And who fo artful as to put it by?
'Tis long fince Death had the majority;
Yet! frange! the living lay it not to heart?*
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The fexton, hoary headed chronicle!
Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er ftole
A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand,
Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance
By far his juniors! fcarce a fcull's caft up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some paffage of his life. Thus hand in hand
The fot has walk'd with death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er yonker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a fmuttier tale; when drunkards meet,
None fings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup. Poor wretch; he minds not
That foon fome trufly brother of the trade,
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.
On this fide, and on that, men fee their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn §; yet launch out
*The trifling conduct of men in general, confirms the Poet's obfervation, that all men think all men mortal but themselves. DR. YOUNG.
Death is continually making inroads among the human race: our lot is juftly faid by Dr. YOUNG, to be lamenting or lamented.
Into fantastic fchemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegen'rate days
Could fcarce have leifure for; fools that we are !
Never to think of death and of ourselves
At the fame time! as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours. O more than fottish!
For creatures of a day, in gamefome mood
To frolic on eternity's dread brink,
Unapprehenfive; when for ought we know
The very firft fwoln furge fhall fweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on
With a refiflefs unremitting ftream,
Yet trends more foft than e'er did midnight thief,
That flides his hand under the mifer's pillow,
And carries off his prize. What is the world?
What! but a fpacions 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 ‡;
You'd weep, if told you but a month fhould live. You laugh, uncertain of a day's reprieve.
+ Where is the duft that has not been alive? Whole buried towns fupport the dancer's heel.
And we that live muft lend our carcaffes
To cover our own offspring: in their turns
They too must cover theirs. 'Tis here all meet!
The fhiv'ring Icelander, and fun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before,
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Chriftian.
Here the proud prince, and favorite yet prouder,
His fov'reign's keeper, and the peoples scourge,
Are huddled out of fight. Here lie abash'd
The great negociators of the earth,
And celebrated mafters of the balance,
Deep read in flratagems and wiles of courts;
Now vain their treaty-f
-fkill! Death fcorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded flave flings down his burthen
From his gall'd fhoulders; and when the cruel tyrant
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his fhort arm, and quick as thought escapes,
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary reft *.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool fhade,
The tell-tale echo, and the bubling ftream,
Time out of mind the fav'rite feats of love,
Faft by his gentle miftrefs lays him down
Unblafted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes
Lie clofe, unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn rob'd prelate, and plain prefbyter,
Ere while that flood aloof, as fhy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like fifler ftreams
That fome rude interpofing rock had fplit *.
Here is the large-limb'd peafant; here the child
Of a span long, that never faw the fun,
Nor prefs'd the nipple, ftrangled in life's porch;
Here is the mother with her fons and daughters;
The barren wife; the long demurring maid,
Whofe lonely unappropriated fweets
Smil'd like yon knot of cowflips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude fevere, and gay coquette,
The fober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropp'd like a rofe before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth difclos'd. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tales;
And jovial youth, of lightfome vacant heart,
Whofe ev'ry day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth; the fhrill-tong'd fhrew, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wife, the gen'rous and the brave; The juft, the good, the worthless, the prophane,
Death levels all, and aims his fatal dart
Both at the wealthy and the poor man's heart,
The down right clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the fcoundrel, and the mean,
The fupple statesman, and the patriot ftern:
The wrecks of nations and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of fix thousand years.
Poor man! how happy once in thy first state!
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand,
He flamp'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 foul ferene *:
Like two fweet inflruments ne'er out of tune,
That play their several parts. Nor head, nor heart,
Offer'd to ache; nor was there cause they should,
For all was pure within; no fell remorse,
Nor anxious cafting up of what may be,
Alarm'd his peaceful bofom; fummer feas
Shew not more smooth, when kiss'd by fouthern winds
Juft ready to expire. Scarce importun'd,
The gen'rous foil, with a luxurious hand,
Offer'd the various produce of the year,
And ev'ry thing most perfect in its kind.
Blefs'd, thrice blessed days! but ah, how short!
Before man's fall,difeafe and death were both alike unknown: Sin brought them into the world, and now they're the common lot of mankind in general.
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