comprehends the meaning of the Storm;
Knows not It speaks to Her, and her alone.
Irrationals all Sorrow are beneath,

That noble Gift! that Privilege of Man
From Sorrow's Pang, the Birth of endless Joy.
But These are barren of that Birth Divine.
They weep impetuous, as the Summer-Storm,
And full as fhort! The cruel Grief foon tam'd,
They make a Paftime of the ftinglefs Tale;
Far as the deep-refounding Knell; they spread
The dreadful News, and hardly feel it more.
No Grain of Wisdom pays them for their Woe..
Half round the Globe, the Tears pump'd up by Death:
Are spent in watr'ing Vanities of Life;

In making Folly flourish still more fair.

When the fick Soul, her wonted stay withdrawn,

Reclines on Earth, and forrows in the Duft,

Inftead of learning there, her true Support ;
Tho' there thrown down, her true Support to learn,.
Without Heav'n's Aid, impatient to be Bleft,

She crawls to the next Shrub, or Bramble vile,
Tho' from the ftately Cedar's Arms she fell,
With ftale, forefworn Embraces, clings anew,
The Stranger weds, and bloffoms as before,.
In all the fruitless Fopperies of Life,
Prefents her Weed well-fancied, at the Ball,.
And raffles for the Death's-Head on the Ring.

So

So wept Aurelia, till the deftin'd Youth
Stept in, with his Receipt for making Smiles;
And blanching Sables into bridal Bloom.
So wept Lorenzo fair Clariffa's Fate;

Who gave that Angel-Boy, on whom he doats;
And dy'd to give him, orphan'd in his Birth !
Not fuch Narciffa, my Diftrefs for Thee.
I'll make an Altar of thy facred Tomb

To facrifice to Wisdom.-What waft Thou?
"Young, Gay, and Fortunate!" Each yields a Theme.
I'll dwell on each, to fhun Thought more fevere;
(Heav'n knows I labour with severer still!)
I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy Death.
A Soul without Reflection, like a Pile

Without Inhabitants, to ruin runs.

And, First, thy Youth. What fays itto Grey Hairs} Narciffa I'm become thy Pupil now—

Early, Bright, Tranfient, Chaft, as Morning Dew
She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to Heav'n.
Time on this Head has fnow'd, yet ftill 'tis born
Aloft; nor thinks but on another's Grave.
Cover'd with Shame I fpeak it, Age fevere,
Old worn-out Vice fets down for Virtue fair.
With graceless Gravity, chastifing Youth,
That Youth chaftis'd furpaffing in a Fault,
Father of all, Forgetfulness of Death.
As if, like Objects preffing on the Sight,
Death had advanc'd too near us to be feen:
Or, that Life's Loan Time ripen'd into Right
And Men might plead Prescription from the Grave;
Deathlefs, from Repetition of Reprieve.

Deathlefs? far from it! fuch are Dead already;
Their Hearts are buried, and the World their Grave.
Tell me fome God! my guardian Angel! tell,
What thus infatuates? what Inchantment plants
The Phantom of an Age, 'twixt us and Death,

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