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With ftale forfworn embraces, clings anew;
The ftranger weds, and bloffoms as before,
In all the fruitless fopperies of life;
Prefents her weed, well fancy'd, at the ball,
And raffles for the death's-head on the ring.
So wept Aurelia, till the deftin'd youth,
Step'd in, with his receipt for making smiles,
And blanching fables 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, NARCISSA! 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 feverer still!) I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy death. A foul without reflection, like a pile

Without inhabitant, to ruin, runs.

And, firft, thy youth. What fays it to grey hairs;
NARCISSA, I'm become thy pupil now-

Early, bright, tranfient, chaste; as morning dew
She fparkled, was exhal'd, and went to heav'n.
Time on this head has fnow'd; yet ftill 'tis borne
Aloft nor thinks but on another's grave.
Cover'd with fhame I fpeak it, age fevere
Old worn-out vice fets down for virtue fair
With graceless gravity chastising youth,
That youth chaltis'd furpaffing in a fault,
Father of all, forgetfulness of death :
As if, like objects preffing on the fight,
Death had advanc'd too near us to be feen;
Or, that life's loan time ripen'd into right;
And men might plead prefcription from the grave;
Deathlefs, from repetition of reprieve.

Deathlefs? Far from it! fuch are dead already;
Their hearts are bury'd, and the world's their grave.
Tell me, fome god! my guardian angel! tell,

I

What thus infatuates? What inchantment plants
The phantom of an age twixt us and death,
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 still!
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 strong!
There Death is certain: doubtful here, he muft,
And foon; we may, within an age, expire.

Tho' grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are

green:

Like damag'd clocks, whofe hand and bell diffent;
Folly fings fix, 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 relifh fails?
Object, and Appetite, mufl club for joy.

Shall Folly labour hard to mend the bow,
Baubles I mean, that frike us from without,
While Nature is relaxing ev'ry ftring?

Ak Thought for joy; grow rich and hoard within.
Think you the foul, when this life's rattles ceafe,
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 promifes our future blifs.
What weakness fee not children in their fires!
Grand climacterical abfurdities!

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 efteem is all that age can hope.
Nothing but wisdom gives the firft; the laft,
Nothing but the repute of being wife.

Folly bars both; our age is quite undone.
What folly can be ranker? Like our fhadows,
Our wishes lengthen, as our fun declines.
No wifh fhould loiter, then, this fide the
grave.
Qur hearts should leave the world, before the knell
Calls for our carcafes to mend the foil.
Enough to live in tempeft, die in port;
Age fhould fly concourse, cover in retreat
Defets of judgment, and the will fubdue ;
Walk thoughtful on the filent, folemn fhore
Of that vaft ocean it must 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 fcene!

All fhould 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 destroys.
A difaffection to that precious thought,
Is more than midnight darkness on the foul,
Which fleeps beneath it, on a precipice,
Puff'd off by the first blaft, and loft. for ever.
Doft afk, 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. That thought ply'd home
Will foon reduce the ghaftly precipice
O'er-hanging hell, will foften the defcent,
And gently flope our paffage to the grave;
How warmly to be with'd! What heart of flesh
Would trifle with tremendous? dare extremes?
Yawn o'er the fate of infinite? What hand,
Beyond the blackeft brand of cenfure bold,

(To speak a language too well known to thee),
Would at a moment give its all to chance,
And famp the die for an eternity?

Aid me, NARCISA ! aid me to keep pace
With Definy; and, ere her sciffars cut

My thread of life, to break this tougher thread
Of mortal 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 thoufand meffengers to man?
Who, Jehu-like, behind him turns them all.
All accident apart, by Nature sign'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 felf-furviver ev'ry year.

Man, like a fream, is in perpetual flow..
Death's a deftroyer of quotidian prey.
My youth, my noon-tide, his; my yesterday;
The bold invader fhares the prefent 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 fhould come to pafs,
Which comes to pass each moment of our lives?
If fear we muft, let that death turn us pale,
Which murders ftrength and ardor; what remains
Should rather call on death, than dread his call.
Ye partners of my fault, and my decline!
Thoughtlefs of death but when your neighbour's knell
(Rude vifitant!) knocks hard at your dull fenfe,
And with its thunder fcarce obtains your ear!
Be Death your theme, in ev'ry place and hour;
Nor longer want, ye monumental fires!
A brother's tomb to tell you you shall die.

That death you dread (fo great is Nature's skill)
Know, you fhall court, before you fhall enjoy.

But you are learn'd; in volumes deep you fit;
In wifdom 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 impairs your fenfe.
Our needful knowledge, like our needful food,
Unhedg'd, lies open in life's common field;

And bids all welcome to the vital feaft."
You fcorn what lies before you in the page
Of Nature, and Experience, moral truth;
Of indifpenfible, eternal fruit ;*

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Fruit, on which mortals feeding, turn to gods:
And dive in fcience for diftinguifh'd names,
Dishoneft 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 fpeculation fhines.
Awake, ye curious indagators! fond!
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 dyes of fortune, and all dates of age,
Together fhook in his impartial urn,
Come forth at random; or, if choice is made,
The choice is quite farcaftic, and infults
All bold conjecture, and fond hopes of man.
What countless multitudes not only leave,
But deeply disappoint us, by their deaths?
Tho' great our forrow, greater our surprise.
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 wrapt th' athletic in his fhroud;
And weeping fathers build their children's tomb :
Me thine, NARCISSA!-What tho' short thy date?

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