Death
Thy gloomy walks, O Death! replete with fears,
With 'scutcheons hung, and wet with Widows' tears,
The groans of Anguish, and of deep remorse,
The gloomy Coffin, and extended Corse,
Be now my theme — Hence, all ye idle dreams,
Of flow'ry Meadows, and meand'ring streams,
Or War's arousing roar — since none are brave,
Save those bold few, who triumph o'er the Grave.
O thou, first Being! Thou, almighty Pow'r!
Who metes out Life, a cent'ry , or an hour ;
At whose dread nod the Spectre wields his dart,
Uprears his arm, and stabs the quiv'ring heart,
Assist my feeble pen, (since I and all
Must soon before that grisly Monarch fall)
To mark his frowns, but learn alone to dread
That awful stroke that tends to death indeed.
When God descended first to form our earth,
And gave each plant, and ev'ry creature birth,
When trees arose, at his supreme command,
In order rang'd, or scatter'd o'er the land;
Then the clear brook, in murm'ring measure, flow'd,
The Zephyr whisper'd, and the cattle low'd;
The voice of Music warbl'd through each grove,
From morn to morn, and ev'ry song was love.
The Lamb and Tiger wanton'd o'er the green,
The Stag and Lion join'd the mirthful scene;
The Eagle thirsted not for streams of gore,
And the swift Hawk had ne'er the Warbler tore;
The meanest infect, starting from the the ground,
At pleasure sallied to its mazy round,
Return'd, at night, to its abode, a flow'r,
Nor felt, nor fear'd, a mightier creature's power:
For all was peace, and harmony, and love,
Through the deep ocean, and the tuneful grove.
Such was the world, ere Man, its sovereign lord,
Or beauteous Woman Paradise explor'd:
Ah! hapless pair! too soon they broke the bounds,
They sinn'd — they fell — and felt sin's deadly wounds.
Then rush'd to being Death, and frowning dread
Stalk'd o'er the world, and heapt his way with dead.
The herbage wither'd, in the sun and shade;
Trees shook their leaves, and drooping flow'rs decay'd;
Each creature felt his power; and, while they pin'd,
Groan'd out their last, to the loud howling wind.
Yet still a following race did those succeed,
And hoar Time glutted Death with piles of dead.
Thus, for five thousand years, the world has roll'd,
Rocks now are mould'ring, ev'n the heav'ns grow old,
And soon that day shall come, when Time shall cease,
And usher in, eternal pain or peace.
Yet how important is that awful day,
That lays us breathless, pale, extended clay,
When from our lips the ruddy glow shall fade,
When the pulse ceases to emit its tide;
When, fadly, pond'ring o'er our lifeless corse,
Our weeping friends regret Death's cruel force;
Then mounts the soul to God, and there receives
Its fixed doom, and shouts for joy, or grieves
Through all eternity; prolongs the strain
Of boundless joy — or yells in endless pain.
Death sometimes sends his cruel page, Disease,
To rob our nights of rest, our days of ease:
Unwelcome guest! and yet he proves no foe,
He weans our passions from the trash below;
Each pang of anguish urges to prepare,
Ere death approach, with stern relentless glare;
And, if unready, we are caught by Death,
He throws us, howling to the gulph beneath.
With sudden steps sometimes the foe appears,
And calls to judgment in our shudd'ring ears.
We start alarm'd — survey our guilty past ;
Bend down to pray, and, bending, breathe our last.
Then fix'd is fate, for as we fall, we lie;
We live in Death, or sinking, doubly die.
Should these sad scenes not rouse us to concern,
Our state to weigh, and danger to discern,
Ere that dread period, when we leave this shore,
And time, and means are given us here no more.
Death's stare may startle ev'n the purest Saint,
And, at the change, his soul perhaps may faint;
But in that hour, these chearing words he hears
And this sweet promise flows upon his ears,
" I am thy friend, on me thy burden lay,
And through death's vale I'll gently pave thy way. "
Thrice welcome words! rejoic'd he spurns this earth,
Where nought but sorrow reigns, and foolish mirth:
To life Saints usher, when on earth they die,
And when they leave us, join the song on high.
On Cartha's banks, beside a sloping dale,
That gently open'd to the western gale,
In homely Cot, of neat, inviting form,
Nigh where old Cruickston braves the howling storm,
Horatio liv'd — the gen'rous and the kind,
The villain's terror, but the poor man's friend;
Each neighbour's joy he shar'd, and adverse growl,
For heav'n-born pity dwelt within his soul:
Well knew the poor his house; for from his door
None e'er return'd, but blest his bounteous store;
Their sad complaints he heard — sigh'd when they griev'd;
And scarce he heard them, till his hand reliev'd;
Belov'd by all he liv'd, sedate, though gay;
Pray'r clos'd his night, and usher'd in his day.
But nought exempts from death: pale he was laid,
His heaving breast by weeping friends survey'd,
Beside his couch I sat — he, sighing, took
My hand in his, then spoke with dying look,
His trembling hand, methinks I feel and spy,
The drops that started in his swimming eye:
" Farewell, my friend! for now the time is come,
That solemn points me to my silent tomb.
Oh! were my life to spend, each breath I'd prize,
For sins on sins now start before my eyes.
Yet, He who is my hope — his chearing voice,
Soft calls me hence, to share eternal joys —
Oh! seek his gen'rous aid " — Here fail'd his breath,
He sigh'd, and slumber'd in the arms of death.
Such was his end, and such the bliss of those
Who taste the stream that from Immanuel flows.
This chears the gloomy path, and opes the Gate
Where endless joys their glorious entrance wait,
Through boundless heav'ns, amid his beams to rove,
There swell the song of his redeeming love.
What though misfortunes, in this life abound;
Though ills on ills, and wants on wants surround;
Though all we hold most dear on earth, are torn,
Harsh, from our grasp, and to a distance borne;
Tho' friends forget us, tho' our en'mies growl,
And earth and hell affright the trembling soul:
Lift up your heads, ye poor! the time draws nigh
When all these mis'ries shall at distance fly;
When songs of praise shall be your blest employ,
Your highest glory, your eternal joy;
Triumphant treading an immortal shore,
Where sin, and sorrow, shall assault no more.
O Thou! The guardian of each flowret pale,
That decks thy lonely brim — Whether thy car
Hoarse murmuring from afar
Foams down the dark and solitary vale,
Or thro' yon meads in peaceful channel roves,
Where neath the pendant umbrage, pleas'd to stray,
Thou shun'st the noontide ray
That gilds th'encircling Majesty of groves.
Hail! hoary sire! — Whilst keen remorse corrodes,
Sicken'd with pleasure's draught, this aching heart,
Thy fresh'ning streams impart,
And take, oh take me, to thy blest abodes!
But if led on, by Heaven's decree, t'explore
The depths and shoals of fortune, once again
I trust the faithless main,
Torn from thy desert waves and solemn roar,
Give me at length, from storms secure and woes
Of latest age, to lose the silent Hours,
And, midst thy awful Bowers,
Enshroud me, far from men, in deep repose.
With 'scutcheons hung, and wet with Widows' tears,
The groans of Anguish, and of deep remorse,
The gloomy Coffin, and extended Corse,
Be now my theme — Hence, all ye idle dreams,
Of flow'ry Meadows, and meand'ring streams,
Or War's arousing roar — since none are brave,
Save those bold few, who triumph o'er the Grave.
O thou, first Being! Thou, almighty Pow'r!
Who metes out Life, a cent'ry , or an hour ;
At whose dread nod the Spectre wields his dart,
Uprears his arm, and stabs the quiv'ring heart,
Assist my feeble pen, (since I and all
Must soon before that grisly Monarch fall)
To mark his frowns, but learn alone to dread
That awful stroke that tends to death indeed.
When God descended first to form our earth,
And gave each plant, and ev'ry creature birth,
When trees arose, at his supreme command,
In order rang'd, or scatter'd o'er the land;
Then the clear brook, in murm'ring measure, flow'd,
The Zephyr whisper'd, and the cattle low'd;
The voice of Music warbl'd through each grove,
From morn to morn, and ev'ry song was love.
The Lamb and Tiger wanton'd o'er the green,
The Stag and Lion join'd the mirthful scene;
The Eagle thirsted not for streams of gore,
And the swift Hawk had ne'er the Warbler tore;
The meanest infect, starting from the the ground,
At pleasure sallied to its mazy round,
Return'd, at night, to its abode, a flow'r,
Nor felt, nor fear'd, a mightier creature's power:
For all was peace, and harmony, and love,
Through the deep ocean, and the tuneful grove.
Such was the world, ere Man, its sovereign lord,
Or beauteous Woman Paradise explor'd:
Ah! hapless pair! too soon they broke the bounds,
They sinn'd — they fell — and felt sin's deadly wounds.
Then rush'd to being Death, and frowning dread
Stalk'd o'er the world, and heapt his way with dead.
The herbage wither'd, in the sun and shade;
Trees shook their leaves, and drooping flow'rs decay'd;
Each creature felt his power; and, while they pin'd,
Groan'd out their last, to the loud howling wind.
Yet still a following race did those succeed,
And hoar Time glutted Death with piles of dead.
Thus, for five thousand years, the world has roll'd,
Rocks now are mould'ring, ev'n the heav'ns grow old,
And soon that day shall come, when Time shall cease,
And usher in, eternal pain or peace.
Yet how important is that awful day,
That lays us breathless, pale, extended clay,
When from our lips the ruddy glow shall fade,
When the pulse ceases to emit its tide;
When, fadly, pond'ring o'er our lifeless corse,
Our weeping friends regret Death's cruel force;
Then mounts the soul to God, and there receives
Its fixed doom, and shouts for joy, or grieves
Through all eternity; prolongs the strain
Of boundless joy — or yells in endless pain.
Death sometimes sends his cruel page, Disease,
To rob our nights of rest, our days of ease:
Unwelcome guest! and yet he proves no foe,
He weans our passions from the trash below;
Each pang of anguish urges to prepare,
Ere death approach, with stern relentless glare;
And, if unready, we are caught by Death,
He throws us, howling to the gulph beneath.
With sudden steps sometimes the foe appears,
And calls to judgment in our shudd'ring ears.
We start alarm'd — survey our guilty past ;
Bend down to pray, and, bending, breathe our last.
Then fix'd is fate, for as we fall, we lie;
We live in Death, or sinking, doubly die.
Should these sad scenes not rouse us to concern,
Our state to weigh, and danger to discern,
Ere that dread period, when we leave this shore,
And time, and means are given us here no more.
Death's stare may startle ev'n the purest Saint,
And, at the change, his soul perhaps may faint;
But in that hour, these chearing words he hears
And this sweet promise flows upon his ears,
" I am thy friend, on me thy burden lay,
And through death's vale I'll gently pave thy way. "
Thrice welcome words! rejoic'd he spurns this earth,
Where nought but sorrow reigns, and foolish mirth:
To life Saints usher, when on earth they die,
And when they leave us, join the song on high.
On Cartha's banks, beside a sloping dale,
That gently open'd to the western gale,
In homely Cot, of neat, inviting form,
Nigh where old Cruickston braves the howling storm,
Horatio liv'd — the gen'rous and the kind,
The villain's terror, but the poor man's friend;
Each neighbour's joy he shar'd, and adverse growl,
For heav'n-born pity dwelt within his soul:
Well knew the poor his house; for from his door
None e'er return'd, but blest his bounteous store;
Their sad complaints he heard — sigh'd when they griev'd;
And scarce he heard them, till his hand reliev'd;
Belov'd by all he liv'd, sedate, though gay;
Pray'r clos'd his night, and usher'd in his day.
But nought exempts from death: pale he was laid,
His heaving breast by weeping friends survey'd,
Beside his couch I sat — he, sighing, took
My hand in his, then spoke with dying look,
His trembling hand, methinks I feel and spy,
The drops that started in his swimming eye:
" Farewell, my friend! for now the time is come,
That solemn points me to my silent tomb.
Oh! were my life to spend, each breath I'd prize,
For sins on sins now start before my eyes.
Yet, He who is my hope — his chearing voice,
Soft calls me hence, to share eternal joys —
Oh! seek his gen'rous aid " — Here fail'd his breath,
He sigh'd, and slumber'd in the arms of death.
Such was his end, and such the bliss of those
Who taste the stream that from Immanuel flows.
This chears the gloomy path, and opes the Gate
Where endless joys their glorious entrance wait,
Through boundless heav'ns, amid his beams to rove,
There swell the song of his redeeming love.
What though misfortunes, in this life abound;
Though ills on ills, and wants on wants surround;
Though all we hold most dear on earth, are torn,
Harsh, from our grasp, and to a distance borne;
Tho' friends forget us, tho' our en'mies growl,
And earth and hell affright the trembling soul:
Lift up your heads, ye poor! the time draws nigh
When all these mis'ries shall at distance fly;
When songs of praise shall be your blest employ,
Your highest glory, your eternal joy;
Triumphant treading an immortal shore,
Where sin, and sorrow, shall assault no more.
O Thou! The guardian of each flowret pale,
That decks thy lonely brim — Whether thy car
Hoarse murmuring from afar
Foams down the dark and solitary vale,
Or thro' yon meads in peaceful channel roves,
Where neath the pendant umbrage, pleas'd to stray,
Thou shun'st the noontide ray
That gilds th'encircling Majesty of groves.
Hail! hoary sire! — Whilst keen remorse corrodes,
Sicken'd with pleasure's draught, this aching heart,
Thy fresh'ning streams impart,
And take, oh take me, to thy blest abodes!
But if led on, by Heaven's decree, t'explore
The depths and shoals of fortune, once again
I trust the faithless main,
Torn from thy desert waves and solemn roar,
Give me at length, from storms secure and woes
Of latest age, to lose the silent Hours,
And, midst thy awful Bowers,
Enshroud me, far from men, in deep repose.
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