That drops into the dark and noisome grave,
Like a disabled pitcher, of no use.
If death were nothing, and nought after death;
If, when men died, at once they ceased to be,
Returning to the barren womb of nothing,
Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee
Untrembling mouth the heavens; then might the drunkard
Reel over his full bowl; and, when 'tis drained,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh
At the poor bugbear Death; then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tired of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel:
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force
The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there's an hereafter;
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced,
And suffered to speak out, tells every 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 foully crimsoned 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 challenged Him to do his worst,
And mattered not his wrath! Unheard-of tortures
Must be reserved for such: these herd together,
The common damned shun their society,
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.
Our time is fixed, and all our days are numbered;
How long, how short, we know not: this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till heaven shall give permission:
Like sentries that must keep their destined stand,
And wait the appointed hour till they're relieved.
Those only are the brave who keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. 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 :-'tis mad :
No frenzy half so desperate as this.
THE ENTRANCE OF DEATH INTO THE WORLD.
POOR man! how happy once in thy first state!
When yet but warm from thy Great Maker's hand,
He stamped thee with his image, and, well-pleased,
Smiled 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,
Offered to ache: nor was there cause they should:
For all was pure within: no fell remorse,
Nor anxious castings up of what might be,
Alarmed his peaceful bosom : summer seas
Show not more smooth, when kissed by southern winds
Just ready to expire. Scarce importuned,
The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand,
Offered the various produce of the year,
And everything most perfect in its kind.
Blessed! thrice blessed days! But ah! how short!
Blessed as the pleasing dreams of holy men,
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.
Oh! slippery state of things! What sudden turns!
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf
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 fared it with our sire; not long he enjoyed
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 condemned,
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,
Offered 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 farewell round. At once he lost
His glory and his God. If mortal now,
And sorely maimed, no wonder man has sinned;
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he would needs try; nor tried in vain.
(Dreadful experiment! destructive measure!
Where the worst thing could happen is success.)
Alas! too well he sped: the good he scorned
Stalked off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost,
Not to return; or if it did its visits,
Like those of angels, short and far between;
Whilst the black dæmon, with hell-'scaped 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 error which he could not mend:
An error 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 through every vein.
JOHN BYROм, a poet of very moderate pretensions, but whose pure moral lessons entitle him to a place in this collection, was born near Manchester, A.D. 1691, and received his education at Trinity College, Cambridge. He invented a system of short-hand, and was a distinguished member of the Royal Society. He died at Manchester, A. D. 1763.
Byrom wrote verse with great facility on a variety of subjects; most of his writings have a high moral tendency, and are calculated to suggest useful reflections to the youthful mind.
ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.
ST. Philip Neri', as old readings say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
And being ever courteously inclined
To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
He fell into discourse with him; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.
St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
St. And when you are one, what do you intend?
Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
1 Philip Neri, a Florentine of the sixteenth century, was remarkable for his piety; he was, however, unfor
nately led away by the superstitions of the Romish church, and induced to found a monastic order.
St. Suppose it so-what have you next in view?
Y. That I may get to be a canon too.
St. Well; and how then?
I may be made a bishop.
St.
Why, then, for aught I know,
Why, cardinal's a high degree
And yet my lot it possibly may be.
St. Suppose it was-what then?
Y.
Why who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
St. Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?
Y. Nay, there is nothing further to be sure,
Upon this earth, that wishing can procure:
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,
As long as God shall please, then I must die.
St. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best But wish, and hope, and may be, all the rest!
Take my advice,-whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide ;
Then think of that which may be, and indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.
THE COUNTRY FELLOWS AND THE ASS.
A COUNTRY fellow and his son, they tell
In modern fables, had an ass to sell :
For this intent they turned it out to play,
And fed so well, that by the destined day,
They brought the creature into sleek repair,
And drove it gently to a neighbouring fair.
As they were jogging on, a rural class
Was heard to say, "Look! look there, at that ass !
And those two blockheads trudging on each side,
That have not, either of 'em, sense to ride;
Asses all three!" And thus the country folks
On man and boy began to cut their jokes.
Th' old fellow minded nothing that they said,
But every word stuck in the young one's head;
And thus began their comment thereupon:
"Ne'er heed 'em, lad." Nay, father, do get on."
"Not I, indeed." Why then let me, I pray."
"Well do; and see what prating tongues will say."
The boy was mounted, and they had not got
Much further on, before another knot,
Just as the ass was pacing by, pad, pad,
Cried, “O! that lazy booby of a lad !
How unconcernedly the gaping brute
Lets the poor aged fellow walk a-foot."
Down came the son on hearing this account,
And begged and prayed, and made his father mount: Till a third party, on a further stretch,
"See! see!" exclaimed, "that old hard-hearted wretch! How like a justice there he sits, or squire;
While the poor lad keeps wading through the mire."
"Stop," cried the lad, still vexed in deeper mind,
"Stop, father, stop.; let me get on behind."
This done, they thought they certainly should please,
Escape reproaches, and be both at ease;
For having tried each practicable way,
What could be left for jokers now to say?
Still disappointed, by succeeding tone,
"Hark ye, you fellows! Is that ass your own?
Get off, for shame! or one of you at least!
You both deserve to carry the poor beast!
Ready to drop down dead upon the road,
With such a huge unconscionable load."
On this they both dismounted; and, some say,
Contrived to carry, like a truss of hay,
The ass between 'em ; prints, they add, are seen
With man and lad, and slinging ass between ;
Others omit that fancy in the print,
As overstraining an ingenious hint.
The copy that we follow, says, The man
Rubbed down the ass, and took to his first plan,
Walked to the fair, and sold him, got his price,
And gave his son this pertinent advice:
"Let talkers talk; stick thou to what is best ;
To think of pleasing all-is all a jest."
ONCE on a time a certain man was found
That had a pond of water in his ground:
A fine large pond of water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his turn for many a year.
Yet so it was a strange unhappy dread
Of wanting water seized the fellow's head:
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