Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnifh'd for that world to come.
In that dread moment, how the frantic foul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement!
Runs to each avenue, and fhrieks for help,
But fhrieks in vain! how wifhfully fhe looks
On all fhe's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
O might she stay to wash away her ftains,
And fit her for her paffage! mournful fight!
Her very eyes weep blood! and ev'ry groan
She heaves is big with horror; but the foe,
Like a ftaunch murd'rer fteady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through ev'ry lane of life,
Nor miffes once the track, but presses on;
Till forc'd at laft to the tremendous verge,
At once the finks to everlasting ruin *.
Sure 'tis a ferious thing to die! my foul!
What a frange moment must it be, when near
Thy journey's end thou haft the gulph in view!
That awful gulph no mortal ere repafs'd
*This lively reprefentation of a departing fout deferves univerfal admiration and regard.
To tell what's doing on the other fide *.
Nature turns back and fhudders at the fight,
And ev'ry life-firing bleeds at thoughts of parting;
For part they muft: body and foul must part;
Fond couple! link'd more clofe than wedded pair.
This wings its way to its Almighty fource,
The witnefs of its actions, now its judge;
That drops into the dark and noisome grave †,
Like a difabled pitcher of no use.
If death was nothing, and nought after death;
If, when men died, at once they ceas'd to be,
Returning from the barren womb of nothing
Whence first they fprung; then might the debauchee
Untrembling mouth the heav'ns; then might the drunkard
Reel over his full bowl, and when 'tis drain'd,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh
At the poor bug-bear death; then might the wretch
Short is man's knowledge of a future ftate,
Perplext with doubts and ignorant of fate;
This one important truth we only know,
Blifs waits the good; the bad, eternal woe.
But what that blifs, or what that woe fhall be,
Thro' life's dull cafement fince no eye can fee,
Let fancy paint the raptures of the skies,
And fcenes of vifionary tranfports rife.
That's weary of the world, and tired of life,
At once give each inquietude the flip,
By flealing out of being when he pleas'd;
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel:
Death's thousand doors ftand open. Who could force
The ill pleas'd gueft to fit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there is an hereafter*,
And that there is, confcience, uninfluenc'd
And fuffer'd to fpeak 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 is not; our ifland's fhame,
That makes her the reproach of neighb'ring ftates,
Shall nature, fwerving from her earlieft diftates,
Self prefervation, fall by her own a&t?
Forbid it, Heaven! let not upon disgust,
The fhameless hand be foully crimson'd o'er
With blood of its own lord t. Dreadful attempt!
*The guilty confcience of a wicked man in the views of death, often joins with the declarations of God's word, to confirm the important doctrine of a future ftate, by dreadful forebodings and diftreffing fears.
+ Seif murder being fo unnatural a crime, is generally reckoned the effect of infanity, and brought in non compos mentis.
Juft reeking from felf flaughter in a rage
To rush into the prefence of our judge!
As if we challenged him to do his worst,
And matter'd not his wrath. Unheard of tortures
. Must be referv'd for fuch; thefe herd together;
The common damn'd fhun their society,
And look upon themselves as fiends lefs foul.
Our time is fixt, and all our days are number'd* ;
How long, how fhort, we know not; this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the fummons,
Nor dare to flir till Heaven fhall give permiffion; t
Like centries that must keep their destin'd stand,
And wait th' appointed hour, till they're reliev'd
Those only are the brave who keep their ground,
And keep it to the laft . To run away
Is but a coward's trick: to run away
From this world's ills, that at the very worft
Will foon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
+ As we cannot lengthen life, we ought not to wish do fhorten it; as time is precious, let us improve it in preparing for eternity; the truly good man neither fears nor courts death, well affured God's time is best.
He that endureth to the end, the fame fhall be faved, MATT. x. 22.
By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark! 'tis mad:
No frenzy half so desperate as this.
Tell us ye
To thofe you left behind, difclofe the fecret?
dead! will none of you, in pity
O! that fome courteous ghost would blab it out,
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.
I've heard, that fouls departed have fometimes
Forwarn'd men of their death: 'twas kindly done
To knock and give th' alarm. But what means
This flinted charity? 'tis but lame kindness
That does its work by halves. Why might you not
Tell us what 'tis to die? Do the ftric laws
Of your fociety forbid your speaking
Upon a point fo nice? I'll ask no more;
Sullen, like lamps in fepulchres, your fhine
Enlightens but yourselves: well-'tis no matter;
A very little time will clear up all,
And make us learn'd as you are, and as close *.
Death's fhafts fly thick! Here falls the village fwain,
And there his pamper'd lord; the cup goes round,
*Every one muft fooner or later go the way of all flesh, and know by happy or dreadful experience, all that can be known, of death and a future ftate.
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