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Already at the Door? He knocks, we hear him,
And yet we will not hear. What Mail defends
Our untouch'd Hearts? what Miracle turns off
The pointed thought, which from a thousand Quivers
Is daily darted, and is daily fhunn'd?

We ftand, as in a Battle, Throngs on Throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;
Tho' bleeding with our Wounds, Immortal ftill !
We fee Time's furrows on another's Brow,
And Death intrench'd, preparing his Affault;
How few themselves, in that juft Mirror, fee?
Or feeing, draw their Inference as ftrong?
There Death is certain; doubtful Here; He muft,
And foon; we may, within an Age, expire.

Though grey our Heads, our Thoughts and Aims are green;

Like damag'd Clocks, whofe Hand and Bell diffent, Folly fings Six, while Nature points at Twelve. Abfurd Longevity! more, more, It cries:

More Life, more Wealth, more Trash of ev'ry Kind.
And wherefore Mad for more, when Relish fails ?
Object, and Appetite, muft club for Joy;

Shall Folly labour hard to mend the Bow,
Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without,
While Nature is relaxing ev'ry String?

Afk Thought for Joy; grow rich and hoard within.
Think you the Soul, when this Life's Rattles cease,
Has nothing of more Manly to fucceed?

Contract the Taste immortal; learn ev'n Now
To relish what alone fubfifts hereafter.
Divine, or none, henceforth your Joys for ever.
Of Age, the Glory is to wish to die,
That With is Praife and Promife; It applauds
Paft Life, and promises our future Bliss.
What Weakness fee not Children in their Sires?
Grand-climacterical Abfurdities!

Grey-hair'd

Grey-hair'd Authority to Faults of Youth
How fhocking? It makes Folly thrice a Fool;
And our first Childhood might our last despise..
Peace and Esteem is all that Age can Hope.
Nothing but Wisdom gives the firft; the last,
Nothing but the Repute of being Wife.
Folly bars both; our Age is quite undone:

What Folly can be ranker? like our Shadows,
Our Wishes lengthen, as our Sun declines.
No Wish should loiter, then, this fide the Grave..
Our Hearts should leave the World, before the Knell
Calls for our Carcases to mend the Soil.
Enough to live in Tempeft,. Die in Port;
Age fhould fly Concourse, cover in Retreat
Defects of Judgment; and the Will's fubdue ;
Walk thoughtful on the filent, folemn Shore,
Of that vaft Ocean it muft fail fo foon;
And put Good-works on Board; and wait the Wind
That shortly blows us into Worlds unknown;
If unconfider'd too, a Dreadful Scene!

All should be Prophets to themselves, foresee
Their future Fate; their future Fate foretafte;
This Art would waste the Bitterness of Death..
The Thought of Death alone, the Fear deftroys..
A Difaffection to that precious Thought
Is more than Midnight Darkness on the Soul,
Which fleeps beneath it, on a Precipice,
Puff'd off by the firft Blaft, and loft for ever..
Dost ask Lorenzo, why fo warmly preft,,

By Repetition hammer'd on thine Ear,

The Thought of Death? That Thought is the Machine, The grand Machine! that heaves us from the Duft, And rears us into Men. The Thought ply'd Home Will foon reduce the ghaftly Precipice

O'er hanging Hell, will foften the Descent,
And gently flope our Paffage to the Grave;

Haw

How warmly to be wifh'd? what Heart of Flefh
Would trifle with Tremendous ? dare Extremes?
Yawn o'er the Fate of Infinite? what Hand,
Beyond the blackeft Brand of Censure bold,
(To speak a Language too well known to Thee)
Would at a Moment give its all to Chance,
And ftamp the Die for an Eternity?

Aid me Narcia! aid me to keep Pace
With Destiny; and ere her Sciffars cut

My thread of Life, to break this tougher Thread
Of Moral Death, that ties me to the World.
Sting thou my flumb'ring Reafon to fend forth
A Thought of Obfervation on the Foe;
To fally, and furvey the rapid March
Of his ten thousand Meffengers to Man ;
Who, Jehu-like, behind him turns them all.
All Accident apart, by Nature fign'd,

My Warrant is gone out, tho' dormant yet;
Perhaps behind one Moment lurks my Fate.

Muft I then forward only look for Death?
Backward I turn mine Eye, and find him there.
Man is a Self-furvivor ev'ry Year.

Man, like a Stream, is in perpetual Flow.
Death's a deftroyer of Quotidian prey.

My Youth, my Noon-tide, His; my Yesterday ;
The bold Invader shares the present Hour.
Each Moment on the former fhuts the Grave.
While Man is growing, Life is in Decrease;
And Cradles rock us nearer to the Tomb.
Our Birth is nothing but our Death begun ;
As Tapers wafte, that Inftant they take Fire.

Shall we then fear, left that should come to pass, Which comes to pass each Moment of our Lives? If fear we must, let that Death turn us pale Which murders Strength, and Ardor; what remains Should rather call on Death than dread his Call.

Ye

Ye partners of my Fault, and my Decline!

Thoughtless of Death, but when your Neighbour's

Knell

(Rude Vifitant!) knocks hard at your dull Senfe,
And with its Thunder, fcarce obtains your Ear!
Be Death your Theme, in ev'ry place and hour,
Nor longer want, ye Monumental Sires!

A Brother Tomb to tell you you shall Die.
That Death you dread (fo great is Nature's Skill!)
Know, you shall court, before you shall Enjoy.

But you are learn'd; in Volumes deep, you fit;
In Wisdom fhallow: pompous Ignorance!
Would you be ftill more learned, than the Learn'd?
Learn well to know how much need not be known.
And what that Knowledge, which impares your Senfe.
Our needful Knowledge, like our needful Food,
Unhedg'd, lies open in Life's common Field;
And bids all welcome to the Vital Feast.
You fcorn what lies before you in the Page
Of Nature, and Experience, Moral Truth;
Of indifpenfable, Eternal Fruit;

Fruit, on which Mortals feeding turn to Gods;
And dive in Science for diftinguifh'd Names,
Dishonest Fomentation of your Pride;

Sinking in Virtue, as you rife in Fame.
Your Learning, like the Lunar Beam, affords
Light, but not Heat; it leaves You undevout,
Frozen at Heart, while Speculation shines.
Awake, ye curious Indagators! fond

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Of knowing All, but what avails you known.
If
you would learn Death's Character, attend.
All cafts of Conduct, all degrees of Health,
All dies of Fortune, and all dates of Age,
Together shook in his impartial Urn,
Come forth at random. Or if Choice is made,
The Choice is quite farcaftic, and insults

All

All bold Conjecture, and fond Hopes of Man.
What countless Multitudes, not only leave,
But deeply disappoint us, by their Deaths?
Tho' great our Sorrow, greater our Surprize.
Like other Tyrants, Death delights to fmite,
What, fmitten, moft proclaims the Pride of Pow'r,
And arbitrary Nod. His Joy fupreme,

To bid the Wretch furvive the Fortunate;
The Feeble wrap th' Athletic in his Shroud;
And weeping Fathers build their Children's Tomb;
Me Thine, Narcissa !-What tho' short thy Date?
Virtue, not rolling Suns, the Mind matures.
That Life is long, which anfwers Life's great End.
The Time that bears no Fruit, deferves no Name;
The Man of Wisdom is the Man of Years.
In hoary Youth Methufalems may die,
O how misdated on their flatt'ring Tombs ?
Narciffa's Youth has lectur'd me thus far.
And can her Gaiety give Counsel too?
That, like the Jews fam'd Oracle of Gems,
Sparkles Inftruction; such as throws new Light,
And opens more the Character of Death;

Ill known to thee, Lorenzo! This thy Vaunt,
"Give Death his Due, the Wretched, and the Old,
"E'en let him sweep his Rubbish to the Grave;
"Let him not violate kind Nature's Laws,
"But own Man born to Live, as well as Die."
Wretched and Old Thou giv'ft Him; Young and Gay
He takes and Plunder is a Tyrant's Joy.
What if I prove; "The fartheft from the Fear

"Are often neareft to the Stroke of Fate ? All, more than common, Menaces an End,

A Blaze betokens Brevity of Life.

As if bright Embers fhould emit a Flame,
Glad Spirits sparkled from Narcissa's Eye,

And made Youth younger, and taught Life to Live

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