Containing our only CURE for the FEAR of DEATH, and proper Sentiments of Heart on that Ineftimable Bleffing.
To the Honourable Mr. YORK.
Much indebted Mufe, O Tork! intrudes..
Amid the Smiles of Fortune, and of Youth,
Thine Ear is patient of a serious Song.
How deep implanted in the Breast of Man
The Dread of Death? I fing its fov'reign Cure. Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd, paft; not come, or gone, He's never bere.
Ere Hope, Senfation fails; Black-boding Man
Receives, not fuffers Death's tremendous Blow.
The Knell, the Shroud, the Mattock, and the Grave,
The deep damp Vault, the Darkness, and the Worm,
These are the Bugbears of a Winter's Eve;
The Terrors of the Living, not the Dead.
Imagination's Fool, and Error's Wretch,
Man makes a Death, which Nature never made:
Then on the Point of his own Fancy falls;
And feels a thousand Deaths, in fearing one.
But was Death frightful, what has Age to fear?
If prudent, Age fhould meet the friendly Foe,
And shelter in his hofpitable Gloom.
I scarce can meet a Monument, but holds
My Younger; ev'ry Date, cries-" Come away."
And what recalls me? look the World around,
And tell me what: the Wifeft cannot tell.
Should any born of Woman give this Thought
Full range, on juft Diflike's unbounded Field;
Of Things, the Vanity; of Men, the Flaws;
Flaws in the Beft; the Many, Flaw all o'er,
As Leopards fpotted, or as Ethiops dark;
Vivacious Ill; Good dying immature;
(How immature, Narciffa's Marble tells)
And at his Death bequeathing endless Pain;
His Heart, tho' bold, would ficken at the Sight,
And spend itself in Sighs, for future Scenes.
But grant to Life (and just it is to grant
To lucky Life) fome Perquifites of Joy;
A Time there is, when, like a thrice-told Tale,
And that of no great Moment, or Delight,
Long-rifled Life of fweet can yield no more,
But from our Comment on the Comedy,
Pleafing Reflections on Parts well-fuftain'd,
Or purpos'd Emendations where we fail'd,
Or Hopes of Plaudits from our candid Judge,
When, on their Exit, Souls are bid unrobe,
Tofs Fortune back her Tinsel, and her Plume,
And drop this Mask of Flesh behind the Scene.
With me, that Time is come; my World is dead
A new World rifes, and new Manners reign :
Foreign Comedians, a fpruce Band! arrive,
To pufh me from the Scene, or hifs me there.
What a pert Race ftarts up? the Strangers gaze,
And I at them; my Neighbour is unknown;
Nor that the worft; ah me! the dire Effect
Of loit'ring here, of Death defrauded long;
Of old fo gracious, (and let that fuffice)
My very Mafter knows me not.——
Shall I dare fay, Peculiar is the Fate ?
I've been fo long remember'd, I'm forgot.
An Object ever preffing dims the Sight,
And hides behind its Ardor to be seen:
When in his Courtiers Ears I pour my Plaint,
They drink it, as the Nectar of the Great;
And squeeze my Hand, and beg me come to-morrow;
Refufal! canft thou wear a smoother Form?
Indulge me, nor conceive, I drop my Theme,
Who cheapens Life, abates the Fear of Death ;.
Twice-told the Period spent on ftubborn Troy,
Court-Favour, yet untaken, I befiege;
Ambition's ill-judg'd Effort to be rich.
Alas! Ambition makes my Little less;
Imbitt'ring the Poffefs'd: Why wish for more
Wishing, of all Employments, is the worst;
Philofophy's Reverse! and Health's Decay !
Was I as plump, as ftall'd Theology,
Wishing would waste me to this Shade again.
Was I as wealthy as a South-Sea Dream,
Wishing is an Expedient to be poor.
Wishing, that conftant Hectick of a Fool;
Caught at a Court, purg'd off by purer Air,
And fimpler Diet; Gifts of rural Life!
Bleft be that hand Divine, which gently laid
My Heart at reft, beneath this humble Shed.
The World's a stately Bark, on dang❜rous Seas,
With Pleasure feen, but boarded at our Peril :
Here, on a fingle Plank, thrown fafe afhore,
I hear the Tumult of the distant Throng,
As that of Seas remote, or dying Storms;
And meditate on Scenes, more filent ftill;
Purfue my Theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Here, like a Shepherd gazing from his Hut,
Touching his Reed, or leaning on his Staff,
Eager Ambition's fiery Chace I fee;
I fee the circling Hunt, of noify Men,
Burft Laws Enclosure, leap the Mounds of Right,
Pursuing and purfu'd, each other's Prey;
As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles;
Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all.
Why all this Toil for Triumphs of an Hour? What, tho' we wade in Wealth, or foar in Fame, Earth's highest Station ends in " Here he lies," And "Duft to Duft" concludes Her noblest Song' If this Song lives, Pofterity fhall know
One, tho' in Britain born, with Courtiers bred,
Who thought ev'n Gold might come a Day too late
Nor on his fubtle Death-bed plan'd his Scheme
For future Vacancies in Church, or State;
Some Avocation deeming it-to die;
Unbit by Rage canine of dying Rich;
Guilt's Blunder! and the loudeft Laugh of Hell,
O my Coëvals! Remnants of yourselves;
Poor human Ruins, tott'ring o'er the Grave!
Shall we, fhall aged Men, like aged Trees,
Strike deeper their vile Root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched Soil?
Shall our pale, wither'd Hands be still stretch'd out,
Trembling, at once, with Eagerness and Age ?
With Av❜rice, and Convulfions grasping hard;
Grafping at Air! for what has Earth befide?
Man wants but Little; nor that Little, long;
How foon must he refign his very Duft;
Which frugal Nature lent him for an Hour?
Years unexperienc'd rush on numʼrous Ills;
And foon as Man, expert from Time, has found
The Key of Life, it opes the Gates of Death.
When in this Vale of Years I backward look
And mifs fuch Numbers, Numbers too of such,
Firmer in Health, and greener in their Age,
And ftricter on their Guard, and fitter far
To play Life's fubtle Game, I scarce believe
I ftill furvive; and am I fond of Life,
Who scarce can think it poffible, I live?
Alive by Miracle! or, what is next,
Alive by Mead! If I am still alive,
Who long have bury'd what gives Life to live,
Firmness of Nerve, and Energy of Thought.
Life's Lee is not more shallow, than impure,
And vapid; Senfe, and Reafon fhew the Door,
Call for my Bier, and point me to the Duft.
O thou great Arbiter of Life and Death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun!
Whose all-prolific Beam late call'd me forth
From Darkness, teeming Darkness, where I lay
The Worms inferior, and, in Rank, beneath
The Duft I tread on, high to bear my Brow,
To drink the Spirit of the golden Day,
And triumph in Existence; and could't know
No Motive, but my Blifs; and haft ordain'd
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