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Precedency's a jest; vassal and lord,

[flattery,

Grossly familiar, side by side consume.
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 homage?

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,
T'improve 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!
Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghast-
ly!

Whilst the distemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels,
Aud 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,
[bull,
To vaunt of nerves of thine? What means the
Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man,
That, knowing well the slackness of his arm,
Trusts only in the well-invented knife?

With study pale, and midnight vigils spent,
The star-surveying sage close to his eye
Applies the sight-invigorating tube,

[space, And trav'lling through the boundless length of Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs That roll with regular confusion there, In ecstacy of thought. But ah! proud man! Great heights are hazardous to the weak head;

VOL. XV.

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, thou 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
To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged,
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.-Mouruful 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 forc'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
bauchee
[drunkard
Untrembling mouth the Heavens: then might the
Reel over his full bowl, and, when 't is drain'd,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

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:-'Twas 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;
de-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
luto 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 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

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 animal.
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 met 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 huddied 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;

Now vain their treaty-skill.-Death scorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burthen
From his gall'd shoulders;-and when the stern
tyrant,

With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm;-and quick as thought

escapes

Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.

Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream,
(Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love,)
Fast by his gentle mistress lay him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue.-Here friends and foes
Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-rob'd prelate and plain presbyter,
Ere-while that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock had split.
Here is the large-limb'd peasant:here the
Of a span long that never saw the Sun, [child
Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters;
The barren wife, and long-demurring maid,
Whose lonely unappropriated sweets
Smil'd like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude severe, and gay coquet,
The sober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose every day was made of melody, [shrew,
Hears not the voice of mirth.-The shrill-tongu'd
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, the profane,
The downright clown, and perfectly well bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean,
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.

Poor man!-how happy once in thy first state!
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand,
He stamp'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 soul serene;
Like two sweet instruments, 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 castings-up of what might be,
Alarm'd his peaceful bosom.-Summer seas
Show not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern
winds,

Just ready to expire-Scarce importun'd,
The generous soil, with a luxurious hand,
Offer'd the various produce of the year,
And ev'ry thing most perfect in its kind.
Blessed! thrice blessed days!-But, ah! how short!
Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men;
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.

Oh! slipp'ry state of things!-What sudden
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf [turns!
Of man's sad history!-To-day most happy,
And ere to-morrow's Sun has set, most abject.
How scant the space between these vast extremes!
Thus far'd it with our sire:-not long he enjoy'd
His Paradise-scarce had the happy tenant

Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets,
Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again.-And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire offence
Of erring man? Like one that is condemu'd,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
And parley with his fate.But 'tis in vain-
Not all the lavish odours of the place
Offer'd in incense can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom.-A mighty angel
With flaming sword forbids his longer stay,
And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take
One last and farewel round.-At once he lost
His glory and his God.-If mortal now,
And sorely maim'd, no wonder.-Man has sinn'd.
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he needs would try: nor try'd in vain.
(Dreadful experiment! destructive measure!
Where the worst thing could happen, is success.)
Alas! too well he sped; the good he scorn'd
Stalk'd off reluctant like an ill-us'd ghost,
Not to return;-or if it did, its visits,
Like those of angels, short and far between:
Whilst the black Demon, with his Hell-scap'd train,
Admitted once into its better room,

Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone;
Lording it o'er the man who now too late
Saw the rash errour, which he could not mend:
An errour fatal not to him alone,

But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs.
Inglorious bondage!-Human nature groans
Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel,
And its vast body bleeds thro' every vein.

What havoc hast thou made, foul monster, Sin!
Greatest and worst of ills.-The fruitful parent
Of woes of all dimensions!-But for thee
Sorrow had never been.-All-noxious thing,
Of vilest nature!-Other sorts of evils
Are kindly circumscrib'd, and have their bounds.
The fierce volcano, from his burping entrails,
That belches molten stone, and globes of fire,
Involv'd in pitchy clouds of smoke and stench,
Mars the adjacent fields for some leagues round,
And there it stops.-The big-swoln inundation,
Of mischief more diffusive, raving loud,
Buries whole tracts of country, threat'ning more;
But that, too, has its shore it cannot pass.
More dreadful far than these, Sin has laid waste,
Not here and there a country, but a world:
Dispatching at a wide-extended blow
Entire mankind; and, for their sakes, defacing
A whole creation's beauty with rude hands;
Blasting the foodful grain, the loaded branches,
And marking all along its way with ruin.

| Accursed thing!-Oh! where shall Fancy find
A proper name to call thee by, expressive
Of all thy horrours? Pregnant womb of ills!
Of temper so transcendently malign,
That toads and serpents of most deadly kind,
Compar'd to thee, are harmless.-Sicknesses
Of every size and symptom, racking pains,
And bluest plagues, are thine.-See how the fiend
Profusely scatters the contagion round!
Whilst deep-mouth'd Slaughter, bellowing at her
heels,

Wades deep in blood new spilt; yet for to morrow
Shapes out new work of great uncommon daring,
And inly pines 'till the dread blow is struck.

But hold:-I've gone too far; too much disco-
ver'd

My father's nakedness, and Nature's shame.-
Here let me pause, and drop an honest tear,
One burst of filial duty and condolence,
O'er all those ample deserts Death hath spread;
This chaos of mankind.O great man-eater!
Whose ev'ry day is carnival, not sated yet!
Unheard-of epicure! without a fellow!
The veriest gluttons do not always cram;
Some intervals of abstinence are sought
To edge the appetite: thou seekest none.
Methinks the countless swarms thou hast devour'd,
And thousands that each hour thou gobblest up,
This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full;
But, ah! rapacious still, thou gap'st for more:
Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals,
On whom lank Hunger lays her skinny hand,
And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings;
As if diseases, massacres, and poison,
Famine, and war, were not thy caterers.

But know that thou must render up the dead,
And with high int'rest too. They are not thine;
But only in thy keeping for a season,
Till the great promis'd day of restitution;
When loud diffusive sound from brazen trump
Of strong-lung'd cherub, shall alarm thy captives,
And rouse the long, long sleepers into life,
Day-light and liberty.-

Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal
The mines that lay long forming under ground,
In their dark cells immur'd; but now full ripe,
And pure as silver from the crucible,
That twice has stood the torture of the fire
And inquisition of the forge.-We know
Th' illustrious deliverer of mankind,

The Son of God, thee foil'd.-Him in thy pow'r
Thou couldst not hold:-self-vigorous he rose,
And shaking off thy fetters, soon retook
Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent:
(Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall!)
Twice twenty days he sojourn'd here on Earth,
And show'd himself alive to chosen witnesses,
By proofs so strong, that the most slow assenting
Had not a scruple left.-This having done,
He mounted up to Heav'n.—Methinks I see him
Climb the aerial heights, and glide along
Athwart the sev'ring clouds: but the faint eye,
Flung backward in the chase, soon drops its hold,
Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing.
Heav'n's portals wide expand to let him in;
Nor are his friends shut out: as a great prince
Not for himself alone procures admission,
But for his train.It was his royal will,
That where he is, there should his followers be.
Death only lies between.-A gloomy path!
Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears:
But not untrod nor tedious; the fatigue
Will soon go off: besides, there's no by-road
To bliss.-Then why, like ill-condition'd children,
Start we at transient hardships in the way
That leads to purer air, and softer skies,
And a ne'er setting Sun?-Fools that we are!
We wish to be where sweets unwith'ring bloom;
But straight our wish revoke, and will not go.
So have 1 seen, upon a summer's ev'n,
Fast by a riv'let's brink a youngster play:
How wishfully he looks to stem the tide!
This moment resolute, next unresolv'd:

At last he dips his foot; but as he dips,
His fears redouble, and he runs away
From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now
Of all the flow'rs that paint the farther bank,
And smil'd so sweet of late.-Thrice welcome Death!
That after many a painful bleeding step
Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe
On the long-wish'd-for shore.Prodigious change!
Our bane turn'd to a blessing!-Death, disarm'd,
Loses his fellness quite.-All thanks to Him
| Who scourg'd the venom out.-Sure the last end
Of the good man is peace!-How calm his exit!
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Behold him in the evening tide of life,
A life well spent, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green:
By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the Sun, seems larger at his setting:
(High in his faith and hopes) look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away:
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast-coming harvest.-Then! Oh, then!
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of nought.-Oh! how he longs
To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd!
'Tis done! and now he's happy!-The glad soul
Has not a wish uncrown'd.-Ev'n the lag flesh
Rests too in hope of meeting once again
Its better half, never to sunder more;
Nor shall it hope in vain; the time draws on
When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long-committed dust
Inviolate:-and faithfully shall these
Make up the full account; not the least atom
Embezzl'd, or mislaid, of the whole tale.
Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd;
And each shall have his own.-Hence ye profane!
Ask not, how this can be?-Sure the same pow'r
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,
Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And put them as they were.-Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd
Through length of days: and what he can, he will:
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring
(Not unattentive to the call) shall wake:
And ev'ry joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form, unknown
To its first state.-Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner, but amidst the crowd,
Singling its other half, into its arms
Shall rush with all th' impatience of a man
That's new come home, who, having long been
absent,

[dust,

With haste runs over ev'ry different room,
In pain to see the whole. Thrice-happy meeting!
Nor Time, nor Death, shall ever part them more.
'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night;
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.
Thus at the shut of ev'n, the weary bird
Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake
Cow'rs down, and dozes till the dawn of day,
Then claps his well-fledg'd wings, and bears away,

THE

POEMS

OF

ROBERT LLOYD.

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