網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

SECTION II.

A night-piece on death.

By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the fages o'er :
Their books from wifdom widely ftray,
Or point at beft the longest way.
1'li feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the fky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While thro' their ranks in filver pride
The nether crefcent feems to glide.
The flumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is fmooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the fpangled show
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right afpire,
In dimnefs from the view retire:
The left prefents a place of graves,
Whofe wall the filent water laves.
That fteeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night;
There pafs with melancholy state
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as foftly-fad you tread.
Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee, they life poffeft,
And time fhall be, that thou fhalt reft."
Thofe graves with bending ofier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought difclofe
Where toil and poverty repofe.

The flat fmooth ftones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame;
(Which, ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent fteps may wear away ;)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rife on high,
Whofe dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,

Thefe (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the rich or praise the great ;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs of the fame they give.
Ha while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the fhades!
All flow, and wan, and wrapt with fhrouds,
They rife in vifionary crowds,

And all with fober accent cry,

"Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground;}
It fends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus fpeaking from among the bones.
"When men my scythe and darts fupply,
How great a king of fears am 1!
They view me like the laft of things:
They make, and then they dread my stings.
Fools if you lefs provoke your fears,
No more my fpectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pafs to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of fwelling feas.

"Why then thy flowing fable ftoles,
Deep pendent cyprefs, mourning poles,
Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herfes, cover'd feeds,
And plumes of black, that as they tread,
Nod o'er the fcutcheons of the dead?
"Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the foul, these forms of wo:
As men, who long in prifon dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their fuffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun;
Such joy, though far tranfcending fenfe,
Have pious fouls at parting hence,
On earth and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years they waite ;

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

In every condition of life, praife is due to the Creator.
PRAISE to God, immortal praise,

For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous Source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ:
For the bleffings of the field,
For the ftores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's ufe.
Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow fheaves of ripen'd grain ;
Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews;
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse;
All that spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the fmiling land;
All that liberal autumn pours,
From her rich o'erflowing ftores :
Thefe to thee, my God, we owe,
Source from whence all bleffings flow:
And for thefe my foul fhall raife
Grateful vows, and folemn praife.
Yet, fhould rifing whirlwinds tear
From its ftem the ripening ear;
Should the fig-tree's blafted fhoot
Drop her green, untimely fruit :
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her flore;
Though the fickening flocks fhould fall,
And the herds defert the fall;
Should thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain;
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rifing year deftroy;
Yet, to thee my foul fhall raise
Grateful vows and folemn praise;
And, when every bleffing's flown,
Love thee-for thyself alone,

BARBAULD.

[ocr errors]

SECTION IV.

Folly of human pursuits.

BLEST be that hand divine, which gently laid
My heart at reft beneath this humble shed!
The world's a ftately barque, on dangerous feas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril.
Here on a fingle plank, thrown fafe afhore,
I hear the tumult of the diftant throng,
As that of feas remote, or dying storms ;
And meditate on fcenes more filent ftill;
Purfue my theme, and fight the fear of death.
Here, like a fhepherd, gazing from his hut,
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,
Eager ambition's fiery chafe I fee.

1 fee the circling hunt of noisy men
Burft law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing and purfu'd, each other's prey;
As wolves, for rapine; as the fox, for wiles;
Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
What though we wade in wealth, or foar in fame,
Earth's highest ftation ends ip, "here he lies:"
And "dult to duft" concludes her nobleft fong.
If this fong lives, pofterity fhall know

One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred,
Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late;
Nor on his fubtle death-bed plann'd his fcheme
For future vacancies in church or state;
Some avocation deeming it-to die ;
Unbit by rage canine of dying rich;

Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of hell.
O my coevals! remnant of yourselves!

Poor human ruins, tott'ring o'er the grave!
Shall we, fhall aged men, like aged trees,
Strike deeper their vile root, and clofer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched foil?
Shall our pale wither'd hands be till ftretch'd out,
Trembling at once with eagerness and age?
With av'rice, and convulfions grafping hard?
Grafping at air for what has earth befide?
Man wants but little, nor that little long :
How foon muft he refign his very duft,
Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
Years unexperienc'd rush on numerous ills ;

And foon as man, expert from time, has found
The key of life, it opes the gates of death

When in this vale of years I backward look,
And mits fuch numbers, numbers too of fuch,
Firmer in health and greener in their age,
And stricter on their guard, and fitter far
To play life's fubtle game, I fcarce believe
I ftill furvive and am I fond of life,
Who fcarce can think it poffible I live?
Alive by miracle! if still alive,

Who long have buried what gives life to live,
Firminets of nerve and energy of thought.
Life's lee is not more fhallow, than impure,
And vapid: fenfe and reafon fhow the door,
Call for my bier, and point me to the dust.
O theu great Arbiter of life and death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun!
Whofe all-prolific beam late call'd me forth
From darknefs, teeming dark nefs, where I lay
The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath
The duft I tread on, high to bear my brow,
To drink the fpirit of the golden day,
And triumph in exiltence; and couldst know
No motive, but my blifs; with Abraham's joy,
Thy call I follow to the land unknown;

I trust in thee, and know in whom I truft:
Or life, or death, is equal; neither weighs;
All weight in this-O let me live to thee!

SECTION V.

An addrefs to the Deity.

YOUNG

GOD of my life, and Author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lifp thy praife;
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue
That hallow'd name to harps of feraphs fung;
Yet here the brightest feraphs could no more
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere,
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works, thro' all her parts, proclaim.
I feel that name my inmoft thoughts control,
And breathe an awful tillness through my foul:
As by a charm, the waves of grief fubfide;
Impetuous paffion ftops her headlong tide.

« 上一頁繼續 »