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The JAMAICA FUNERAL.
1776
1
Alcander died—the rich, the great, the brave;Even such must yield to heaven's severe decree,
Death, still at hand, conducts us to the grave,
And humbles monarchs as he humbled thee.
2
When, lingering, to his end Alcander drew,Officious friends besieg'd his lofty door,
Impatient they the dying man to view
And touch that hand they soon must touch no more.
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3
“Alas, he's gone!” the sad attendants cry,Fled is the breath that never shall return—
“Alas! he's gone!” his tearful friends reply,
“Spread the dark crape, and round his pale corpse mourn.
4
“Ye that attend the pompous funeral, due,“In sable vestments let your limbs be clad,
“For vulgar deaths a common sorrow shew,
“But costly griefs are for the wealthy dead.
5
“Prepare the blessings of the generous vine,“Let bulls and oxen groan beneath the steel,
“Throughout the board let choicest dainties shine,
“To every guest a generous portion deal.”—
6
A mighty crowd approach'd the mourning dome,Some came to hear the sermon and the prayer,
Some came to shun Xantippe's voice at home,
And some with Bacchus to relieve their care.
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A Levite came, and sigh'd among the rest,A rusty band and tatter'd gown he wore,
His leaves he tumbled, and the house he blest,
And conn'd his future sermon o'er and o'er.
8
And oft a glance he cast towards the wineThat briskly sparkled in the glassy vase,
And often drank, and often wish'd to dine,
And red as Phoebus glow'd his sultry face.
9
Much did he chatter, and on various themes,He publish'd news that came from foreign climes,
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And quoted dull stuff from lord Wilmot's rhymes.
10
And dunn'd the mourners for his parish duesWith face of brass, and scrutinizing eye,
And threaten'd law-suits if they dar'd refuse
To pay his honest earnings punctually.
11
An honest sire, who came in luckless hourTo hear the sermon and to see the dead,
Presuming on this consecrated hour,
Ventur'd to check the parson on that head.
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Quoth he, “My priest, such conduct is not fit,“For other speech this solemn hour demands:
“What if your parish owes its annual debt,
“Your parish ready to discharge it stands.”
13
No more he said—for charg'd with wounds and pain,The parson's staff like Jove's own lightning flew,
Which cleft his jaw-bone and his cheek in twain,
And from their sockets half his grinders drew.
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Nor less deceas'd some moments lay the sireThan if from heav'n the forked lightnings thrown
Had pierc'd him with their instantaneous fire,
And sent him smoking to the world unknown.
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At last he mov'd, and, weltering in his gore,Thus did the rueful, wounded victim say,
“Convey me hence—so bloody and so sore
“I cannot wait to hear the parson pray;
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“And if I did, what pleasure could be mine—“Can he allure me to the world of bliss—
“Can he present me at the heavenly shrine
“Who breaks my bones, and knocks me down in this?
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“The scripture says—the text I well recall—“A Priest or Bishop must no striker be,
“Then how can such a wicked priest but fall,
“Who at a funeral thus has murdered me?”—
18
Thus he—But now the sumptuous dinner came,The Levite boldly seiz'd the nobler place,
Beside him sate the woe-struck widow'd dame,
Who help'd him drain the brimful china vase.
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Which now renew'd, he drank that ocean too,Like Polypheme, the boon Ulysses gave;
Another came, nor did another do,
For still another did the monster crave
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With far-fetch'd dainties he regal'd his maw,And prais'd the various meats that crown'd the board:
On tender capons did the glutton gnaw,
And well his platter with profusion stor'd.
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But spoke no words of grace—I mark'd him well,I fix'd my eye upon his brazen brow—
He look'd like Satan aiming to rebel,
Such pride and madness were his inmates now.
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But not contented with this hectoring priest,Sick of his nonsense, softly I withdrew,
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To sorrow sacred, and to friendship due,
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Which now atchiev'd, the tolling bell remoteSummon'd the living and the dead to come,
And through the dying sea-breeze swell'd the note,
Dull on the ear, and lengthening through the gloom
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The Bier was brought, the costly coffin laid,And prayers were mutter'd in a doleful tone,
While the sad pall, above the body spread,
From many a tender breast drew many a groan.
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The Levite, too, some tears of Bacchus shed—Reeling before the long procession, he
Strode like a general at his army's head,
His gown in tatters, and his wig—ah me!
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The words of faith in both hands he bore,Prayers, cut and dry, by ancient prelates made,
Who, bigots while they liv'd, could do no more
Than leave them still by bigots to be said.
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But he admir'd them all!—he read with joySt. Athanasius in his thundering creed,
And curs'd the men whom Satan did employ
To make king Charles, that heav'n-born martyr, bleed.
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At last they reach'd the spiry building high,And soon they enter'd at the eastern gate—
The parson said his prayers most learnedly,
And mutter'd more than memory can relate.
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Then through the temple's lengthy aisles they went,Approaching still the pulpit's painted door,
From whence on Sundays, many a vow was sent,
And sermons plunder'd from some prelate's store.
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Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise,And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below,
Like sultry Phoebus glar'd his flaming eyes,
Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow.
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Up to the pulpit strode he with an air,And from the Preacher thus his text he read,
“More I esteem, and better is by far
“A dog existing than a lion dead.
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“Go, eat thy dainties with a joyful heart,“And quaff thy wine with undissembled glee,
“For he who did these heavenly gifts impart
“Accepts thy prayers, thy gifts, thy vows, and thee.”
The SERMON.
33
These truths, my friends, congenial to my soul,Demand a faithful and attentive ear—
No longer for your 'parted friend condole,
No longer shed the tributary tear.
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Curs'd be the sobs, these useless floods of woeThat vainly flow for the departed dead—
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What are to him these seas of grief you shed?
35
If heaven in pleasure doth his hours employ—If sighs and sorrows reach a place like this,
They blast his glories, and they damp his joy,
They make him wretched in the midst of bliss.
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And can you yet—and here he smote his breast—And can you yet bemoan that torpid mass
Which now for death, and desolation drest,
Prepares the deep gulph of the grave to pass.
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You fondly mourn—I mourn Alcander too,Alcander late the living, not the dead;
His casks I broach'd, his liquors once I drew,
And freely there on choicest dainties fed.
38
But vanish'd are they now!—no more he calls,No more invites me to his plenteous board;
No more I caper at his splendid balls,
Or drain his cellars, with profusion stor'd.
39
Then why, my friends, for yonder senseless clay,That ne'er again befriends me, should I mourn?
Yon' simple slaves that through the cane-lands stray
Are more to me than monarchs in the urn.
40
The joys of wine, immortal as my theme,To days of bliss the aspiring soul invite;
Life, void of this, a punishment I deem,
A Greenland winter, without heat or light.
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41
Count all the trees that crown Jamaica's hills,Count all the stars that through the heavens you see,
Count every drop that the wide ocean fills;
Then count the pleasures Bacchus yields to me.
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The aids of wine for toiling man were meant;I prize the smiling Caribbëan bowl—
Enjoy those gifts that bounteous nature lent,
Death to thy cares, refreshing to the soul.
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Here fixt to-day in plenty's smiling vales,Just as the month revolves we laugh or groan,
September comes, seas swell with horrid gales,
And old Port Royal's fate may be our own.
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A few short years, at best, will bound our span,Wretched and few, the Hebrew exile said;
Live while you may, be jovial while you can,
Death as a debt to nature must be paid.
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When nature fails, the man exists no more,And death is nothing but an empty name,
Spleen's genuine offspring at the midnight hour,
The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream.
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You ask me where these mighty hosts have fled,That once existed on this changeful ball?—
If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,
Where, ere their birth they were, they now are all.
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47
Like insects busy, in a summer's day,We toil and squabble, to increase our pain,
Night comes at last, and, weary of the fray,
To dust and darkness all return again.
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Then envy not, ye sages too precise,The drop from life's gay tree, that damps our woe,
Noah himself, the wary and the wise,
A vineyard planted, and the vines did grow:
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Of social soul was he—the grape he press'd,And drank the juice oblivious to his care;
Sorrow he banish'd from his place of rest,
And sighs and sobbing had no entrance there.
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Such bliss be ours through every changing scene;The glowing face bespeaks the glowing heart;
If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin,
Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart.
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Mere glow-worms are we all, a moment shine;I, like the rest, in giddy circles run,
And Grief shall say, when I this life resign,
“His glass is empty, and his frolics done!”
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He said, and ceas'd—the funeral anthem thenFrom the deep choir and hoarse-ton'd organ came;
Such are the honours paid to wealthy men,
But who for Irus would attempt the same?
53
Now from the church returning, as they went,Again they reach'd Alcander's painted hall,
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They to oblivion gave the Funeral.
54
The holy man, by bishops holy made,Tun'd up to harmony his trembling strings,
To various songs in various notes he play'd,
And, as he plays, as gallantly he sings,
55
The widow'd dame, less pensive than before,To sprightly tunes as sprightly did advance,
Her lost Alcander scarce remember'd more;
And thus the funeral ended in a dance.
[w. 1776]
1786
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