In life embark'd, we smoothly down the tide
Of time defcend, but not on time intent;
Amus'd, unconfcious of the gliding wave;
Till on a fudden we perceive a shock;
We start, awake, look out; what fee we there?
Our brittle bark is burst on Charon's fhore.
Is this the caufe death flies all human thought?
Or is it judgment, by the will ftruck blind,
That domineering miftrefs of the foul!
Like him fo ftrong, by Dalilah the fair ?
Or is it fear turns ftartled reafon back,
From looking down a precipice fo fteep?
'Tis dreadful; and the dread is wifely plac'd,,
By nature, confcious of the make of man.
A dreadful friend it is, a terror kind,
A flaming fword to guard the tree of life.
By that unaw'd, in life's most smiling hour,
The good-man would repine; would fuffer joys,
And burn impatient for his promis'd skies.
The bad, on each punctilious pique of pride,
Or gloom of humour, would give rage the rein;
Bound o'er the barrier, rush into the dark,.
And mar the fchemes of Providence below..
What groan was that, Lorenzo ?-Furies! rife;
And drown in your lefs execrable yell
Britannia's fhame. There took her gloomy flight,
On wing impetuous, a black fullen foul,
Blafted from hell, with horrid lust of death.
Thy friend, the brave, the gallant Altamont,
So call'd, fo thought-And then he fled the field. 440
Lefs bafe the fear of death, than fear of life.
O Britain, infamous for fuicide!
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 ftain, nor fhock the continent.
But thou be shock'd, while I detect the cause
Of felf-affault, expose the monster's birth,
And bid abhorrence hifs it round the world.
Blame not thy clime, nor chide the diftant fun;
The fun 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 foul of man (let man in homage bow,
Who names his foul), a native of the skies!
High-born, and free, her freedom fhould maintain,
Unfold, unmortgag'd for earth's little bribes.
Th' illuftrious ftranger, 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 referve light touching, fhould indulge,
On immortality, her godlike tafte,
There take large draughts; make her chief banquet
But fome reject this fuftenance divine;
To beggarly vile appetites defcend;
Ask alms of earth for guests that came from heaven : Sink into flaves; and fell, for present hire,
'Their rich reversion, 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 breaking all the chains of Providence,
And bursting their confinement; though fast barr'd
By laws divine and human; guarded strong
With horrors doubled to defend the pass,
The blackeft, nature, or dire guilt can raise ;
And moted round with fathomlefs deftruction,
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
Heaven's law fupreme, and desperately rush
Through 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 fhun, and meditate, his end.
When by the bed of languishment we fit,
(The feat of wisdom! if our choice, not fate)
Or, o'er our dying friends, in anguish hang,,
Wipe the cold dew, or ftay the finking head,
Number their moments, and, in every clock,
Start at the voice of an Eternity;
See the dim lamp of life juft feebly lift
An agonizing beam, at us to gaze,
Then fink again, and quiver into death,
That most pathetic herald of our own;
How read we fuch fad fcenes? 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 mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry.
Our quick-returning folly cancels all;
As the tide rushing rafes what is writ
In yielding fands, and fmooths the letter'd fhore. 515 Lorenzo! haft thou ever weigh'd a figh?
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 fource? If not, defcend with me, 520
And trace these briny rivulets to their springs.
Our funeral tears from different causes rise,
As if from separate cifterns in the foul,
Of various kinds, they flow. From tender hearts,
By foft contagion call'd, some burst at once,
And stream obfequious to the leading eye.
Some ask 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 fhare the fate of the deceas'd,
So high in merit, and to them so 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 shew.
Some weep in perfect juftice to the dead,
As confcious 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 fable net-work o'er entangled hearts!
As feen through cryftal, how their roses glow,
While liquid pearl runs trickling down their cheek?
Of her's not prouder Egypt's wanton queen,
Caroufing gems, herself diffolv'd in love.
Some weep at death, abstracted from the dead,
And celebrate, like Charles, their own decease.
By kind construction some are deem'd to weep,
Because a decent veil conceals their joy.
Some weep in earnest, and yet weep in vain;
Paffion, blind paffion! impotently pours
Or gazes like an idiot, unconcern'd;
As deep in indiscretion, as in woe.
Tears, that deserve more tears; while reafon fleeps;
Nor comprehends the meaning of the storm;
Knows not it speaks to her, and her alone.
Irrationals all forrow are beneath,
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