A Soliloquy on Death

To die, is but to take a last farewel Of life, and all its transitory cares; To close our eyes and shut out day forever. Thus much we know: And that this frail existence Shall to its sister earth again return, To pulverize, and be dissolv'd to nought. To die (however awful seems the sound) Is but to lay us peaceful down to rest, Sink into sleep, and waken in eternity. Whence then proceeds this coward fear of death, These conscience-working pangs, that plague us all, And make us sink, e'en to the grave itself, At the bare mention? Has not that Great Cause, The Eternal One, whose wisdom cannot err, From the beginning of the earliest time, Declar'd, that man and all his race, should die? 'Tis the essential passport that must bring (No matter when, or how, or soon, or late) All nature to that never-ending state, Which immortality alone can give. The soul, then, as instructed from above, Soon as it quits its lifeless, clay-cold corse, Mounts on the borrow'd silver plumes of Heav'n, Thro' chequ'ring clouds, and soars above the stars. But, oh! who dare enquire its fate decreed? For Heav'n that knowledge interdicts to man, And stupifies the busy, wand'ring sense, That may attempt this secret to explore.

GRANT I may ever, at the morning ray, Open with pray'r the consecrated day; Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise, And with the mounting sun ascend the skies; As that advances, let my zeal improve, And glow with ardour of consummate love; Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun My endless worship shall be still begun.