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The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke de- | Can storied urn, or animated bust,

cay,

Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains : Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

§ 15. An Elegy, written in a Country Church- Hands, that the rod of empire might have

Yard. GRAY.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care, Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their teams afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke:

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er

gave,

Await, alike, th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,| Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

sway'd,

Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unrol;

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless

breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd

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Ev'n from the tomb, the voice of nature cries, | Lav'd by oblivion's listless stream, and fenc'd
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate.
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would

rove;

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless
love.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree:
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow thro' the churchyard path we saw him
borne ;

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

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§ 16. Death. DR. PORTEUS, Bp. of London.

FRIEND to the wretch whom every friend
forsakes,

I woo thee, Death! In fancy's fairy paths
Let the gay songster rove, and gently trill
The strain of empty joy. Life and its joys
I leave to those that prize them. At this hour,
This solemn hour, when silence rules the world,
And wearied nature makes a gen'ral pause;
Wrapt in night's sable robe, through cloisters
drear,

And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng
Of meagre phantoms shooting cross my path
With silent glance, I seek the shadowy vale
Of Death. Deep in a murky cave's recess,

By shelving rocks, and intermingled horrors
Of busy noontide dream, the Monarch sits
Of yew and cypress shade, from all intrusion
In unsubstantial majesty enthron'd.
At his right hand, nearest himself in place
And frightfulness of form, his parent Sin
With fatal industry and cruel care
Busies herself in pointing all his stings,
And tipping every shaft with venom drawn
From her infernal store: around him rang'd
In terrible array and mixture strange
Of uncouth shapes, stand his dread Ministers
Foremost Old Age, his natural ally
And firmest friend; next him Diseases thick,
A motley train; Fever, with cheek of fire;
And half a clay-clod lump; joint-tort'ring Gout,
Consumption wan; Palsy, half warm with life,
And ever-gnawing Rheum; Convulsion wild;
Swoln Dropsy; panting Asthma; Apoplex
Full-gorg'd. There too the Pestilence that

walks

In darkness, and the Sickness that destroys
At broad noon-day. These, and a thousand
Horrid to tell, attentive wait ; and, when [more,
By Heaven's command Death waves his ebon
wand,

Sudden rush forth to execute his purpose,
And scatter desolation o'er the Earth.

Ill-fated Man, for whom such various forms
Of mis'ry wait, and mark their future prey;
Ah! why, all-righteous Father, didst thou make
This creature, Man? why wake th' uncon-
scious dust

To life and wretchedness? O better far
Still had he slept in uncreated night,
If this the lot of Being! Was it for this
Thy breath divine kindled within his breast
The vital flame? For this was thy fair image
Stampt on his soul in godlike lineaments?
For this dominion giv'n him absolute
O'er all thy works, only that he might reign
Supreme in woe? From the blest source of
Good,
[foul ills
Could Pain and Death proceed? could such
Fall from fair Mercy's hands? Far be the

thought,

[ture
The impious thought! God never made a crea-
But what was good. He made a living Soul;
The wretched Mortal was the work of Man.
Forth from his Maker's hands he sprung to life,
Fresh with immortal bloom; no pain he knew,
No fear of change, no check to his desires,
Save one command. That one command which
stood
[ence,
"Twixt him and Death, the test of his obedi-
Urg'd on by wanton curiosity,
He broke. There in one moment was undone
The fairest of God's works. The same rash
That pluck'd in evil hour the fatal fruit, [hand,
Unbarr'd the gates of Hell, and let loose Sin
And Death, and all the family of Pain,
To prey upon Mankind. Young Nature saw
The monstrous crew, and shook thro' all her

frame.

Then fled her new-born lustre, then began
Heav'ns cheerful face to low'r, then vapours
choak’d

The troubled air, and form'd a veil of clouds
To hide the willing Sun. The earth, convuls'd
With painful throes, threw forth a bristly crop
Of thorns and briars; and Insect, Bird, and
Beast,

That wont before with admiration fond

To gaze at Man, and fearless crowd around him,
Now fled before his face, shunning in haste
Th' infection of his misery. He alone
Who justly might, th' offended Lord of Man,
Turn'd not away his face; he, full of pity,
Forsook not in this uttermost distress [main'd
His best lov'd work. That comfort still re-
(That best, that greatest comfort in affliction),
The countenance of God, and thro' the gloom
Shot forth some kindly gleams, to cheer and
[Heav'n
Th' offender's sinking soul. Hope sent from
Uprais'd his drooping head, and show'd afar
A happier scene of things; the Promis'd Seed
Trampling upon the Serpent's humbled crest;
Death of his sting disarm'd; and the dark grave,
Made pervious to the realms of endless day,
No more the limit but the gate of life.

warm

Cheer'd with the view, Man went to till the ground

|Snatch'd by the hand of Heav'n from the sad
wreck

Of innocence primeval; still had he liv'd
In ruin great; tho' fall'n, yet not forlorn ;
Though mortal, yet not every-where beset
With Death in every shape! But he, impatient
To be completely wretched, hastes to fill up
The measure of his woes.-'Twas Man himself
Brought Death into the world; and Man him-
self

Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace,
And multiply'd destruction on mankind.

First Envy, eldest born of hell, imbrued
Her hands in blood, and taught the Sons of Men
To make a Death which Nature never made,
And God abhorr'd ; with violence rude to break
The thread of life ere half its length was run,
And rob a wretched brother of his being.
With joy Ambition saw, and soon improv'd
The execrable deed. "Twas not enough
By subtle fraud to snatch a single life,
Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell
To sate the lust of power; more horrid still,
The foulest stain and scandal of our nature,
Became its boast. One Murder made a Villain;
Millions a Hero. Princes were privileg'd
To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime.
Ah! why will Kings forget that they are Men?
And Men that they are brethren? Why delight

From whence he rose; sentenc'd indeed to toil In human sacrifice? Why burst the ties
As to a punishment, (ev'n in wrath,
So merciful is Heav'n,) this toil became
"The solace of his woes, the sweet employ
Of many a live-long hour, and surest guard
Against Disease and Death. Death, tho' de-
Was yet a distant ill, by feeble arm [nounc'd,
Of age, his sole support, led slowly on.
Not then, as since, the short-liv'd sons of men
Flock'd to his realms in countless multitudes;
Scarce in the course of twice five hundred
One solitary ghost went shiv'ring down [years,
To his unpeopled shore. In sober state,
Through the sequester'd vale of rural life,
The venerable Patriarch guileless held
The tenor of his way; Labour prepar'd
His simple fare,and Temp'rance rul'd his board.
Tir'd with his daily toil, at early eve
He sunk to sudden rest; gentle and pure
As breath of evening Zephyr, and as sweet,
Were all his slumbers; with the sun he rose,
Alert and vigorous as He, to run [strength
His destin'd course. Thus nerv'd with giant
He stem'd the tide of time, and stood the shock
Of ages rolling harmless o'er his head.
At life's meridian point arriv'd, he stood,
And, looking round, saw all the valleys fill'd
With nations from his loins; full-well content
To leave his race thus scatter'd o'er the earth,
Along the gentle slope of life's decline
He bent his gradual way, till, full of years,
He dropp'd like mellow fruit into his grave.
Such in the infancy of time was Man;
So calm was life, so impotent was Death!
O had he but preserv'd these few remains,
The shatter'd fragments, of lost happiness,

Of Nature, that should knit their souls together
In one soft bond of amity and love?
Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on
Inhumanly ingenious to find out
New pains for life, new terrors for the grave,
Artificers of Death! Still Monarchs dream
Of universal empire growing up
From universal ruin. Blast the design
Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine !

Yet say, should Tyrants learn at last to feel,
And the loud din of battle cease to bray;
Should dove-eyed Peace o'er all the earth ex-
tend

Her olive-branch, and give the world repose,
Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and
strength, and youth

Defy his pow'r? Has he no arts in store,
No other shafts save those of War? Alas!
Ev'n in the smile of Peace, that smile which
sheds

A heav'nly sunshine o'er the soul, there basks
That serpent Luxury. War its thousand slays;
Peace its ten thousands. In th' embattled plain,
Tho' Death exults, and claps his raven wings,
Yet reigns he not ev'n there so absolute,
So merciless, as in yon frantic scenes
Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth,
Where in th' intoxicating draught conceal'd,
Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless love,
He snares the simple youth, who, nought sus-
pecting,

Means to be blest-but finds himself undone.
Down the smooth stream of life the strip-

ling darts,

Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky, Th' astonish'd Earth, and from his looks throws Hope swells his sails, and passion steers his

course,

Safe glides his little bark along the shore
Where virtue takes her stand; but if too far
He launches forth beyond discretion's mark,
Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar,
Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep.
O sad but sure mischance! O happier far
To lie like gallant Howe 'midst Indian wilds
A breathless corse, cut off by savage hands
In earliest prime, a generous sacrifice

To freedom's holy cause; than so to fall,
Torn immature from life's meridian joys,
A prey to Vice, Intemp'rance, and Disease.
Yet die ev'n thus, thus rather perish still,
Ye sons of Pleasure, by th' Almighty strick'n,
Than ever dare (though oft, alas! ye dare)
To lift against yourselves the murd❜rous steel,
To wrest from God's own hand the sword of
Justice,

And be your own avengers! Hold, rash Man,
Though with anticipating speed thou'st rang'd
Through every region of delight, nor left
One joy to gild the evening of thy days;
Though life seem one uncomfortable void,
Guilt at thy heels, before thy face despair;
Yet gay this scene, and light this load of woe,
Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think, O think;
And, ere thou plunge into the vast abyss,
Pause on the verge awhile: look down and see
Thy future mansion. Why that start of hor-
ror?

[round

Unutterable horror and dismay.
All Nature lends her aid, each Element
Arms in his cause. Ope fly the doors of
Heav'n;

The fountains of the deep their barriers break,
Above, below, the rival torrents pour,
And drown Creation; or in floods of fire
Descends a livid cataract and consumes
An impious race. Sometimes, when all seems
peace,
[brace

Wakes the grim whirlwind, and with rude em-
Sweeps nations to their grave, or in the deep
Whelms the proud wooden world; full many

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But ah! what means that ruinous roar? why These tott'ring feet? Earth to its centre feels The Godhead's pow'r, and trembling at his touch

Through all its pillars, and in ev'ry pore, [steel? Hurls to the ground, with one convulsive heave,

From thy slack hand why drops th' uplifted Did'st thou not think such vengeance must Precipitating domes, and towns, and tow'rs, await [about him The work of ages. Crush'd beneath the weight The wretch, that with his crimes all fresh Of general devastation, millions find

Rushes irreverent, unprepar'd, uncall'd,
Into his Maker's presence, throwing back
With insolent disdain his choicest gift?
Live then, while Heav'n in pity lends thee
life,

come,

One common grave; not ev'n a widow left
To wail her sons; the house that should protect
Entombs his master; and the faithless plain,
If there he flies for help, with sudden yawn
Starts from beneath him. Shield me, gracious
Heav'n,

O snatch me from destruction! If this Globe,
This solid Globe, which thine own hand hath

made

So firm and sure, if this my steps betray;
If my own mother Earth, from whence I
Rise up with rage unnatural to devour [sprung,
Her wretched offspring, whither shall I fly ?
Where look for succour? Where, but up to
thee,

And think it all too short to wash away,
By penitential tears and deep contrition,
The scarlet of thy crimes. So shalt thou find
Rest to thy soul; so unappall'd shalt meet
Death when he comes, not wantonly invite
His ling'ring stroke. Be it thy sole concern
With innocence to live; with patience wait
Th' appointed hour; too soon that hour will
[God,
Tho' Nature run her course. But Nature's
If need require, by thousand various ways,
Without thy aid can shorten that short span,
And quench the lamp of life. O when he comes,
Rous'd by the cry of wickedness extreme,
To heav'n ascending from some guilty land, In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd,
Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes ar- Too much for man to bear. O rather lend
In all the terrors of Almighty wrath, [ray'd Thy kindly aid to mitigate his stroke;
Forth from his bosom plucks his ling'ring arm, And at that hour when all aghast I stand
And on the miscreants pours destruction down; (A trembling candidate for thy compassion)
Who can abide his coming? Who can bear On this world's brink, and look into the next;
His whole displeasure? In no common form When my soul, starting from the dark un-
Death then appears, but starting into size
known,
Enormous, measures with gigantic stride

Almighty Father? Save, O save, thy suppliant
From horrors such as these! At thy good time
Let death approach; I reck not-let him but

come

Casts back a wishful look, and fondly clings

To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd
From this fair scene, from all her custom'd joys,
And all the lovely relatives of life;

Then shed thy comforts o'er me, then put on
The gentlest of thy looks. Let no dark crimes,
In all their hideous forms then starting up,
Plant themselves round my couch in grim ar-
ray,

See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which

were:

There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks [torture, Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary: Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird

And stab my bleeding heart with two-edg'd
Sense of past guilt, and dread of future woe.
Far be the ghastly crew! and in their stead
Let cheerful Memory from her purest cells
Lead forth a goodly train of Virtues fair,
Cherish'd in earliest youth, now paying back
With tenfold usury the pious care,
And pouring o'er my wounds the heav'nly balm
Of conscious innocence. But chiefly, Thou,
Whom soft-eyed Pity once led down from
Heav'n

To bleed for man, to teach him how to live,
And oh! still harder lesson! how to die ;
Disdain not Thou to smooth the restless bed
Of Sickness and of Pain. Forgive the tear
That feeble Nature drops, calm all her fears,
Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith,
Till my rapt soul, anticipating Heav'n,
Bursts from the thraldom of incumb'ring clay,
And on the wing of ecstasy upborne,
Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life.

§ 17. The Grave. BLAIR.

"The house appointed for all living." Job. WHILST Some affect the sun, and some the shade,

Some flee the city, some the hermitage,
Their aims as various as the roads they take
In journeying through life; the task be mine
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ;
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet. Thy succours I im-
plore,

Eternal King, whose potent arm sustains
The keys of hell and death. The Grave, dread
thing!
[pall'd
Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd: Nature ap-
Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how
dark

Thy long extended realms, and rueful wastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night,
dark night,

[aisles Rook'd in the spire screams loud; the gloomy Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons,

And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead. Rous'd from their
slumbers,

In grim array the grisly spectres rise,
Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.
Again! the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious
sound!
[chill!

I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run

Quite round the pile, a row of rev'rend elms, Coeval near with that, all ragged show, [down Long-lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top, That scarce two crows could lodge in the same [pen'd here:

tree.

Strange things, the neighbours say, have hap-
Wild shrieks have issu'd from the hollow
tombs ;

Dead men have come again, and walk'd about ;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, un-

touch'd.

Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.

Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've seen, By glimpse of moon-shine, cheq'ring through the trees,

The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to keep his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'er-
grown,)

That tell in homely phrase who lie below;
Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-open'd grave; and, strange to
Evanishes at crowing of the cock! [tell!

spied,

Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun
Was roll'd together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly ta-
per,
[vaults,
By glimm'ring thro' thy low-brow'd misty
Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes
Lets fall a supernumerary horror, [slime,
And only serves to make thy night more irk- Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, [some. Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
'Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms; Fast-falling down her now untasted cheek.
Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades, Prone on the lonely grave of the dear man
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) She drops, whilst busy meddling Memory,
Embodied thick, perform their mystic rounds. In barbarous succession, musters up
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine. The past endearments of their softer hours,

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