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hilst 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 thro' life:—The task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the Tomb! Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet.—Thy fuccours I implore, Eternal King! whose potent arm sustains The keys of hell and death—The Grave, dread thing! Men shiver, when thou art nam'd! Nature appall'd Shakes off her wonted firmness.—Ah! how dark Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes; Where nought but silence reigns, and Night, dark 5Night, Dark as was Chaos, ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams Athwart the gloom profound.—The sickly taper, By glimmering thro' the low-brow'd misty vaults, (Furr'd round with moulds damps, and ropy slime,) Lets fall a supernumerary horror! And only serves to make thy night more irksome. Well do I know thee by thy trusty Yew, Ghearless, unsocial plant, that loves to dwell 'Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms; Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Embody'd, thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree, is thine. See yonder hallow'd Fane——the pious work Of names once fam'd, nor dubious or forgot, And bury'd midst the wreck of things which were: There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up——hark how it howls! Methinks Till now I never heard a sound so dreary : Doors creak; and windows clap, and Night's foul bird Rooks in the spire, scream loud——the gloomy isles, 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 horribly, and obstinately fallen Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of Night. Again the screech-owl shrieks—— ungracious sound! I'll hear no more, it makes one's blood run chill. Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms (Coræval near with that.) all ragged shew, Long lash'd by the rude winds ——Some rist half-down Their brauchless trunks ——others so thin a-top, That scarce two crows can lodge in the same tree. Strange things the neighbours say, have happen'd here. Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs; Dead men have come again, and walk'd about And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'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-line, chequering thro' the trees, The school-boy with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud, to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown) 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, all and ghastly, That walk at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave! and (strange to tell!) Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

The new-made Widow too, I've sometimes spy'd, Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead; Listless she crawls along in doleful black, Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, Fast falling down her now untasted cheek. Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man She drops, wilst busy meddling Memory, In barbarous successiion, musters up The past endearments of their softer hour! Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf, Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.

Invidious Grave ——how dost thou rend in sunder Whom Love has knit, and Sympathy made one? A tie morc stubborn far than Nature's band. Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul; Sweetner of life, and solder of society; I owe thee much.—— Thou hast deserv'd from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have l prov'd the labours of thy love. And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, Anxious to please.—— Oh! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cosslip cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along in grateful motion thro' the underwood, (Thrush Sweet-murmuring:—— Methought the shrill-tongu'd Mended his song of love the sooty Blackbird Mellow'd his pipe, and soften ev'ry note: The Eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the Rose Assum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower Vy'd with is fellow-plant in luxury Of dress ——Oh! then, the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste ——still the full heart Had not imparted half ——'Twas happiness Too exquisite to last - Of joys departed Not to return. ——How painful the remembrance! 20(blood;

But see! the well-plumb'd Herse comes nodding on Stately and slow, and properly attended By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch The sick man's door, and live upon the dead, By letting out their persons by the hours To mimid sorrow, when the heart's not sad How rich the trappings! now they're all unfurl'd, And glittering in the sun ——triumphant entries Or Conquerors, and Coronation-pomps, In glory scarce exceed. ——Great gluts of people Retard th' unwieldy show; whilst from the casements And houses top, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd, Hang bellying o'er ——But tell us, why this waste? Why this ado in earthing up a Carcase That's fall'n into disgrace, and in the nostril Smells horrible? ——Ye undertakers tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal conceal'd, for which You make this mighty stir? ——’Tis wisely done; What would offend the eye in a good picture, The painter casts discreetly into shades.

Proud Lineage, now how little thou appear'st Below the envy of the private man! Honour, that middlesome efficious ill, Pursues thee ev'n to death ——nor there stops short. Strange, persecution when the grave itself Is no protection from rude sussrance.

Beauty ——thou pretty play-thing, dear deceit, That steals so softly over the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse, unknown before, The Grave discredits thee ——thy charms expung'd, Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd, What hast thou more to boast of? ——Will thy lovers Flock round thee now, and gaze to do thee homage? Methinks I see thee with the head low-laid; Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd, Riots unscar'd. For this, was all thy caution? For this, thy painful labours at thy glass? T'improve those charms, and keep them in repair, For which the spoiler thanks thee no? ——Foul feeder, Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well, And leave as keen a relish on the sense. Look how the fair one weeps! ——the conscious tears Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flow'rs: Honest effusion! ——the swoln heart in vain Works hard to put a gloss on its distress.

With study pale, and midnight vigils spent, The star-surveying sage, close to his eye Applies the sight-invigorating tube; And travelling thro' the bountiless length of space, Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs, That roll with regular confusion there, In ecstasy of thought. But ah! proud man, Great heights are hazardous to the weak heads Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails And down thou dropp'st into the darksome place, Where nor device, nor knowledge ever came.

Here the tongue-warrior lies, disabled now; Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd; And cannot tell his ail to passers-by. Great man of language, whence this mighty change? This dumb despair, and drooping of the head? Tho' strong Persuasion hang upon thy lip, And sly insinuation's softer arts In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue, Alas! how chop-fallen-in? ——Thick mists and silence Rest, like a weary'd cloud, upon thy breast Unceasing ——Ah! where is the listed arm. The strength of action, and the force of words, The well-turn's period, and the well-tun'd voice, With all the letter ornaments of Phrase? Ah! fed for ever, as they ne'er, had been, Raz'd from the book of Fame ——or more provoking, Perchance some hackney hunger bitten Scribbler Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb With long flat narrative, or duller rhimes, With heavy-haluing pace that drawl along; Enough to rouse a dead man into rage And warm with red resentment the wan check.

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! To him that is at case in his possessions; Who counting on long years of pleasure here; Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come! In the dread moment, how the frantic Soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement! Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain! ——How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer her's! A little longer, yet a little longer! Oh! might she stay, to wash away her stains, And sit her for her passage. ——Mournful fight! Her very eyes weep blood! and every groan She heaves is big with horror! But the foe, Life, a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose; Pursues her close thro' ev'ry lane of life Nor misses once the track, but presses on, Till forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, At once the sinks to everlasting ruin!

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! ——My soul, What a strange moment must it be, when near Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulph in view! That awful gulph no mortal o'er repass'd To tell what's doing on the other side! Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight! And ev'ry life-string bleeds at thought of parting! For part they must ——body and soul must part! Fond couple! ——link'd more close than wedded pair. This, wings its way to its almighty Source, The Witness of its actions, now its Judge! That, drops into the dark and noisome Grave, Like a disabled pitcher, of no use.

If Death was nothing, and nought after death; If when men dy'd, at once they ceas'd to be, Returning to the barren womb of Nothing, Whence first they sprung; then might the Debauchee Untrembling mouth the Heavens. ——Then might the 10Drunkard Reel over his full bowl ——and when 'tis drain'd, Fill up another to the brim, and laugh At the poor bugbear Death ——Then might the wretch That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life, At once give each inquietude the flip, By stealing out of being when he pleased, And by what way ——whether by hemp or steel. Death's thousand doors stand open. ——Who could force The ill-pleas'd guest to fit out his full time, Or blame him if he goes? ——Surely he does well That helps himself, as timely as he can, When able. ——But if there's an Hereafter, And that there is, Conscience, uninfluenc'd And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man; Then must it be an awful thing to die! More horrid yet, to die by one's own hand! Self-murder ! ——name it not our islands shame—— That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states, Shall Nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, Self-preservation, fall by her own act? Forbid it, Heaven! ——Let not, upon disgust, The shameless hand be fouly crimson'd o'er With blood of its own lord. ——Dreadful attempt! Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage To rush into the presence of our Judge! As if we challeng'd him to do his worst, And matter'd not his wrath! ——Unheard of tortures Must be reserv'd for such ——these herd together, The common Damn'd shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. Our time is fix'd, and all our days, are number'd; How long, how short, we know not ——this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till leav'n shall give permission; Like Centries; that must keep their destin'd stand, And wait th'appointed hour, till they're reliev'd. Those only are the brave, that keep their ground, And keep it to the last. ——To run away, Is but a coward's trick:——To run away From this world's ills, that, at the very worst, Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown, And plunging headlong in the dark ——'tis mad! ko trenzy half so desperate as this!

Tell us, ye dead ——will none of you, in pity To those you left behind, disclose the secret? Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out, What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be. I've heard, that souls departed, have sometimes Forwarn'd men of their death. ——'Twas kindly done To knock, and give the alarm! ——But what means This tinted charity? ——'Tis but lame kindness That does its work by halves. Why might you not Tell us what 'tis to die? ——Do the strict law's of your society forbid your speaking Upon a point so nice? ——I'll ask no more: Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine Enlightens but yourselves. Well, tis no matter; A very little time will clear up all, And make us learn'd as you are, and a close. Death's shafts fly thick ——Here falls the village-swain; And there, his pamper'd lord. ——The cup goes round: And who so artful as to put it by? ‘Tis long since death had the majority: Yet, strange! the living lay it not heart. See yonder maker of the dead-man's bed, The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle, Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear, with mattoc in his hand, Digs thro‘ whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors. ——Scarce a scull's cast up, But well he knows its Owner, and can tell Some passage of his life. ——Thus band in hand The sot has walked with Death twice twenty years, And yet, ne'er Yonker or the green laughs louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale ——When Drunkards meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup. ——Poor wretch, he minds not That soon some trusty Brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.

On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launcheth out Into fantastic schemes, which the long Livers In the world's hale and undegenerate days, Could scarce have leisure for. ——Fools that we are, Never to think of Death and of ourselves At the same time, as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours. ——Oh! more then sottish, For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood, To frolic on Eternity's dread brink Unapprehensive; when, for ought we know, The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in. Think we, or think we not, Time hurries on With a resistless unremitting stream; Yet treads more soft than o'er did midnight-thief, That slides his hand under the Miser's pillow, And carries off his prize. ——What is this World? What? but a spacious burial-field unwall'd, Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals, Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones! The very turf on which we tread, once liv'd; And we that live must lend our carcases To cover our own off-spring ——In their turns, They too must cover theirs. ——'Tis here all meet: The thiv'ring Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor: Men of all climes, that never met before; And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, and Christian. Here the proud Prince, and favourite yet prouder, His sov'reign's keeper, and the people's scourge, Are huddled out of sight. ——Here lie abash'd The great negotiators of the earth, And celebrated masters of the balance, Deep-read in stratagems and wiles of courts, Now vain their treaty-skill ——Death scorns to treat. Here the o'erloaded slave slings down his burden From his gall'd shoulders ——and when the cruel tyrant, With all his guards and tools of pow'r about him, Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, Mocks his short arm ——and quick as thought escapes Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest: Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade, The tell-tale echo, and the bubbling stream, (Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love) Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down Unblasted by foul tongue. ——Here friends and foes Lie close, unmindful of their former scuds. The lawn-rob'd Prelate, and the plain Presbyter, E'er while that stood aloof, as shy to meet, Familiar mingle here, like sister streams That some rude interposing rock had split. Here is the large-limb'd peasant ——Here the child Of a span long, that never saw the sun, Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch. Here is the Mother with her sons and daughters; The barren Wife, and long-demurring Maid, Whose lonely unappropriated sweets Smil'd like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff, Not to be come at by the willing hand. Here are the Prude severe, and gay Coquet; The sober Widow, and the young green Virgin, Cropp'd like a rose, before 'tis fully blown, Or half its worth disclos'd ——strange medley here! Here garrulous Old Age winds up his tale; And jovial Youth of lightsome vacant heart. Whose ev'ry day was made of melody, (Shrew, Hears not the voice of mirth. ——The shrill-tongu'd Meek as the turtle dove, forgets her chiding Here are the wise, the generous and the brave; The just, the good, the worthless, the profane, The down-right clown, and perfectly well-bred; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel and the mean; The subtle Statesman, and the Patriot stern; The wreck of nations, and the spoil of time, With all the lumber of six thousand years!

Poor Man ——how happy once in thy first state! When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand, He stamp'd thee with his image, and, well pleas'd, Smil'd on his last fair work. ——Then all was well. Sound was the body, and the soul serene; Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune. That play their several parts. ——Nor head, nor heart, Offer to ache. ——Nor was there cause they should. For all was pure within ——No sell remorse, For anxious castings up of what might be, Alarm'd his peaceful bosom. ——Summer seas Shew not more smooth when kiss'd by southern winds, Just ready to expire. ——Scarce importun'd The generous soil, with a luxurious hand, Offer'd the various produce of the year, And ev'ry thing most perfect in its kind. Blessed, thrice blessed days! ——But ah! how short! Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men; But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone! Oh! slippery state of things! ——What sudden turns What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf Of man's sad history! ——To-day most happy, And o'er to-morrow's sun was set, most abject! How scant the space between these vast extremes Thus sar'd it with our Sire. ——Not long h'enjoy'd His Paradise. ——Scarce had the happy tennant Of the fair spot, due time to prove its sweets, Or sum them up; when strait he must be gone, Ne'er to return again. And must he go? Can nought compound for the first dire offence Of erring man. Like one that is condemn'd, Fain would he trifle time with idle talk, And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain. Not all the the lavish odours of the place, Offer'd in incense, can produce his pardon, Or mitigate his doom. A mighty Angel, With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay, And drives the loiterer forth ——nor must he take One last farwel round. At once he lost His glory and his God! ——If immortal now, And sorely maim'd, no wonder! ——Man has sinn'd? Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures, Evil he would needs try ——nor try in vain. Dreadful experiment! ——destructive measure! (Where the worst thing could happen, is success.) Alas! too well he sped. The good he scorn'd, Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost, Not to return ——or if it did, its visits, Like those of Angels, short and far between; Whilst the black Dæmon, with his hell-'scap'd train, Admitted once into its better room, Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone; Lording it o'er the Man, who now too late Saw the rash error, which he could not mend; An error fatal not to him alone, But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs. Inglorious bondage! ——Human nature groans Beneath a vassalege so vile and cruel, And its vast body bleeds thro' ev'ry vein.

What havock left thou made, foul monster sin? Greatest and first of ills. ——The fruitful parent Of woes of all dimensions! ——But for the Sorrow had never been. ——Ah! noxious thing, Of vilest nature! ——Other forts of evils Are kindly circumscrib'd, and have their bounds. The fierce Volcano, from his burning entrails, That belches molten stone and globes of fire, Involv'd in pitchy clouds, and smoke, and stench, Mars the adjacent fields, for some leagues round, And there it stops. ——The big swoln inundation, Of mischief more dissusive, raving loud, Buries whole tracks of country ——threat'ning more But that too has it shore it cannot pass. More dreadful far than these, Sin has laid waste, Not here and there a country, but a world! Dispatching at a wide-extended blow, Entire mankind! ——and, for their sakes, defacing A whole creation's beauty with rude hands! Blasting the foodful grain, the loaded branches, And marking all along its way with ruin! Accursed thing! Oh! where all fancy, find A proper name to call thee by, expressive Of all thy horror! ——Pregnant womb of ill! Of temper so transcendently malign, That toads and serpents, of most deadly kind, Compar'd with thee, ale harmless. ——Sicknesses, Of ev'ry size and symptom-racking pains, And bluest plagues, are thine. ——See how the fiend Profusely scatters the contagion round! Whist deep-mouth'd Slaughter, bellowing at her heels, Wades deep in blood new spilt ——yet, for to-morrow Shares out new work of great uncommon daring, And july pines till the dread blow is struck.

But hold! ——I've gone too far, too much discover'd My father's nakedness, and nature's shame! Here let me pause, and drop an honest tear, One burst of filial duty and condolence, O'er all those ample desarts death hath spread, This chaos of mankind ——O great man-eater! Whose every day is carnival, not fated yet! Unheard-of epicure, without a fellow! The veriest gluttons do not always cram, Some intervals of abstinence are fought To edge the appetite ——Thou seekest none. Methinks the countless swarms thou left devour'd, And thousands that each hour thou gobblest up; This, less than this, might gorge thee the full But ah! rapacious still, thou gap'n for more: Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals, On whom lank hunger lays her skinny hand, And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings, (As if diseases, massacres, and poison, Famine and war, were not thy caterers.)

'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.