The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
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| II. |
Time, Death, and Eternity.
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 | The English Dance of Death |  |
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Time, Death, and Eternity.
A NIGHT THOUGHT.
HAIL, awful darkness! that with pitchy Robe
Borrowed of Chaos, dost, awhile, enfold
The habitable world, and sea and sky;
Thee I now woo, at solemn midnight Hour
That listens to the voice of my complaint.
Oft it is heard, when on the restless couch
Of tossing pain, Care lies and weeps till morn,
And sheds its tears, sad, tort'ring tears,
The Essence of the Heart's disastrous woe.
I shed them now,—but long I am not doom'd
To feel their cank'ring drops adown my cheek;
Death soon will make it pale, and lay me safe
From every mortal pain within the grave.
—Come happy hour,—haste on thy swift career,
And with Fate's barbed shaft give wish'd for peace.
What peace on that fell dart? Yes, lasting peace:—
Peace that will never interruption know;
Peace, such as Angels taste, and Heaven bestows.
—Farewell then, thou vain world no more I bend
To thy capricious power! nor all the gilded baits
That wealth can boast or Lordly greatness give,
Nor even graceful Beauty's smiling charm
Could tempt me to the treach'rous shore again.
I go where rich and poor together sleep,
And the Slave's dust doth mingle with his Lord:
Where the rod drops from Power's unnerved hand
And Beauty feeds the hunger of the worm.
—You smile, but there the good man's sorrows end,
And all his Joys begin. The grave's the path,
The shadowy path which leads to endless day,
Where suns with purest ray, eternal shine,
To their meridian fix'd, and set no more.
Borrowed of Chaos, dost, awhile, enfold
The habitable world, and sea and sky;
Thee I now woo, at solemn midnight Hour
That listens to the voice of my complaint.
Oft it is heard, when on the restless couch
Of tossing pain, Care lies and weeps till morn,
And sheds its tears, sad, tort'ring tears,
The Essence of the Heart's disastrous woe.
I shed them now,—but long I am not doom'd
To feel their cank'ring drops adown my cheek;
Death soon will make it pale, and lay me safe
From every mortal pain within the grave.
291
And with Fate's barbed shaft give wish'd for peace.
What peace on that fell dart? Yes, lasting peace:—
Peace that will never interruption know;
Peace, such as Angels taste, and Heaven bestows.
—Farewell then, thou vain world no more I bend
To thy capricious power! nor all the gilded baits
That wealth can boast or Lordly greatness give,
Nor even graceful Beauty's smiling charm
Could tempt me to the treach'rous shore again.
I go where rich and poor together sleep,
And the Slave's dust doth mingle with his Lord:
Where the rod drops from Power's unnerved hand
And Beauty feeds the hunger of the worm.
292
And all his Joys begin. The grave's the path,
The shadowy path which leads to endless day,
Where suns with purest ray, eternal shine,
To their meridian fix'd, and set no more.
Haste then and weave my shroud, and bring the bier
And bear me to be mingled with the dust.
Let not the plumes nod o'er my sable hearse,
Nor Sculpture labour with the flatt'ring strain:
Let not the blazing torch make midnight noon,
To light me to my long and dark abode;
But may the Summer Sun at Evening Hour
Cast its faint rays upon the awful scene,
Where Earth is given to Earth, and Dust to Dust.
Smile then, ye gay ones, as I pour the strain,
Or o'er my plantive musings breath a sigh
Of friendly pity!—Grateful I return
The pitying sigh, breath'd from a pensive heart,
A heart, which though it hovers o'er the tomb,
Boasts brighter Joys, than the gay, glitt'ring Scenes
Where your delights are center'd, can bestow.
—I soon shall be at rest:—can ye say that,
Ye Youthful train, who travel through the maze,
The giddy maze of Passion's checquer'd dance?
Can ye say that, with Fevers in your heart,
That strive each hour to quench the burning flame,
At Pleasure's warm, intoxicating Spring.
And bear me to be mingled with the dust.
Let not the plumes nod o'er my sable hearse,
Nor Sculpture labour with the flatt'ring strain:
Let not the blazing torch make midnight noon,
To light me to my long and dark abode;
But may the Summer Sun at Evening Hour
Cast its faint rays upon the awful scene,
Where Earth is given to Earth, and Dust to Dust.
Smile then, ye gay ones, as I pour the strain,
Or o'er my plantive musings breath a sigh
Of friendly pity!—Grateful I return
293
A heart, which though it hovers o'er the tomb,
Boasts brighter Joys, than the gay, glitt'ring Scenes
Where your delights are center'd, can bestow.
—I soon shall be at rest:—can ye say that,
Ye Youthful train, who travel through the maze,
The giddy maze of Passion's checquer'd dance?
Can ye say that, with Fevers in your heart,
That strive each hour to quench the burning flame,
At Pleasure's warm, intoxicating Spring.
Heaven is the seat of Mercy, there enthron'd
The Cherub sits, in mild but awful state:
From thence he views the hearts of mortal men
With pitying eye, and wishes to delay
The stern and steady course of rig'rous Law
And stops the Scourgman's hand, to pour a balm
Into the wounds which vengeful Justice gives
To erring mortals: then invites them back
From Errors's fatal path, to Virtue's way,
And beams eternal sunshine o'er their heads.
The Cherub sits, in mild but awful state:
From thence he views the hearts of mortal men
With pitying eye, and wishes to delay
The stern and steady course of rig'rous Law
294
Into the wounds which vengeful Justice gives
To erring mortals: then invites them back
From Errors's fatal path, to Virtue's way,
And beams eternal sunshine o'er their heads.
Say, what is pleasure Ye mistaken fair!
Is it to yield your beauties to the wish
Of him who buys with gold the venal Joy?
Is it to give the mercenary smile
To him you do not love, in sad Exchange
For the gay lustre which adorns your hair,
And all your gawdy show and vain attire,
The Liv'ry of your more than servile state.
Tell me, and tell me true;—when ye have stray'd
At Evening Hour along the Village path,
Though deck'd in flaunting Fashion's glitt'ring robe
Have you not envied Virtue's homely dress,
And wish'd to change your mansion for the Cot
Where she, well pleas'd, beneath her humble Thatch,
Sits smiling o'er the Labours of the Wheel.
Is it to yield your beauties to the wish
Of him who buys with gold the venal Joy?
Is it to give the mercenary smile
To him you do not love, in sad Exchange
For the gay lustre which adorns your hair,
And all your gawdy show and vain attire,
The Liv'ry of your more than servile state.
Tell me, and tell me true;—when ye have stray'd
At Evening Hour along the Village path,
Though deck'd in flaunting Fashion's glitt'ring robe
Have you not envied Virtue's homely dress,
295
Where she, well pleas'd, beneath her humble Thatch,
Sits smiling o'er the Labours of the Wheel.
Mine is a pensive mind: to me more dear
The Ev'ning's purple hue, and rising mist,
Circling, in mantle grey, the verdant hill
And Sylvan upland, than the mid-day pomp,
Of Nature, gilded by the gorgeous Sun.
The triumphs of the great, the splendid show
Of proud Magnificence demand in vain
My reverence: more soothing far to me
The Turf that heaves upon the peasant's grave,
And the once fragrant flowers that wither there.
Nor all the sounds of Music strike my soul
With such affecting power, as doth the Knell
Which calls the dead to their expecting home.
—I walk around the Tomb, and pensive view
The quiet cavern, in whose dark abode,
When evil tongues hiss forth the foul abuse,
When Fortune turns away, and Friends prove false,
Man may a safe, and peaceful refuge find,
A certain refuge and a sure retreat.
—Where is the Covert from Life's frequent storm?—
Ye who have long been toss'd upon the tide,
The flowing tide, of Time, O tell me where.
Is it amid the vales where pleasure sports,
With all her airy tribes; or on the giddy height
Where proud Ambition takes its tott'ring seat;
Or is it in the dreary, darksome cave,
Where starving Av'rice trembles o'er its gold?
Is it in bowers form'd of roses sweet,
And hung with every garland of the Spring
Wove by the Fingers of assiduous Love?
Or where, in Learning's cell the studious lamp
Throws its pale, quiv'ring light upon the page,
By long and midnight toil severely fram'd.
—Nor in the flowery vales where pleasure sports,
Nor where Ambition rears the tottering seat;—
'Tis not within the Miser's gloomy cave;
'Tis not within the roseate Bowers of Love,
Nor where the pale Lamp lights the studious sage,
To midnight toil: alas, it is not there.
And while we seek in vain amid the great
Or on the gorgeous thrones where monarchs sit,
It often may be found in humble cot
Where Virtue with the honest peasant dwells.
The Ev'ning's purple hue, and rising mist,
Circling, in mantle grey, the verdant hill
And Sylvan upland, than the mid-day pomp,
Of Nature, gilded by the gorgeous Sun.
The triumphs of the great, the splendid show
Of proud Magnificence demand in vain
My reverence: more soothing far to me
The Turf that heaves upon the peasant's grave,
And the once fragrant flowers that wither there.
Nor all the sounds of Music strike my soul
With such affecting power, as doth the Knell
Which calls the dead to their expecting home.
—I walk around the Tomb, and pensive view
The quiet cavern, in whose dark abode,
296
When Fortune turns away, and Friends prove false,
Man may a safe, and peaceful refuge find,
A certain refuge and a sure retreat.
—Where is the Covert from Life's frequent storm?—
Ye who have long been toss'd upon the tide,
The flowing tide, of Time, O tell me where.
Is it amid the vales where pleasure sports,
With all her airy tribes; or on the giddy height
Where proud Ambition takes its tott'ring seat;
Or is it in the dreary, darksome cave,
Where starving Av'rice trembles o'er its gold?
Is it in bowers form'd of roses sweet,
And hung with every garland of the Spring
Wove by the Fingers of assiduous Love?
Or where, in Learning's cell the studious lamp
Throws its pale, quiv'ring light upon the page,
297
—Nor in the flowery vales where pleasure sports,
Nor where Ambition rears the tottering seat;—
'Tis not within the Miser's gloomy cave;
'Tis not within the roseate Bowers of Love,
Nor where the pale Lamp lights the studious sage,
To midnight toil: alas, it is not there.
And while we seek in vain amid the great
Or on the gorgeous thrones where monarchs sit,
It often may be found in humble cot
Where Virtue with the honest peasant dwells.
—And what is Virtue? 'Tis the conscious power
Of acting right in spite of every foe,
That may oppose its base malicious aim
To check the pure designs which it inspires.
—It is to stem the tide Corruption rolls
O'er half the world, to curb the impetuous will
Of lawless passion, and, on Life's vast stage,
To act that noble part which will attain
The good man's praise and the applause of Heaven.
—Yes, Virtue, potent Virtue, can secure
'Gainst every peril; 'tis a triple shield
To him who has it, 'gainst the pointed darts
Of ev'ry enemy; the hour of death
With all its gloom, gives not a fear to him,
Who triumphs o'er the grave; he stands secure
Amid the ruins of a fallen world.
—Virtue will listen to the trumpet's sound,
With holy awe, yet hear it unappall'd,
And feels Eternity its destin'd sphere:—
When all the works of Man shake to their base,
And the world melts away whereon they stood;
When Time's last agonising hour is come,
And Death, who, from Creation's pregnant hour,
Has made the world a grave, himself shall die,
When Man from his long slumber shall awake,
And the Day breaks that never more shall close;
Then Virtue shall its promis'd glory claim,
And find it, too, at the o'erflowing Source
Of Heaven's stupendous and eternal Joys.
Of acting right in spite of every foe,
That may oppose its base malicious aim
To check the pure designs which it inspires.
298
O'er half the world, to curb the impetuous will
Of lawless passion, and, on Life's vast stage,
To act that noble part which will attain
The good man's praise and the applause of Heaven.
—Yes, Virtue, potent Virtue, can secure
'Gainst every peril; 'tis a triple shield
To him who has it, 'gainst the pointed darts
Of ev'ry enemy; the hour of death
With all its gloom, gives not a fear to him,
Who triumphs o'er the grave; he stands secure
Amid the ruins of a fallen world.
—Virtue will listen to the trumpet's sound,
With holy awe, yet hear it unappall'd,
And feels Eternity its destin'd sphere:—
When all the works of Man shake to their base,
And the world melts away whereon they stood;
When Time's last agonising hour is come,
299
Has made the world a grave, himself shall die,
When Man from his long slumber shall awake,
And the Day breaks that never more shall close;
Then Virtue shall its promis'd glory claim,
And find it, too, at the o'erflowing Source
Of Heaven's stupendous and eternal Joys.
| The English Dance of Death | |