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The Grave is said to have been first printed at Edinburgh in 1747, but this is a mistake. It was printed in 1743, at London, for M. Cooper. The author had previously submitted it to Dr. Watts, who informed him that two booksellers had declined the risk of publication. He had likewise corresponded with Dr. Doddridge on the subject, and in a letter to that divine, says, that" in order to make it more generally liked, he was obliged sometimes to go cross to his own inclination, well knowing that whatever poem is written upon a serious argument, must, upon that very account, lie under peculiar disadvantages: and therefore proper arts must be used to make such a piece go down with a licentious age which cares for none of those things." In what respect he crossed his inclination, and by what arts he endeavoured to make his poem more acceptable to a licentious age, we know not. In defence of the present age, it may be said with justice that the poem owes its popularity to its subject; and that, notwithstanding its defects, it will probably be a lasting favourite with persons of a serious turn.

Letters to and from Dr. Doddridge. 8vo. 1790.

THE GRAVE.

WHILE some affect the sun, and some the shade, | Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down

Some flee the city, some the hermitage;

Their aims as various, as the roads they take
In journeying thro' life;-the task be mine,
To paint the gloomy horrours of the tomb;
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet.-Thy succours I implore,
Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains [thing!
The keys of Hell and Death.-The Grave, dread
Men shiver when thou 'rt named: Nature appall'd
Shakes off her wonted firmness.Ah! how dark
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes!
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant Sun [night,
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams
Athwart the gloom profound.—The sickly taper,
By glimm'ring thro' thy low-brow'd misty vaults,
(Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,)
Lets fall a supernumerary horrour,

And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan, cold Moon (as Fame reports)
Embody'd, thick, perform their mystic rounds,
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

See yonder hallow'd fane;-the pious work
Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot,
And bury'd midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up:-hark! how it howls!—Methinks,
'Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary:
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul
bird,

Rook'd in the spire, screamsloud; the gloomy aisles
Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of
'scutcheons,

And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound,
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead.-Rous'd from their
la grim array the grisly spectres rise, [slumbers,
Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks-ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it make one's blood run chill.
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms,
(Coeval near with that) all ragged show,

Their branchless trunks; others so thin at top,
That scarce two crows can lodge in the same tree.
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd
here;

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Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd.
(Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.)

Oft in the lone church yard at night I've seen,
By glimpse of moonshine chequering thro' the trees,
The school boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,)
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
'Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,
Who gather round and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-open'd grave; and (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes 'spy'd,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up
The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.

Invidious Grave!-how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one?
A tie more stubborn far than Nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweetner of life, and solder of society,

I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,

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Anxious to please.-Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errours thro' the underwood,
Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongu'd
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note:
The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose
Assum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower
Vy'd with its fellow-plant in luxury

Of dress-Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seem'd too too much in haste; still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!
Dull Grave!-thou spoil'st the dance of youth-
fat blood,

Strik'st out the dimple from the check of mirth,
And ev'ry smirking feature from the face;
Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now? the men of health,
Complectionally pleasant? Where's the droll,
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made ev'n thick-fipp'd musing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile
Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now,
And dumb as the green turf that covers them.
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war?
The Roman Cæsars, and the Grecian chiefs,
The boast of story? Where the hot brain'd youth,
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore

From kings of all the then discover'd globe, And cry'd, forsooth, because his arm was hamAnd had not room enough to do its work? [per'd, Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim, And cram'd into a space we blush to name! · Proud Royalty! how alter'd in thy looks! How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue! Son of the Morning whither art thou gone? Wher: hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, And the majestic menace of thine eyes Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now, Like new-born infant wound up in his swathes, Or victim tunabled flat upon its back, That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife. Mute, must thou bear the strife of little tongues, And coward insults of the base-born crowd, That grudge a privilege thou never hadst, But only hop'd for in the peaceful grave, Of being unmolested and alone. Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs, And honours by the heralds duly paid, In mode and form e'en to every scruple; Oh! cruel irony! these come too late, And only mock whom they were meant to honour. Surely there's not a dungeon slave that's bury'd In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffin'd, But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he. Sorry pre-eminence of high descent, Above the vul ar born to rot in state. But see! the well-p'um'd hearse comes nodding Stately and slow, and properly attended By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch The sick man's door, and live upon the dead, By letting out their persons by the hour, To mimic sorrow when the heart's not sad. How rich the trappings! now they're all unfurl'd,

[on

And glittering in the sun; triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,

In glory scarce execed. Great gluts of people Retard th' unwieldy show: whilst from the cas¤inents,

And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks, close wedg'd,
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us why this waste,
Why this ado in earthing up a carcase
That's fall'n into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible ?-Ye undertakers, tell us,
'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principal conceal'd, for which
You make this mighty stir?-Tis wisely done:
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The painter casts discreetly into shades.

Proud Lineage, now how little thou appear'st
Below the envy of the private man!
Honour, that meddlesome, officious ill,
Pursues thee e'en to death; nor there stops short;
Strange persecution! when the grave itself
Is no protection from rude sufferance.

Absurd to think to over-reach the Grave, And from the wreck of names to rescue ours. The best concerted schemes men lay for fame Die fast away; only themselves die faster. The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurell'd bard, Those bold insurancers of deathless fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain. The tapering pyramid, th' Ægyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outliv'd The angry shaking of the winter's storm: Yet spent at last by th' injuries of Heaven, Shatter'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years, The mystic cone with hieroglyphics crusted, At once gives way. Oh! lamentable sight! The labour of whole ages tumbles down, A hideous and mishapen length of ruins. Sepulchral columns wrestle but in vain With all-subduing Time; her cank'ring hand With calm, delib'rate malice wasteth them: Worn on the edge of days, the brass consumes, The busto moulders, and the deep-cut marble, Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge. Ambition, half convicted of her folly, Hangs down her head, and reddens at the tale.

Here all the mighty troublers of the Earth, Who swam to sov'reign rule thro' seas of blood; Th' oppressive sturdy, man-destroying villains, Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And, in a cruel wantonness of power,

Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent, Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind the covert. Vain thought! to hide them from the general

scorn

That haunts and dogs them like an injured ghost
Implacable.-Here, too, the petty tyrant,
Whose scant domains geographer ne'er notic'd,
And well for neighbouring grounds, of arm as
Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor, [short,
And grip'd them like some lordly beast of prey;
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing Hunger,
And piteous plaintive voice of Misery;
(As if a slave was not a shred of Nature,
Of the same common nature with his lord;)
Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd,
Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his
kinsman;

Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground,

Precedency's a jest; vassal and lord,

Grossly familiar, side by side consume.

[flattery,

When self-esteem, or other's adulation,
Would cunningly persuade us we are something
Above the common level of our kind;
The Grave gainsays the smooth-complection'd
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.
Beauty-thou pretty plaything, dear deceit!
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulse unknown before,
The Grave discredits thee: thy charms expung'd,
Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd,

What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee ho-
mage?

Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid,
Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,
Riots unscar'd.-For this, was all thy caution?
For this, thy painful labours at thy glass,
Timprove those charms and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not? Foul feeder!
Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the sense.

Look how the fair one weeps!-the conscious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers:
Honest effusion! the swoln heart in vain
Works hard, to put a gloss on its distress.

Strength, too-thou surly and less gentle boast
Of those that loud laugh at the village ring,
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down
With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dar'd thee to th' unequal fight.—
What groan was that I heard?-Deep groan in-
deed!

With anguish heavy laden.-Let me trace it.-
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belabour'd, gasps for breath
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant
To give the lungs full play.-What now avail
The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well-spread
shoulders!

See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pains!-Eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard,
Just like a creature drowning! hideous sight!

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Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails;
And down thou drop'st into that darksome place,
Where nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Here the tongue-warrior lies disabled now,
Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd,
And cannot tell his ails to passers by. [change;
Great man of language!-Whence this mighty
This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?
Tho' strong persuasion hung upon thy lip,
And sly insinuation's softer arts

In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue;
Alas! how chop-fall'n now? Thick mists and si-
Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast [lence
Unceasing.-Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The strength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd voice,
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?
Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been;
Raz'd from the book of Fame; or, more provoking,
Perchance some hackney, hunger-bitten scribbler,
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes,
With heavy halting pace that drawl along;
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage,
And warm with red resentment the wan cheek.
Here the great masters of the healing-art,
These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb,
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Resign to fate.-Proud Esculapius' son!
Where are thy boasted implements of art,
And all thy well-cram'd magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as ship could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook,
Escap'd thy rifling hand:-from stubborn shrubs
Thou wrung'st their shy-retiring virtues out,
And vex'd them in the fire; nor fly, nor insect,
Nor writhy snake, escap'd thy deep research.
But why this apparatus? Why this cost?
Tell us,
thon doughty keeper from the grave,
Where are thy recipes and cordials now,
With the long list of vouchers for thy cures?
Alas! thou speak'st not.—The bold impostor
Looks not more silly when the cheat's found out.
Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons,
Who meanly stole, (discreditable shift)
From back and belly too, their proper cheer,
Eas'd of a task it irk'd the wretch to pay

Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghast-To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged,
ly!
Whilst the distemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up.-Heard you that
groan?

It was his last-See how the great Goliath,
Just like a child that brawl'd itself to rest,
Lies still-What mean'st thou then, O mighty
boaster,

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By clam'rous appetites no longer teas'd,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs.
But ah! where are his rents, his comings-in?
Ay! now you've made the rich man poor indeed!
Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind?
Oh, cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake,
The fool throws up his int'rest in both worlds:
First starv'd in this, then damn'd in that to come.

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death,
To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement;
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain!-How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer her's!
A little longer, yet a little longer,

Oh! might she stay to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage.--Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horrour.-But the foe,

F

Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till fore'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! my soul!
What a strange moment must it be, when near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view!
That awful gulf, no mortal e'er repass'd
To tell what's doing on the other side.
Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thought of parting;
For part they must; body and soul must part:
Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair.
This wings its way to its Almighty Source,
The witness of its actions, now its judge;
That drops into the dark and noisome Grave,
Like a disabled pitcher of no use.

If death was nothing, and nought after death; If when men died, at once they ceas'd to be, Returning to the barren womb of nothing, Whence first they sprung, then might the de[drunkard Untrembling mouth the Heavens: then might the Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drain'd, Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

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At the poor bugbear Death: then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleas'd,
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel.
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could
The ill-pleas'd guest to sit out his full time, [force
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, conscience, uninfluenc'd,
And suffer'd to speak 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 it not: our island's shame; That makes her the reproach of neighbouring

states.

Shall Nature, swerving from her earliest dictate,
Self-preservation, fall by her own act?
Forbid it, Heaven.-Let not, upon disgust,
The shameless hand be fully crimson'd o'er
With blood of its own lord.-Dreadful attempt!
Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage
To rush into the presence of our judge;
As if we challeng'd him to do his worst,

And matter'd not his wrath: unheard-of tortures
Must be reserv'd for such: these herd together;
The common damn'd shun their society,
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.
Our time is fix'd, and all our days are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not:-this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till Heav'n shall give permission:
Like sent'ries that must keep their destin'd stand,
And wait th' appointed hour, till they're reliev'd;
Those only are the brave that keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away
Is but a coward's trick. To run away
From this world's ills, that, at the very worst,
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves,
By boldly venturing on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark;-'t is mad;
No phrensy half so desperate as this.
Tell us, ye dead; will none of you, in pity

To those you left behind, disclose the secret?
Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out;
What 't is you are, and we must shortly be.
I've heard, that souls departed, have sometimes
Forewarn❜d men of their death:-T was kindly
done,

To knock, and give th' alarm.-But what means
This stinted charity?-Tis but lame kindness
That does its work by halves.-Why might you not
Tell us what 't is to die?-Do the strict laws
Of your society forbid your speaking
Upon a point so nice?—I'll ask no more:
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine
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 shafts fly thick: here falls the village swain,

And there his pamper'd lord. The cup goes round:
And who so artful as to put it by!
'Tis long since Death had the majority;
Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear, with mattock in his hand,

| Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors.-Scarce a skull's cast up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand
The sot has walk'd with Death twice twenty years,
And yet ne'er yonker on the green laughs louder
Or clubs a smuttier tale: when drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup.-Poor wretch! he minds
That soon some trusty brother of the trade [not,
Shall do for him, what he has done for thousands.
On this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegenerate days
Could scarce have leisure for.-Fools that we are,
Never to think of death and of ourselves

At the same time: as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours.-Oh! more than sottish,
For creatures of a day in gamesome mood,
To frolic on Eternity's dread brink
Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,
The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, Time hurries on
With a resistless, unremitting stream;
Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief,
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow,
And carries off his prize.-What is this world?
What, but a spacious 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;
And we that live must lend our carcases
To cover our own offspring; in their turns,
They, too, must cover theirs.-T is here all meet;
The shiv'ring Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never inet before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His sov'reign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight.-Here lie abash'd
The great negociators of the Earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,
Deep read in stratagems and wiles of courts;

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