He broke. There in one moment was undone
The fairest of God's works. The same rash hand,
That pluck'd in evil hour the fatal fruit,
Unbarr'd the gates of Hell, and let loose Sin
And Death, and all the family of Pain,

To prey upon mankind. Young Nature saw
The monstrous crew, and shook through all her
frame:

Then fled her new-born lustre, then began
Heaven's cheerful face to lower, then vapours choked
The troubled air, and form'd a veil of clouds
To hide the willing sun. The earth, convulsed
With painful throes, threw forth a bristly crop
Of thorns and briers; and insect, bird, and beast,
That wont before with admiration fond
To gaze at man, and fearless crowd around him,
Now fled before his face, shunning in haste
The infection of his misery. He alone
Who justly might, the offended Lord of man,
Turn'd not away his face: he, full of pity,
Forsook not in this uttermost distress

His best-loved work. That comfort still remain'd
(That best, that greatest comfort in affliction,
The countenance of God), and through the gloom
Shot forth some kindly gleams, to cheer and warm
The offender's sinking soul. Hope sent from Heaven
Upraised his drooping head, and show'd afar
A happier scene of things-the promised Seed
Trampling upon the Serpent's humbled crest;
Death of his sting disarm'd; and the dark grave,
Made pervious to the realms of endless day,
No more the limit, but the gate of life.

Cheer'd with the view, Man went to till the ground From whence he rose; sentenced indeed to toil,

As to a punishment, yet (ev'n in wrath,
So merciful is Heaven) this toil became
The solace of his woes, the sweet employ
Of many a live-long hour, and surest guard
Against Disease and Death. Death, tho' denounced,
Was yet a distant ill, by feeble arm

Of Age, his sole support, led slowly on.

Not then, as since, the short-lived sons of men
Flock'd to his realms in countless multitudes;
Scarce in the course of twice five hundred years
One solitary ghost went shivering down
To his unpeopled shore. In sober state,
Through the sequester'd vale of rural life,
The venerable Patriarch guileless held
The tenor of his way; Labour prepared
His simple fare, and Temperance ruled his board.
Tired with his daily toil, at early eve

He sunk to sudden rest; gentle and pure
As breath of evening Zephyr, and as sweet,
Were all his slumbers; with the Sun he rose,

Alert and vigorous as he to run

His destined course. Thus nerved with giant strength,
He stemm'd the tide of time, and stood the shock
Of ages rolling harmless o'er his head.
At life's meridian point arrived, he stood,
And looking round, saw all the valleys fill'ɗ
With nations from his loins: full well content
To leave his race thus scatter'd o'er the earth,
Along the gentle slope of life's decline
He bent his gradual way, till full of years
He dropt like mellow fruit into his grave.

Such in the infancy of Time was Man;
So calm was life, so impotent was Death!
O had he but preserved these few remains,

The shatter'd fragments of lost happiness,

Snatch'd by the hand of Heaven from the sad wreck
Of innocence primeval; still had he lived

In ruin great; though fallen, yet not forlorn;
Though mortal, yet not every where beset
With Death in every shape! But he, impatient
To be completely wretched, hastes to fill up
The measure of his woes :- -"Twas Man himself
Brought Death into the world; and Man himself
Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace,
And multiplied destruction on mankind.

First Envy, eldest-born of Hell, imbrued
Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of men
To make a Death which Nature never made,
And God abhorr'd; with violence rude to break
The thread of life ere half its length was run,
And rob a wretched brother of his being.
With joy Ambition saw, and soon improved
The execrable deed. "Twas not enough
By subtle fraud to snatch a single life;
Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell

To sate the lust of power: more horrid still,
The foulest stain and scandal of our nature,
Became its boast. One murder made a villain;
Millions a hero. Princes were privileged

To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime.
Ah! why will kings forget that they are men,
And men that they are brethren? Why delight
In human sacrifice? Why burst the ties

Of Nature, that should knit their souls together
In one soft bond of amity and love?

Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on
Inhumanly ingenious to find out

New pains for life, new terrors for the grave,

Artificers of Death! Still monarchs dream
Of universal empire growing up

From universal ruin. Blast the design,
Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine!

Yet say, should tyrants learn at last to feel,
And the loud din of battle cease to bray;
Should dove-eyed Peace o'er all the earth extend
Her olive-branch, and give the world repose,
Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and strength,
and youth

Defy his power? Has he no arts in store,

No other shafts save those of War? Alas!
Ev'n in the smile of Peace, that smile which sheds
A heavenly sunshine o'er the soul, there basks
That serpent Luxury. War its thousands slays;
Peace its ten thousands. In the embattled plain,
Though Death exults, and claps his raven wings,
Yet reigns he not ev❜n there so absolute,
So merciless, as in yon frantic scenes
Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth,
Where, in the intoxicating draught conceal'd,
Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless love,
He snares the simple youth, who, naught suspecting,
Means to be blest-but finds himself undone.

Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts,
Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky,
Hope swells his sails, and Passion steers his course.
Safe glides his little bark along the shore
Where Virtue takes her stand; but if too far
He launches forth beyond Discretion's mark,
Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar,
Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep.
O sad but sure mischance! O happier far

To lie like gallant Howe 'midst Indian wilds
A breathless corse, cut off by savage hands
In earliest prime, a generous sacrifice
To Freedom's holy cause, than so to fall,
Torn immature from Life's meridian joys,
A prey to Vice, Intemperance, and Disease.

Yet die ev'u thus, thus rather perish still, Ye sons of Pleasure, by the Almighty stricken, Than ever dare (though oft, alas! ye dare) To lift against yourselves the murderous steel, To wrest from God's own hand the sword of Justice, And be your own avengers! Hold, rash man, Though with anticipating speed thou'st ranged Through every region of delight, nor left One joy to gild the evening of thy days; Though life seem one uncomfortable void, Guilt at thy heels, before thy face Despair; Yet gay this scene, and light this load of woe, Compared with thy hereafter. Think, O think, And, ere thou plunge into the vast abyss, Pause on the verge awhile: look down and see Thy future mansion. Why that start of horror? From thy slack hand why drops the uplifted steel? Didst thou not think such vengeance must await The wretch, that with his crimes all fresh about him, Rushes irreverent, unprepared, uncall'd, Into his Maker's presence, throwing back With insolent disdain his choicest gift?

Live, then, while Heaven in pity lends thee life, And think it all too short to wash away, By penitential tears and deep contrition, The scarlet of thy crimes. So shalt thou find Rest to thy soul; so unappall'd shalt meet Death when he comes, not wantonly invite His lingering stroke. Be it thy sole concern