The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
 | II. |
The Prisoner discharged.
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 | The English Dance of Death |  |
236
The Prisoner discharged.
WHENE'ER the fatal Arrow flies
And some high-favour'd Mortal dies;
Whene'er we hang o'er Beauty's bier;
Sorrow awakes the flowing tear.
'Tis not in Nature thus to part
From those whose virtues warm'd our heart;
From those whose charms were form'd to move
The melting soul to purest Love,
Without the bosom's keen distress
Which no words tell, no looks express:
But when the wretch pours forth the groan
That says—“I've laid my burden down;”
When wicked men from troubling cease,
And the long-wearied rest in peace;
When Mercy calls us forth to see
Death set the hopeless pris'ner free,
We bless the inviolable doom,
And hail the Asylum of the tomb.
And some high-favour'd Mortal dies;
Whene'er we hang o'er Beauty's bier;
Sorrow awakes the flowing tear.
'Tis not in Nature thus to part
From those whose virtues warm'd our heart;
From those whose charms were form'd to move
The melting soul to purest Love,
Without the bosom's keen distress
Which no words tell, no looks express:
But when the wretch pours forth the groan
That says—“I've laid my burden down;”
When wicked men from troubling cease,
And the long-wearied rest in peace;
237
Death set the hopeless pris'ner free,
We bless the inviolable doom,
And hail the Asylum of the tomb.
Thank Heaven, the Debtor, though so late,
No longer shares the Felon's fate;
No longer by the Laws' delays,
May be imprison'd half his days:
No longer is the prison made
The Harbour of that cruel trade
Which fed the insatiable maw
Of hungry, pettifogging Law:
The imprison'd Debtor now may see
The due approach of Liberty:
From Redesdale's patient, patriot care,
He now no longer need despair;
No longer writhe beneath the Paw
Of griping Harpies of the Law:
But in the Prison's transient gloom,
May look for better times to come.
Redesdale, in thy great work, proceed!
Freedom will hail thee for the deed,
And doubt not, but each future age
Will bless the Patriot and the Sage.
No longer shares the Felon's fate;
No longer by the Laws' delays,
May be imprison'd half his days:
No longer is the prison made
The Harbour of that cruel trade
Which fed the insatiable maw
Of hungry, pettifogging Law:
The imprison'd Debtor now may see
The due approach of Liberty:
From Redesdale's patient, patriot care,
He now no longer need despair;
No longer writhe beneath the Paw
Of griping Harpies of the Law:
But in the Prison's transient gloom,
May look for better times to come.
238
Freedom will hail thee for the deed,
And doubt not, but each future age
Will bless the Patriot and the Sage.
But e'er the bold, correcting hand
Of Justice did, with mild command,
Sweep from the Law the petty powers
That curtail'd Freedom's rightful hours,
And bid th'unfortunate Pris'ner see
The end of his Adversity;—
—While yet the Iron Doors could close
Upon the Pris'ner and his woes,
And keep him fast for many a year,
With scarce an hope his heart to cheer,
Poor Morton, a sad tale to tell,
For all who knew him, lov'd him well.
Victim of Perjuries and Lies,
The base Attorney's trickeries,
And all the dark, insidious arts
Which Knaves employ on gen'rous hearts,
Within those walls became immur'd,
Where so much sorrow is endur'd.
His friends prov'd kind, and in his need,
There was no want of gen'rous deed;
But Friendship's self, with all its power,
Could not advance fair Freedom's hour:
Thus, when three years had pass'd away
In Lawyers' frauds, in Laws' delay,
His spirit could no longer wait;
He call'd on Death to close his Fate:—
The Spectre led him through the Gate.
When, as he pass'd the Prison Door,
Old Capias rail'd, and storm'd and swore,
Revil'd Death as an arrant Cheat,
Who did his writs and tricks defeat,
And could the hopeless Pris'ner free
From all his practic'd Sorcery.
But Morton's gone to that bless'd Heaven,
Where sins, like his, will be forgiven;
Where all Afflictions will be o'er,
And suffering Virtue sigh no more:
While Capias, and the unfeeling brood,
Who diet on the Heart's best blood,
And feed on Sorrows, will despair
Of ever finding entrance there.
Of Justice did, with mild command,
Sweep from the Law the petty powers
That curtail'd Freedom's rightful hours,
And bid th'unfortunate Pris'ner see
The end of his Adversity;—
—While yet the Iron Doors could close
Upon the Pris'ner and his woes,
And keep him fast for many a year,
With scarce an hope his heart to cheer,
Poor Morton, a sad tale to tell,
For all who knew him, lov'd him well.
Victim of Perjuries and Lies,
The base Attorney's trickeries,
And all the dark, insidious arts
Which Knaves employ on gen'rous hearts,
239
Where so much sorrow is endur'd.
His friends prov'd kind, and in his need,
There was no want of gen'rous deed;
But Friendship's self, with all its power,
Could not advance fair Freedom's hour:
Thus, when three years had pass'd away
In Lawyers' frauds, in Laws' delay,
His spirit could no longer wait;
He call'd on Death to close his Fate:—
The Spectre led him through the Gate.
When, as he pass'd the Prison Door,
Old Capias rail'd, and storm'd and swore,
Revil'd Death as an arrant Cheat,
Who did his writs and tricks defeat,
And could the hopeless Pris'ner free
From all his practic'd Sorcery.
But Morton's gone to that bless'd Heaven,
Where sins, like his, will be forgiven;
Where all Afflictions will be o'er,
And suffering Virtue sigh no more:
240
Who diet on the Heart's best blood,
And feed on Sorrows, will despair
Of ever finding entrance there.
| The English Dance of Death | |