University of Virginia Library

I.

Since We can dye but once, and after Death
Our State no Alteration knows;
But when we have resign'd our Breath,
Th'Immortal Spirit goes
To endless Joys, or everlasting Woes:
Wise is that Man, who labours to secure
That mighty, and important Stake;
And by all Methods strives to make
His Passage safe, and his Reception sure.
Meerly to dye, no Man of Reason fears;
For certainly we must,
As we are Born, return to Dust:
'Tis the last Point of many lingring Years.
But whither then we go,
Whither, we fain wou'd know:
But Human Understanding cannot show.
This makes us Tremble, and creates
Strange Apprehensions in the Mind,
Fills it with restless Doubts, and wild Debates,
Concerning what, we, living, cannot find.
None know what Death is, but the Dead:
Therefore we all, by Nature, Dying dread,
As a strange, doubtful Way, we know not how to tread.

II.

When to the Margin of the Grave we come,
And scarce have one black painful Hour to live,
No Hopes, no Prospect of a kind Reprieve,
To stop our speedy Passage to the Tomb,
How moving, and how mournful, is the Sight,
How wondrous pitiful, how wondrous sad,
Where then is Refuge, where is Comfort to be had,
In the dark Minutes of the dreadful Night,
To cheer our drooping Souls for their amazing Flight?
Feeble, and languishing, in Bed we lye,
Despairing to recover, void of Rest,
Wishing for Death, and yet afraid to dye;
Terrours and Doubts distract our Breast,
With mighty Agonies, and mighty Pains, opprest.

III.

Our Face is moisten'd with a clammy Sweat:
Faint and irregular the Pulses beat.
The Blood unactive grows,
And thickens as it flows:
Depriv'd of all its Vigour, all its Vital Heat.
Our dying Eyes rowl heavily about,
Their Lights just going out;
And for some kind Assistance call;
But Pity, useless Pity's all
Our Weeping Friends can give,
Or we receive:
Tho' their Desires are great, their Pow'rs are small.
The Tongue's unable to declare
The Pains, the Griefs, the Miseries we bear:
How insupportable our Torments are.
Musick no more delights our deafning Ears,
Restores our Joys, or dissipates our Fears.
But all is Melancholly, all is Sad,
In Robes of deepest Mourning clad.
For ev'ry Faculty, and ev'ry Sense
Partakes the Woe of this dire Exigence.

IV.

Then we are sensible, too late,
'Tis no advantage to be rich, or great:
For all the fulsom Pride, and Pageantry of State
No Consolation brings.
Riches, and Honours, then, are useless things,
Tasteless or bitter all,
And like the Book, which the Apostle eat,
To their ill-judging Pallate sweet:
But turn, at last, to Nauseousness, and Gall.
Nothing will then our drooping Spirits cheer,
But the Remembrance of good Actions past.
Virtue's a Joy that will for ever last,
And make pale Death less terrible appear;
Takes out his baneful Sting, and palliates our Fear.
In the dark Anti-Chamber of the Grave,
What wou'd we give, ev'n all we have,
All that our Care and Industry had gain'd,
All that our Fraud, our Policy, or Art obtain'd;
Cou'd we recall those fatal Hours again,
Which we consum'd in senseless Vanities,
Ambitious Follies, and Luxurious Ease;
For then they urge our Terrors, and increase our Pain.

V.

Our Friends, and Relatives stand weeping by,
Dissolv'd in Tears to see us dye,
And plunge into the deep Abyss of wide Eternity.
In vain they mourn, in vain they grieve,
Their Sorrows cannot ours relieve.
They pity our deplorable Estate,
But what, alas, can Pity do
To soften the Decrees of Fate?
Besides, the Sentence is Irrevocable too.
All their Endeavours to preserve our Breath,
Tho' they do unsuccessful prove,
Shew us how much, how tenderly they Love;
But cannot cut off the Entail of Death.
Mournful they look, and croud about our Bed
One, with officious haste,
Brings us a Cordial we want Sense to taste;
Another softly raises up our Head,
This wipes away the Sweat, that sighing cries,
See what Convulsions, what strong Agonies
Both Soul and Body undergo,
His Pains no Intermission know:
For ev'ry gasp of Air he draws returns in Sighs.
Each wou'd his kind assistance lend,
To serve his dear Relation, or his dearer Friend,
But still in vain with Destiny they all contend.

VI.

Our Father, pale with Grief and Watching grown,
Takes our cold Hand in his, and cries adieu,
Adieu, my Child, now I must follow you;
Then Weeps, and gently lays it down.
Our Sons, who in their tender Years
Were Objects of our Cares, and of our Fears,
Come trembling to our Bed, and kneeling cry,
Bless us, O Father! now before you dye;
Bless us, and be you Bless'd to all Eternity.
Our Friend, whom equal to our selves we love,
Compassionate, and kind,
Cries, will you leave me here behind,
Without me fly to the blest Seats above?
Without me did I say? Ah, no!
Without thy Friend thou can'st not go;
For tho' thou leav'st me groveling here below,
My Soul with thee shall upward fly,
And bear thy Spirit Company
Thro' the bright Passage of the yielding Sky.
Ev'n Death that parts thee from thy self, shall be
Incapable to separate
(For 'tis not in the power of Fate)
My Friend, my best, my dearest Friend and me.
But since it must be so, Farewel,
For ever? No, for we shall meet again,
And live like Gods, tho' now we dye like Men,
In the eternal Regions where Just Spirits dwell.

VII.

The Soul, unable longer to maintain
The fruitless and unequal Strife,
Finding her weak Endeavours vain,
To keep the Counterscarp of Life;
By slow degrees retires more near the Heart,
And fortifies that little Fort,
With all the kind Artilleries of Art;
Botanick Legions Guarding ev'ry Port.
But Death, whose Arms no Mortal can repel,
A formal Siege disdains to lay;
Summons his fierce Battalions to the Fray,
And in a Minute Storms the feeble Cittadel,
Sometimes We may Capitulate, and he
Pretends to make a solid Peace,
But 'tis all Sham, all Artifice,
That we may Negligent and Careless be:
For if his Armies are withdrawn to day,
And we believe no Danger near,
But all is peaceable, and all is clear,
His Troops return some unsuspected way;
While in the soft Embrace of Sleep we lye,
The Secret Murderers Stab us, and we dye.
Since our First Parents Fall,
Inevitable Death descends on all,
A Portion none of Human Race can miss;
But that which makes it sweet, or bitter, is
The fears of Misery, or certain hope of Bliss:
For when th'Impenitent, and Wicked dye,
Loaded with Crimes and Infamy;
If any Sense at that sad Time remains,
They feel amazing Terrors, mighty Pains;
The Earnest of that vast stupendious Woe,
Which they to all Eternity must undergo;
Confin'd in Hell with everlasting Chains.
Infernal Spirits hover in the Air,
Like rav'nous Wolves to seize upon their Prey,
And hurry the departed Souls away
To the dark Receptacles of Despair;
Where they must dwell till that Tremendous Day,
When the loud Trumpet calls them to appear
Before a Judge most Terrible, and most Severe:
By whose just Sentence they must go
To Everlasting Pains, and Endless Woe;
Which always are Extream, and always will be so.

VIII.

But the Good Man, whose Soul is Pure,
Unspotted, Regular, and Free
From all the ugly Stains of Lust, and Villany;
Of Mercy and of Pardon sure,
Looks thro' the Darkness of the gloomy Night,
And sees the Dawning of a glorious Day;
Sees Crouds of Angels ready to convey
His Soul, whene'er she takes her Flight,
To the surprizing Mansions of Immortal Light:
Then the Cœlestial Guards around him stand;
Nor suffer the black Demons of the Air
T'oppose his Passage to the promis'd Land;
Or terrifie his Thoughts with wild Despair;
But all is Calm within, and all without is Fair.
His Pray'rs, his Charity, his Virtues press
To plead for Mercy when he wants it most;
Not one of all the happy Number's lost:
And those bright Advocates ne'er want Success.
But when the Soul's releas'd from dull Mortality,
She passes up in Triumph thro' the Sky,
Where She's united to a glorious Throng
Of Angels, who, with a Cœlestial Song,
Congratulate her Conquest as She flies along.

IX.

If therefore all must quit the Stage,
When, or how soon, we cannot know;
But late or early, we are sure to go,
In the fresh blood of Youth, or wither'd Age:
We cannot take too sedulous a Care
In this Important, Grand Affair:
For as we dye, we must remain,
Hereafter all our Hopes are vain
To make our Peace with Heav'n, or to return again.
The Heathen, who no better understood,
Than what the Light of Nature taught, declar'd
No future Miseries cou'd be prepar'd
For the Sincere, the Merciful, the Good;
But if there was a State of Rest,
They shou'd with the same Happiness be blest,
As the Immortal Gods, if Gods there were, possess'd.
We have the Promise of Eternal Truth,
Those who live well, and pious Paths pursue,
To Man, and to their Maker true,
Let them expire in Age or Youth,
Can never miss
Their way to Everlasting Bliss:
But from a World of Misery and Care,
To Mansions of Eternal Ease repair:
Where Joy in full Perfection flows,
No Interruption, no Cessation knows;
But in a Mighty Circle round for ever goes.