Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its hold;
Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing.

Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in;
Nor are his friends shut out: As a great prince
Not for himself alone procures admission,

But for his train. It was his royal will,

That where he is, there should his followers be.
Death only lies between.-A gloomy path!
Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears;
But not untrod, nor tedious; the fatigue
Will soon go off. Besides, there's no by-road
To bliss. Then, why, like ill-conditioned children,
Start we at transient hardships in the way
That leads to purer air and softer skies,
And a ne'er setting sun? Fools that we are!
We wish to be where sweets unwith'ring bloom,
But strait our wish revoke, and will not go.
So have I seen, upon a summer's even,
Fast by the riv'let's brink, a youngster play:
How wishfully he looks to stem the tide!
This moment resolute, next unresolved:
At last he dips his foot; but as he dips,
His fears redouble, and he runs away
From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now

Of all the flowers that paint the further bank,

And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome death! That, after many a painful bleeding step,

4

Conducts us to our home; and lands us safe

On the long-wish'd-for shore. Prodigious change!

Our bane turn'd to a blessing!

Death, disarm'd,

Loses it fellness quite. All thanks to Him

Who scourg'd the venom out. Sure the last end
Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit!
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Behold him in the evening tide of life,

A life well spent, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green;
By unperceived degrees he wears away;

Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting!
(High in his faith and hope,) look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird

That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away;
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits.

Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, O then!
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of nought. Oh! how he longs
To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd!
'Tis done, and now he's happy! The glad soul
Has not a wish uncrown'd. Ev'n the lag flesh

Rests too in hope of meeting once again.

Its better half, never to sunder more.

Nor shall it hope in vain:-The time draws on,

When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long-committed dust,
Inviolate; and faithfully shall these

Make up the full account; not the least atom
Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale.

Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd;
And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane!

Ask not, how this can be? Sure the same pow'r
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,
Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And put them as they were. Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd
Thro' length of days, and what he can, he will;

His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.

When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring dust,

(Not unattentive to the call,) shall wake;

And ev'ry joint possess its proper place,

With a new elegance of form, unknown

To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul

Mistake its partner; but, amidst the crowd,
Singling its other half, into its arms

Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man

That's new come home, and, having long been absent,

With haste runs over every different room,

In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!
Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.

"Tis but a night, a long and moonless night;
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.
Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird
Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake
Cow'rs down, and dozes till the dawn of day;
Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away.

WILLIAM FALCONER.

1730-1770.

WILLIAM FALCONER, a Scotch sailor, born of humble parents in Edinburgh, published in 1762 his Shipwreck, a poem which depicted an actual disaster, and introduced into literature the technicalities of seamanship.

The Shipwreck is a composition of singular merit from a man with Falconer's opportunities. The scene of the disaster is Cape Colonna (the ancient Sunium) in Greece, and the poet alludes with power and beauty to the classic objects of these shores. The characters are drawn with vigor and graphicness of lineament. The technical terms of a ship's management are interwoven with great skill into a harmonious versification; and, in his description of the storm and of the catastrophe, the poet rises into sublimity, while the whole scene is mellowed by the most amiable and tender affections of humanity. Falconer perished on board an East India merchantman, which was supposed to have foundered in the Indian Ocean.