The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

DEATH is a very Proteus—He,
(Where shall we find a simile
To give a clear and proper notion
Of the Scare-crow's perpetual motion?)
Sometimes, amid the fields of war
Grimly rolls on his iron car;
Where, as he guides its rapid wheel,
Thousands his bloody jav'lin feel:
Then spreads his pinions to dispense
The mortal breath of Pestilence;
And where his distant flight is sped,
He gluts on regions of the dead.
Then he the pois'nous sickle wields,
That desolates the fruitful fields,
Where meagre millions look aghast,
And Famine aids the mortal blast.

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—Upon the foamy wave he rides,
And the resistless whirlwind guides:
So fierce the angry torrents pour,
So loud the furious billows roar,
That the brave Seaman's cheek grows pale:
Fearless no more, he quits the sail,
And the proud Vessel, that defies
The strength of mortal enemies,
Yields her to the all-powerful blow,
And sinks into the gulph below.
—In the deep caverns of the Earth,
He gives those dire commotions birth;
Which, by their elemental power,
Shake down the Temple and the Tower,
Whose lofty tops approach the skies;
While Man beneath the ruins dies.
—From hence we turn.—To these vast deeds
The common Episode succeeds:
And now we view his hourly plan
Against the general Life of Man.
Here he assumes the Fever's heat;
The blood flows quick, the pulses beat;

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There, in the trembling Ague quakes,
When ev'ry chilly member shakes;
Or in an Asthma heaves the breast,
That night and day refuses rest:
Or racking gout wrapt up in fur,
That suffers not a limb to stir:
And thus his various power employs,
And thus the race of Man destroys.
—But, 'tis not merely by Disease
He doth his hourly victims seize;
He claims the Passions that impart
Their impulse to the Human heart:
They barb his dart with hopeless care
Or the sharp fury of Despair,
Or plant the ling'ring Sorrow there:—
Ambition's sleepless lust of power,
And Disappointment's madd'ning hour;
Or, in the form of raging Pride,
He views the gasping Suicide.
In the world's cares he plays his part,
And, with a Law-suit, breaks a heart;

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Or makes e'en Pleasure, light and gay,
A trap to catch th'incautious prey.
Thus Flavia, in her early bloom,
Was summon'd to the silent tomb.

Beauty was her's, and ev'ry charm
That can the youthful bosom warm:
She was the very soul of Pleasure,
And Fashion's dear and darling treasure.
She waited but the hour to fix
A title, and a coach and six:
For that she studied ev'ry grace
Which aids the shape or decks the face,
For that arrang'd her auburn hair
In ringlets here, in tresses there;
How in the dance she best could move,
To fan desire, and waken Love.
These all her serious thoughts employ:
Nor does she guess at any joy,
But what she thinks is to be found
In the gay world's enchanting round:

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She never sought Reflection's aid,
In Reason's ballance never weigh'd
Or good or ill; the law alone
That govern'd Flavia was—the Ton.
Her sister died; the tears she shed,
Did not lament Corinna dead:—
They flow'd that, for a month to come,
She was forbid to stir from home;
And that for six, her form divine,
Black crape and sars'net, should enshrine:
For she ne'er heard that Beauty's queen
Had e'er appear'd in bombazine.
She little thought the sable dress
That did upon her spirits press,
That did the keen vexation stir,
Would soon, alas, be worn for her.
That she who could the town enslave,
Would soon be sleeping in the grave.

It was past twelve—but not yet one
When sober folks to bed were gone,

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That Flavia, at her Toilette's duty,
Receiv'd the aid that's claim'd by Beauty;
Expecting Lady Jane to call
To go to Lady Mary's Ball:
But, as her lovely form receiv'd
The robe which Fashion's hand had weav'd,
A shape appear'd, of such a mien
As Flavia's eyes had never seen:—
How dare you enter here, she said,
And what's this saucy Masquerade?
Who are you?—Betty, ring the bell.
The Shape reply'd—'Twill be your knell
I'll save you from the swelt'ring crowd
Form'd by the vain, the gay, the proud,
For which your tawdry mind prepares
Its fruitless, its coquettish airs.
Lady, you now must quit your home,
For the cool grotto of a tomb.
Be not dismay'd; my gallant dart
Will ease the flutt'rings of your heart.
He grinn'd a smile—the jav'lin flies—
When Betty screams—and Flavia dies.