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 ftately bark, on dangerous feas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril;
Here, on a fingle plank, thrown fafe afhore,
I hear the tumult of the diftant throng,
As that of feas remote, or dying storms:
And meditate on fcenes, more filent ftill;
Pursue my theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Here, like a fhepherd gazing from his hut,
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,
Eager ambition's a fiery chace I fee;
I fee the circling hunt, of noisy men,
Burft law's inclosure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing, and pursued, 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 though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame?
Earth's highest ftation ends in, "Here he lies,"
And "duft to duft" concludes her nobleft fong. 100
If this fong lives, pofterity fhall know
One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred,
Who thought ev'n gold might come a day too late;
Nor on his fubtle death-bed plann'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 loudest laugh of hell.
O my
coevals! remnants of yourselves!
Poor human ruins, tottering 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 foil?
Shall our pale, wither'd hands, be still stretch'd out,
Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age?
With avarice 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 numerous 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 fuch,
Firmer in health, and greener in their age,
And stricter on their guard, and fitter far,
To play life's fubtle game, I fcarce believe
I till 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 ftill alive,
Who long have bury'd what gives life to live,
Firmnefs of nerve, and energy of thought.
Life's lee is not more fhallow, 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 fun !
Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth
From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay
The worm's 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 know
No motive, but my blifs; and haft ordain'd
A rife in bleffing! with the Patriarch's joy,
Thy call I follow to the land unknown;
I trust in thee, and know in whom I truft;
Or life, or death, is equal; neither weighs:
All weight in this-O let me live to thee!
Though nature's terrors, thus, may be represt;
Still frowns grim Death; guilt points the tyrant's fpear.
And whence all human guilt? From death forgot.
Ah me! too long I fet at nought the fwarm
Of friendly warnings, which around me flew ;
And smil'd, unfmitten: small my cause to smile!
Death's admonitions, like fliafts upwards shot,
More dreadful by delay, the longer ere
They strike our hearts, the deeper is their wound; 160
O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it ftings:
Who can appease its anguish? how it burns!
What hand the barb'd, invenom'd, thought can draw?
What healing hand can pour the balm of peace,
And turn my fight undaunted on the tomb ?
With joy, with grief, that healing hand I fee ; Ah! too confpicuous! it is fix'd on high.
On high ?—What means my phrenzy ? I blaspheme; Alas! how low! how far beneath the fkies!
The fkies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me— 170
But bleeds the balm I want- -Yet ftill it bleeds;
Draw the dire fteel-ah no! the dreadful blessing
What heart or can fuftain, or dares forego?
There hangs all human hope; that nail fupports
The falling univerfe: that gone, we drop;
Horror receives us, and the dismal wish
Creation had been fmother'd in her birth-
Darkness is his curtain, and his bed the duft;
When stars and fun are duft beneath his throne!
In heaven itself can fuch indulgence dwell?
O what a groan was there! a groan not His.
He feiz'd our dreadful right; the load sustain'd;
And heav'd the mountain from a guilty world.
A thousand worlds, so bought, were bought too dear;
Sensations new in angels bofoms rife;
Sufpend their fong; and make a pause in blifs.
O for their fong; to reach my lofty theme!
Inspire me, Night! with all thy tuneful fpheres;
Whilst I with feraphs fhare feraphie themes,
And shew to men the dignity of man;
Left I blafpheme my fubject with my fong.
Shall pagan pages glow celeftial flame,
And chriftian languish? on our hearts, not heads,
Falls the foul infamy: my heart! awake.
What can awake thee, unawak'd by this,
"Expended deity on human weal?"
Feel the great truths, which burft the tenfold night
Of heathen errer, with a golden flood
Of endless day to feel, is to be fir'd;
And to believe, Lorenzo! is to feel.
Thou most indulgent, moft tremendous Power!
Still more tremendous, for thy wondrous love!
That arms, which awe more awful, thy commands;
And foul tranfgreffion dips in fevenfold night!
How our hearts tremble at thy love immenfe!
In love immenfe, inviolably just!
Thou,, rather than thy justice should be ftain'd,
Didft ftain the Cross; and work of wonders far
The greateft, that thy deareft far might bleed.
Bold thought! fhall I dare speak it, or repress ? 210 Should man more execrate, or boast, the guilt Which rous'd fuch vengeance? which fuch love inflam'd? O'er guilt (how mountainous !) with out-ftretch'd arms, Stern juftice and foft-fmiling love embrace, Supporting, in full majefty, thy throne, When feem'd its majefty to need fupport, Or that, or man, inevitably loft; What, but the fathomless of thought divine, Could labour fuch expedient from despair, And rescue both? both refcue! both exalt ! O how are both exalted by the deed! The wondrous deed! or fhall I call it more? A wonder in Omnipotence itself!
A mystery no lefs to gods than men !
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