 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
To Mrs. B.
Occasioned by her fear of the Pestilence, when it rag'd at Marseilles.
I own alas! the Danger is too near,
But let your Reason combate with your Fear.
Suppose the fierce Destroyer should be sent
By angry Heav'n, for our just Punishment;
And we should fall beneath a sudden Blow,
That thousand destin'd Heads must undergo:
'Tis then but Death, a fix'd, a certain Doom,
Tho' sweeping Pestilence ne'er aid the Tomb.
Why should we hope our common Fate to shun?
Life is a Race, and it will soon be run:
To the last Stage we ev'ry Day draw nigh,
And as we once were born, we once must die.
But let your Reason combate with your Fear.
Suppose the fierce Destroyer should be sent
By angry Heav'n, for our just Punishment;
And we should fall beneath a sudden Blow,
That thousand destin'd Heads must undergo:
'Tis then but Death, a fix'd, a certain Doom,
Tho' sweeping Pestilence ne'er aid the Tomb.
Why should we hope our common Fate to shun?
Life is a Race, and it will soon be run:
125
And as we once were born, we once must die.
Nor dread the Swiftness of the poison'd Dart,
Whose venom'd Point, corroding to the Heart,
Thro' ev'ry Part a strong Infection spreads,
And cuts with fatal Speed the vital Threads.
Be humbly glad, that the Destroyer's Hands
So long are held from Britain's favour'd Lands:
That she, blest Isle, was not by Heav'n decreed
To fall, unwarn'd, and unprepar'd to bleed.
Whose venom'd Point, corroding to the Heart,
Thro' ev'ry Part a strong Infection spreads,
And cuts with fatal Speed the vital Threads.
Be humbly glad, that the Destroyer's Hands
So long are held from Britain's favour'd Lands:
That she, blest Isle, was not by Heav'n decreed
To fall, unwarn'd, and unprepar'd to bleed.
Taught by the Ills, which distant Climes endure,
We may in time th' important Stake secure.
Provide with Care for the tremendous Blow,
And chearful wait the blackest Scene of Woe.
We may in time th' important Stake secure.
Provide with Care for the tremendous Blow,
And chearful wait the blackest Scene of Woe.
126
Whatever Scourge by Providence is sent,
Trust thou in God, and fear not the Event.
Trust thou in God, and fear not the Event.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |