Reflections of King Hezekiah, in His Sickness

What, and no more?—Is this my soul, said I, My whole of being?—Must I surely die? Be robb'd at once of health, of strength, of time, Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime? Shall I no more behold the face of morn, The cheerful day-light, and the spring's return? Must I the festive bow'r, the banquet leave, For the dull chambers of the darksome grave?

Have I consider'd what it is to die? In native dust with kindred worms to lie; To sleep in cheerless cold neglect; to rot; My body loath'd, my very name forgot! Not one of all those parasites who bend The supple knee their monarch to attend! What, not one friend? No, not an hireling slave, Shall hail GREAT HEZEKIAH in the grave! Where's he who falsely claim'd the name of Great? Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was fate; Who aw'd an hundred nations from the throne? See where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone! Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth? Which is the royal particle of earth? Where are the marks, the princely ensigns where? Which is the slave, and which great David's heir? Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known From his who lately sat on Israel's throne!

How stands my great account? My soul, survey The debt ETERNAL JUSTICE bids thee pay! Shou'd I frail Memory's records strive to blot, Will Heav'n's tremendous reck'ning be forgot? Can I, alas! the awful volume tear? Or raze one page of the dread register?

"Prepare thy house, thy heart in order set, "Prepare, the Judge of Heaven, and Earth to meet." So spake the warning Prophet.—Awful words! Which fearfully my troubled soul records. Am I prepar'd? and can I meet my doom, Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come? Is all in order set, my house, my heart? Does no besetting sin still claim a part? Does no one cherish'd vice with ling'ring pace, Reluctant leave me to the work of grace? Did I each day for this great day prepare, By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing pray'r? Did I each night, each day's offence repent, And each unholy thought and word lament? Still have these ready hands th' afflicted fed, And ministred to Want her daily bread? The cause I knew not did I well explore? Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor? Did I, to gratify some sudden gust Of thoughtless appetite; some impious lust Of pleasure or of power, such sums employ As wou'd have crown'd pale penury with joy? Did I in groves forbidden altars raise, Or molten Gods adore, or idols praise? Did my firm faith to Heav'n still point the way? Did charity to man my actions sway? Did meek-ey'd Patience all my steps attend? Did gen'rous Candour mark me for her friend? Did I unjustly seek to build my name On the pil'd ruins of another's fame? Did I, like hell, abhor th' insidious lie, The low deceit, th' unmanly calumny? Did my fix'd soul the impious wit detest? Did my firm virtue scorn th' unhallow'd jest; The sneer profane, and the poor ridicule Of shallow Infidelity's dull school? Did I still live as born one day to die, And view th' eternal world with constant eye?

If so I liv'd, if so I kept thy word, In mercy view, in mercy hear me, LORD! My holiest deeds indulgence will require, The best but to forgiveness will aspire; If Thou my purest services regard, 'Twill be with pardon only, not reward!

How imperfection's stamp'd on all below! How sin intrudes in all we say or do! How late in all the insolence of health, I charm'd th' Assyrian by my boast of wealth! How fondly, with elab'rate pomp, display'd My glitt'ring treasures! with what triumph laid My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes, And found a rich reward in his surprise! O, mean of soul! can wealth elate the heart, Which of the man himself is not a part? O, poverty of pride! O, foul disgrace! Disgusted Reason, blushing, hides her face. Mortal, and proud! strange contradicting terms! Pride for Death's victim, for the prey of worms! Of all the wonders which th' eventful life Of man presents; of all the mental strife Of warring passions; all the raging fires Of furious appetites, and mad desires, Not one so strange appears as this alone, That man is proud of what is not his own.

How short is human life! the very breath Which frames my words accelerates my death. Of this short life how large a portion's fled! To what is gone I am already dead; As dead to all my years and minutes past, As I, to what remains, shall be at last. Can I my cares and pains so far forget, To view my vanish'd years with fond regret? Can I again my worn-out fancy cheat? Indulge fresh hope? solicit new deceit? Of all the vanities weak man admires, Which greatness gives, or sanguine youth desires, Of these, my soul, which hast thou not enjoy'd? With each, with all, thy sated pow'rs are cloy'd. What can I then expect from length of days? More wealth, more wisdom, pleasure, health, or praise? More pleasure! hope not that, deluded king! For when did age increase of pleasure bring? Is health, of years prolong'd the common boast? And dear-earn'd praise, is it not cheaply lost? More wisdom! that indeed were happiness; That were a wish a king might well confess: But when did Wisdom covet length of days, Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise? No!—Wisdom views with an indifferent eye All finite joys, all blessings born to die. Wisdom on earth is an immortal guest, Compell'd to starve at an unreal feast: A spark, which upward tends by nature's force; A stream, diverted from its parent source; A drop, dissever'd from the boundless sea; A moment, parted from eternity; A broken ray, which seeks its central soul; A part, which longs to mingle with its whole; A pilgrim, panting for the rest to come; An exile, anxious for his native home.

Why shou'd I ask my forfeit life to save? Is Heav'n unjust, which dooms me to the grave? Was I with hope of endless days deceiv'd? Or of lov'd life am I alone bereav'd? Let all the great, the rich, the learn'd, the wise, Let all the shades of Judah's monarchs rise, And say, if genius, learning, empire, wealth, Youth, beauty, virtue, strength, renown, or health, Has once revers'd th' immutable decree On Adam pass'd, of man's mortality? What—have these eyes ne'er seen the felon worm The damask cheek devour, the finish'd form? On the pale rose of blasted beauty feed, Or riot on the lip so lately red? Where are our fathers? Where th' illustrious line Of holy prophets, and of men divine? Live they for ever? Do they shun the grave? Or when did Wisdom its professor save? When did the brave escape? When did the breath Of Eloquence charm the dull ear of Death? When did the cunning argument avail, The polish'd period, or the varnish'd tale; The eye of lightning, or the soul of fire, Which througing thousands crowded to admire? Ev'n while we praise the verse the poet dies, And silent as his lyre great David lies. Thou, blest Isaiah! who, at God's command, Now speak'st repentance to a guilty land, Must die! as wise and good thou hadst not been, As Nebat's son, who taught the land to sin!

And shall I then be spar'd? O monstrous pride! Shall I escape when Solomon has died? If all the worth of all the saints was vain— Peace, peace, my troubled soul, nor dare complain! Lord! I submit. Complete thy gracious will! For if Thou slay me , I will trust Thee still. O be my will so swallow'd up in thine, That I may do thy will in doing mine!