Shall I dare say, peculiar is the fate?
I've been so long remember'd, I'm forgot.
An object ever pressing dims the sight,
And hides behind its ardour to be seen.
When in his courtiers' ears I pour my plaint,
They drink it as the nectar of the great;

And squeeze my hand, and beg me come to-morrow.
Refusal! canst thou wear a smoother form?

Indulge me, nor conceive I drop my theme:
Who cheapens life, abates the fear of death:
Twice told the period spent on stubborn Troy,
Court favour, yet untaken, I besiege;
Ambition's ill-judged effort to be rich.
Alas! ambition makes my little less;

Embittering the possest. Why wish for more?
Wishing, of all employments, is the worst;
Philosophy's reverse; and health's decay.
Were I as plump as stall'd theology,
Wishing would waste me to this shade again.
Were I as wealthy as a South-sea dream,
Wishing is an expedient to be poor,
Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool;
Caught at a court; purg'd off by purer air,
And simpler diet; gifts of rural life!

Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid
My heart at rest, beneath this humble shed.
The world 's a stately bark, on dangerous seas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril;
Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore,
I hear the tumult of the distant throng,
As that of seas remote, or dying storms:
And meditate on scenes, more silent still;

Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death.
Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut,
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,
Eager ambition's fiery chase I see;

I see the circling hunt, of noisy men,
Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing, and pursued, 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 soar in fame? Earth's highest station ends in, "Here he lies," And "Dust to dust" concludes her noblest song. If this song lives, posterity shall know

One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late; Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme 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! remnants of yourselves!
Poor human ruins, tottering o'er the grave!
Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees,
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil?
Shall our pale, wither'd hands, be still stretch'd out,
Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age?
With avarice and convulsions, grasping hard?
Grasping at air! for what has Earth beside?
Man wants but little; nor that little, long :
How soon must he resign his very dust,

Which frugal Nature lent him for an hour! Years unexperienc'd rush on numerous ills; And soon 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 miss such numbers, numbers too of such, Firmer in health and greener in their age, And stricter on their guard, and fitter far To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe I still survive; and am I fond of life, Who scarce can think it possible, I live? Alive by miracle! or, what is next, Alive by Mead! if I am still alive, Who long have buried what gives life to live, Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought. Life's lee is not more shallow than impure And vapid; sense and reason show the door, Call for my bier, and point me to the dust.

O thou great Arbiter of life and death! Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun! Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, To drink the spirit of the golden day, And triumph in existence; and could know No motive, but my bliss; and hast ordain'd A rise in blessing! with the patriarch's joy, Thy call I follow to the land unknown; I trust in thee, and know in whom I trust; Or life, or death, is equal; neither weighs: All weight in this - O let me live to thee!

Though Nature's terrours, thus, may be represt : Still frowns grim Death; guilt points the tyrant's

spear.

And whence all human guilt? From death forgot. Ah me! too long I set at nought the swarm

Of friendly warnings, which around me flew ;
And smil'd, unsmitten: small my cause to smile!
Death's admonitions, like shafts upward shot,
More dreadful by delay, the longer ere

They strike our hearts, the deeper is their wound;
O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it stings:
Who can appease its anguish? how it burns!
What hand the barb'd,envenom'd, thought can draw?
What healing hand can pour the balm of peace,
And turn my sight undaunted on the tomb?

With joy with grief, that healing hand I see; Ah! too conspicuous! it is fix'd on high.

On high? What means my phrenzy? I blaspheme;
Alas! how low! how far beneath the skies!

The skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me
But bleeds the balm I want Yet still it bleeds;
Draw the dire steel-ah no! the dreadful blessing
What heart or can sustain, or dares forego!
There hangs all human hope; that nail supports
The falling universe: that gone, we drop;
Horrour receives us, and the dismal wish
Creation had been smother'd in her birth
Darkness is his curtain, and his bed the dust;
When stars and Sun are dust beneath his throne!
In Heaven itself can such indulgence dwell?

O what a groan was there! a groan not his.
He seiz'd our dreadful right; the load sustain'd;

And heav'd the mountain from a guilty world.

A thousand worlds, so bought, were bought too dear; Sensations new in angels' bosoms rise;

Suspend their song! and make a pause in bliss.

O for their song; to reach my lofty theme!
Inspire me, Night! with all thy tuneful spheres;
Whilst I with seraphs share seraphic themes!
And show to men the dignity of man;
Lest I blaspheme my subject with my song.
Shall Pagan pages glow celestial flame,

And Christian languish? on our hearts, not heads,
Falls the foul infamy: my heart! awake.
What can awake thee, unawak'd by this,
"Expended deity on human weal?"

Feel the great truths, which burst the tenfold night
Of heathen errour, with a golden flood
Of endless day to feel, is to be fir'd;

And to believe, Lorenzo! is to feel.

Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Power!
Still more tremendous, for thy wondrous love!
That arms, with awe more aweful, thy commands;
And foul transgression dips in sevenfold night!
How our hearts tremble at thy love immense !
In love immense, inviolably just!

Thou, rather than thy justice should be stain'd,
Didst stain the cross; and work of wonders far
The greatest, that thy dearest far might bleed.

Bold thought! shall I dare speak it, or repress? Should man more execrate, or boast, the guilt Which rous'd such vengeance? which such love in[arms,

flam'd?

O'er guilt (how mountainous!) with out-stretch'd