The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
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 | The English Dance of Death |  |
121
The Good Man, Death, and the Doctor.
THE Good Man dead, this Lesson gives:—
It is another Angel lives.
A Star has set for ever here,
To glitter in a brighter sphere.
Earth feels the loss when Virtue dies,
To triumph in its native skies.
The chamber where He breathes his last,
Who, glancing o'er the time that's past,
Feels no reproach, nor calls on Fate
To add a moment to his date;
But, led by smiling Hope, descends
To that dark bourne where Sorrow ends;
That sacred Chamber far outweighs
The brightest scene which Life displays.
The rich, the potent, and the brave
Must reach, at length, the certain grave:
Nor is, alas, the difference great,
Between the monumental state,
That decks the mouldering remains
Of him who serves and him who reigns;
No more, than that the human clod
Rests 'neath a marble or a sod.
Emblazon'd with a gilded show,
The pomp or fallacy of Woe,
The Rich Man fills the sculptur'd tomb;
While, where the vernal violets bloom,
And rear their heads on church-yard green,
The poor man's obsequies are seen.
It is another Angel lives.
A Star has set for ever here,
To glitter in a brighter sphere.
Earth feels the loss when Virtue dies,
To triumph in its native skies.
The chamber where He breathes his last,
Who, glancing o'er the time that's past,
Feels no reproach, nor calls on Fate
To add a moment to his date;
But, led by smiling Hope, descends
To that dark bourne where Sorrow ends;
That sacred Chamber far outweighs
The brightest scene which Life displays.
122
Must reach, at length, the certain grave:
Nor is, alas, the difference great,
Between the monumental state,
That decks the mouldering remains
Of him who serves and him who reigns;
No more, than that the human clod
Rests 'neath a marble or a sod.
Emblazon'd with a gilded show,
The pomp or fallacy of Woe,
The Rich Man fills the sculptur'd tomb;
While, where the vernal violets bloom,
And rear their heads on church-yard green,
The poor man's obsequies are seen.
Each duty done,—the world subdued,
How bless'd the Death-bed of the Good.—
Whether beneath the dome we lie,
Or in the straw-roof'd cottage die;
At that alarming, awful hour,
No mortal envies wealth or power:—
But he who, with experience sage,
Has reach'd to life's maturer age,
And seen and felt the various cares,
Which man throughout his progress shares;—
He, who has haply learn'd to know
Vice as the certain source of Woe,
And Virtue as our Heav'n below;—
He who considers fleeting Time
The passage to some happier clime;
The stream that bears the virtuous o'er,
To that eternal, promis'd shore,
Where Pain and Sorrow are no more;—
He views the bed from whence the just
Is borne to mingle with the dust,
As the fix'd verge, on which 'tis given
To see the boundaries of Heaven.
When the world's landscape fades away,
And night beclouds the closing day;
When to the heart the blood retreats,
And the last pulse but faintly beats;
When the soft, whisp'ring sigh is o'er,
Which the calm'd breast repeats no more;
Each duty done,—the world subdu'd,—
How blest the Death-bed of the Good!
How bless'd the Death-bed of the Good.—
Whether beneath the dome we lie,
Or in the straw-roof'd cottage die;
At that alarming, awful hour,
No mortal envies wealth or power:—
123
Has reach'd to life's maturer age,
And seen and felt the various cares,
Which man throughout his progress shares;—
He, who has haply learn'd to know
Vice as the certain source of Woe,
And Virtue as our Heav'n below;—
He who considers fleeting Time
The passage to some happier clime;
The stream that bears the virtuous o'er,
To that eternal, promis'd shore,
Where Pain and Sorrow are no more;—
He views the bed from whence the just
Is borne to mingle with the dust,
As the fix'd verge, on which 'tis given
To see the boundaries of Heaven.
When the world's landscape fades away,
And night beclouds the closing day;
When to the heart the blood retreats,
And the last pulse but faintly beats;
124
Which the calm'd breast repeats no more;
Each duty done,—the world subdu'd,—
How blest the Death-bed of the Good!
Eugenio liv'd as man should live;
He gave, as generous man should give.
Whene'er he smil'd, his smile exprest
Th'enliv'ning sunshine of the breast.
Whene'er he wept, the willing tear
Told Sorrow and Affliction near;
And Sorrow never came in vain,
When he could mitigate the pain.
From his wise mind the counsel flow'd;
His hand the needful aid bestow'd:
And rich and poor, who liv'd around,
A blessing in his virtues found.
The wife his chaste affections knew,
And round his plenteous table grew
Like olive branches, green and fair,
The hopes of his paternal care.
Learning he sought with pleasing toil,
And sometimes burn'd the midnight oil,
In adding to his copious store
Of modern and of ancient lore:
But still he kept his manners free
From the stiff airs of pedantry;
Nor did his fancy ever stray
To suit the fashion of the day:
Nor did he slippant wit supply,
Nor cloak his speech with ribaldry.
His well-weigh'd words were ever fraught
With morals sound, and manly thought;
While each expression, mild and warm,
Was fram'd to counsel, and to charm.
He planted the Celestial Flower,
Which grows with Life's encreasing hour,
But never yet was known to blow
Within this vale of tears and woe;
It waits through endless years to bloom,
Beyond the confines of the tomb;
There forms the everlasting wreath;—
The crown of Virtue after death.
He gave, as generous man should give.
Whene'er he smil'd, his smile exprest
Th'enliv'ning sunshine of the breast.
Whene'er he wept, the willing tear
Told Sorrow and Affliction near;
And Sorrow never came in vain,
When he could mitigate the pain.
From his wise mind the counsel flow'd;
His hand the needful aid bestow'd:
And rich and poor, who liv'd around,
A blessing in his virtues found.
The wife his chaste affections knew,
And round his plenteous table grew
Like olive branches, green and fair,
The hopes of his paternal care.
125
And sometimes burn'd the midnight oil,
In adding to his copious store
Of modern and of ancient lore:
But still he kept his manners free
From the stiff airs of pedantry;
Nor did his fancy ever stray
To suit the fashion of the day:
Nor did he slippant wit supply,
Nor cloak his speech with ribaldry.
His well-weigh'd words were ever fraught
With morals sound, and manly thought;
While each expression, mild and warm,
Was fram'd to counsel, and to charm.
He planted the Celestial Flower,
Which grows with Life's encreasing hour,
But never yet was known to blow
Within this vale of tears and woe;
It waits through endless years to bloom,
Beyond the confines of the tomb;
There forms the everlasting wreath;—
The crown of Virtue after death.
126
That crown, while health beam'd on his brow,
And promis'd length of years below;
That crown, which blessed spirits share,
Eugenio was call'd to wear:
For so it pleas'd the Almighty power
Who measures out life's mortal hour,
That, e'er his fortieth year was past,
The best of men should breathe his last.
He piously resign'd his breath
In all the majesty of Death:—
One thought to those he lov'd was given,
Then gave his willing soul to Heav'n.
For he, who well his time employs,
Though snatch'd from life's meridian joys,
Feels no reluctance, knows no dread,
When Fate conducts him to the dead.
—Fly, ye profane—if not, draw near,
And what Religion dictates, hear.
And promis'd length of years below;
That crown, which blessed spirits share,
Eugenio was call'd to wear:
For so it pleas'd the Almighty power
Who measures out life's mortal hour,
That, e'er his fortieth year was past,
The best of men should breathe his last.
He piously resign'd his breath
In all the majesty of Death:—
One thought to those he lov'd was given,
Then gave his willing soul to Heav'n.
For he, who well his time employs,
Though snatch'd from life's meridian joys,
Feels no reluctance, knows no dread,
When Fate conducts him to the dead.
—Fly, ye profane—if not, draw near,
And what Religion dictates, hear.
“Father! to whose all-seeing eye
“Our thoughts and actious open lie,
“Thou know'st, in this afflicting hour,
“We bend before thy sacred power;
“And, taught thy pleasure to obey,
“Bless him who gives and takes away.
“But while thy justice makes us grieve,
“Allow thy mercy to relieve:
“Comfort, we ask, the widow'd heart,
“And, to the rising race impart,
“The noble, and the fond desire
“To share the virtues of their Sire.
“O grant, that they through life may run
“The virtuous course which he hath done;
“And feel, like him, at life's last hour,
“Thy beaming grace,—thy pard'ning power.”
“Our thoughts and actious open lie,
127
“We bend before thy sacred power;
“And, taught thy pleasure to obey,
“Bless him who gives and takes away.
“But while thy justice makes us grieve,
“Allow thy mercy to relieve:
“Comfort, we ask, the widow'd heart,
“And, to the rising race impart,
“The noble, and the fond desire
“To share the virtues of their Sire.
“O grant, that they through life may run
“The virtuous course which he hath done;
“And feel, like him, at life's last hour,
“Thy beaming grace,—thy pard'ning power.”
Thus, as the pious Churchman pray'd,
The Doctor, in a whisper said,
“My skill in vain it's power applies;—
“'Tis Fate commands; the patient dies.
“No call requires me now to stay:
“I've something else to do than pray.
“I feel my Fee;”—“Then hold it fast,”
Said grinning Death,—“for 'tis your last.”
The Doctor heard the dreadful sound;
The Doctor felt the fatal wound,
And hast'ning through the chamber door,
Sunk down, all breathless on the floor,
Ah, never more to rise again.—
—Thus Doctors die like other men.
The Doctor, in a whisper said,
“My skill in vain it's power applies;—
“'Tis Fate commands; the patient dies.
“No call requires me now to stay:
“I've something else to do than pray.
128
Said grinning Death,—“for 'tis your last.”
The Doctor heard the dreadful sound;
The Doctor felt the fatal wound,
And hast'ning through the chamber door,
Sunk down, all breathless on the floor,
Ah, never more to rise again.—
—Thus Doctors die like other men.
| The English Dance of Death | |