University of Virginia Library

I.

Tell me, some kind Spirit, tell,
How comes death so terrible?
Thou, who art already fled in triumph, say,
Why the embodied Soul is so in love with Clay?
By what strange Magnetisms woo'd,
She so adheres to Flesh and Blood?
That fate must force her from that dull abode,
Or she would groveling lye,
Th' eternal Tenant of Mortality.
The wretch whom a malignant Fever fires,
And at each pore in liquid flame expires,
Cold death's refreshing hands to shun,
Doth to th' unkinder Doctor run,
For Juleps, Blistrings, and Phlebotomy,
And other medicinal Artillery:
The Fever's vanquish'd, and the Man is free;
But all this stir and torment only gains
The priviledge of being rack'd again by these,
Or the severer pains
Of some more merciless Disease.
Had not the Patient better fled to a Tomb,
Th' Asylum which distempers give, but where they never come?

II.

Old age it self, which, one would guess,
Should with a kind of lust
Lye down and sleep in Dust,
Does yet the grand fatigue of life caress,
And gapes for its last dregs with unextinguishable Thirst:
When the dull eyes spirituous fire is lost,
Like cooling Metals, fixt by Winters Frost,
When the bald Head depopulate and bare
Looks white like some smooth Globe of Ice,
And of its once fair flourishing spring the Hair
All that remains will not suffice
The mighty summ to count,
To which the numerous Years that have gone or't amount;
Yet even this feeble piece of Hums and Ha's,
That's but the Monument of what he was,
Doth with his Cordials and Elixirs treat,
To make his wearied Pulses beat
With momentary heat;
Still he abhors the dismal thoughts of Death,
Still on his guard he stands,
And fain he would defend his breath
'Gainst the great Conquerour's stroke, though but with Crutches in his hands.

III.

Strange Riddle of mysterious desire,
That Man should hope his vital fire
Should Vestal prove, and ne're expire:
That he should wish th' Eclipsed beams,
Like Arethusa, under ground might stray
In a decrepit Body's dark, inglorious way,
And never disembogue their shining streams
Into the glorious Ocean of inexhausted day.
Is this the Reason which we so much boast,
That sure unerring Guide,
No less our safety than our pride,
And would this have us in a tempest ride,
And endlesly be tost?
When one kind Shipwrack would convey us to our native Coast,
A coast where we might pleasure taste,
High with the gust of all peril past.
Where a perpetual spring of bliss
Blooming in all the rich Luxuriancies
Of never withering Ecstasis,
Satiates but does not cloy
The ravish'd mind,
And no Tears fall, but those of joy
Which, Nilus like, while they orewhelm are kind.

IV.

But though with all this pomp of words we prate,
And paint the happy glories
Which grace the triumphs of a future State;
Yet sure we think 'em sensless stories,
The pageantry of some distempered Head,
Which fancies Pencil did delineate,
The broken visions of the living when they dream'd 'oth' dead.
That we are so loth to die,
Proceeds from infidelity;
For whatsoe're the mighty Men of Sense,
Those skulls of Axiome and Philosophy,
By reasons Telescope pretend t' evince,
Beyond this World we can no other see,
And not to be
Worse than lifes greatest storm appears,
Than all its Hurricanes of hopes and fears;
So some baulkt Gamester who hath but one poor Stake
Left of his Stock, and knows not when he may
Get more to keep in play,
Does his last chance with trembling take,
And fain he would the fatal throw delay,
The Box once lost to him for ever's past away.

V.

Or if we're fully satisfied,
The Soul is to Divinity allied,
That its impenetrable hypostasis
Is of a lasting and substantial make,
Which Death's arrest can never shake;
But from our scattered Ashes shall arise,
Bekindled with exhalted energies:
If this her fixt perswasion be,
Doubtless 'tis guilt that makes us pale, and grone,
When fate sends out the black Decree
Of dissolution.
As a debauch't Gallant
That's just embarquing for a foreign Land,
'Midst throngs of Creditors does worried stand,
Who for quick payment with wild fury rant:
So Conscience rallies up,
Of crimes the worst, of Debts ten thousand Bills,
Embitters with new poysons Death's ungrateful Cup,
And the departing Soul with shame and horror fills.
So that Mankind doth lye
Under a sad necessity
Of strong desire to live, and wretched fear to die:
Which way so ere their faith they turn,
A forcible Dilemma's Horn
Wounds them in each Hypothesis:
The Atheist would for ever live in this,
'Cause there's no other World; the Theist, 'cause there is.

VI.

But the true Christian whose firm Faith doth sway
His Heart and Life, who humbly doth obey
That Gospel he believes, and in good earnest makes
Heaven his end, and Holiness the way
Wherein he constantly doth walk,
Whilst he thro' this low World his journey takes,
And leaves great things which others use to talk.
This gallant Man can Death outbrave,
Which if a Monarch fear, that Monarch is a Slave.
Mean Slave is he who fears to die,
He lives, yea dies in daily fear;
Death tho' far off he thinks and makes it near,
Afraid of every Man that passeth by,
Of every Beast and Bird, and every Fly,
Of every Bit and every Draught,
Which is ever poysoned by his own dire thought.
Fain the poor Wretch would longer live,
And yet he fears what longer Life must give.
He dare not Eat, he dare not Sleep,
Tho' thousand armed Guards strict watch do keep:
O're him the mighty Prisoner Day and Night
They watch as if 'twere to prevent his flight.
These aw'd with threats and hir'd with great rewards,
To keep him safe, yet cannot save his breast
From fears which still disturb his rest:
Alas the Tyrant fears those very armed Guards.

VII.

But the true Christian free
From this ignoble painful slavery,
O're fear of Death has got the Victory,
And o're the love of Life and all that's here
Which this low Life to Mortals doth endear,
His Soul by Grace refin'd from drossie Earth,
From sordid Lusts and love of Sin,
Made mindful of its own high Birth;
It will not be confin'd within
These narrow bounds of Matter and of Time,
But up into Eternity will clime,
With wings of Faith and fervent Love doth soar
To the Æthereal Regions there to share
Those Glories which our Lord is gone before
For all his faithful Followers to prepare:
Our Lord who drove away dark shades of Night,
Brought Life and Immortality to light,
And with that darkness banisht fear,
And by that Light our minds did chear;
The Christian he doth teach to wait,
And long for Death that shall translate
His Soul to its most blissful State;
And makes him patient to endure
The cares of Life, or miseries of old Age,
Even when the torturing Stone, the Gout or Colick rage,
He bears with courage what he cannot cure.

VIII.

Not love of Life but hope of Heaven does give
This courage, and makes him content to live
In midst of Racks and cruel Pain,
Who in the midst of joys counts Death his gain.
Strong and untir'd, he acts th' allotted part,
Undauntedly he bears th' inflicted smart,
Not that he fondly cares still to repeat
Lifes tedious Circle, still to eat,
To Drink, to Talk, to Work and Sleep,
Still to roll the Stone up Hill,
The Stone which tumbles downward still;
Only he knows he must his Station keep
Untill the General bids sound a Retreat,
And when he hears that joyful sound,
Gladly he doth himself prepare
To march away; and doth himself his breast make bare:
When Death draws nigh to give the healing wound,
He dare not on his Life commit a Rape,
Heaven is not taken by that Violence,
But he dare meet Death in the horrid'st shape;
He nothing fears from that kind Providence,
Which wisely orders all,
Axes, and Halters, Flames and Swords,
Whatever else we dreadful call,
What are they all but Bugbear words
To fright weak Childish minds, but cannot fright
That Man of Wisdom and of Might,
The valiant Christian not afaid to die;
For Death is all those great words signifie.

IX.

If Death be all, what does the good Man care,
Whether an Halter or a Quinsie choke,
And stop that breath which he doth freely yield;
Whether an Ax or Apoplexy give the Stroke,
The gentle Stroke of Death:
The good Man generously dare
In a good cause die in the open Field,
As well as in his Bed give up his breath:
Nor does he fear the stormy Ocean's Wave,
In a Sea Monsters Paunch dare make his Grave,
Is unconcern'd whether he expire
In some Malignant Fevers fire,
Or in the nobler flames of Martyrdom,
Elias-like, he be conducted home.
O're all he is a Conqueror,
And somewhat more;
'Ith' midst of all he can in triumph sing,
O Death where is thy Sting?
Of that long since thou was bereft,
For in our dying Lord that sting was left,
In stead whereof Death now hath got a Wing,
Which helps to waft the Heaven-born Soul on High,
When once releas'd from this dull earthly Clod,
There the free Soul to her own home doth fly,
For ever there to make her blest abode;
Where she no more doth fear to sin, to smart, or die,
But there she clearly doth behold her God,
Her God she there loves and enjoys eternally.