Our untouch'd hearts? What miracle turns off
The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers
Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd?
We stand, as in a battle, throngs on throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;
Tho' bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!
We see time's furrows on another's brow,
And death intrench'd, preparing his assault;
How few themselves, in that just mirror, see!
Or, seeing, draw their inference as strong!
There death is certain ; doubtful here:"He must,
And soon; We may, within an age, expire.
Tho' grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are green;
Like damag'd clocks, whose hand and bell dissent;
Folly sings Six, while nature points at Twelve.
Absurd longevity! More, More, it cries :
More life, more wealth, more trash of ev'ry kind.
And wherefore mad for more, when relish fails?
Object, and appetite, must club for joy;
Shall folly labour hard to mend the bow,
Baubles, I mean, that strikes us from without,
While nature is relaxing ev'ry string?
Ask thought for joy; grow rich, and hoard within.
Think you the soul, when this life's rattles cease,
Has nothing of more manly to succeed?
Contract the taste immortal; learn ev'n Now
To relish what alone subsists hereafter.
Divine, or none, henceforth your joys for ever.
Of age the glory is, to wish to die.
That wish is praise, and promise; it applauds
Past life, and promises our future bliss.
What weakness see not children in their sires?
Grand-climacterical absurdities !
Grey-hair'd authority, to faults of youth,
How shocking: It makes folly thrice a fool;
And our first childhood might our last despise.
Peace and esteem is all that age can hope.
Nothing but wisdom gives the first; the last,
Nothing, but the repute of being wise.
Folly bars both; our age is quite undone.
What folly can be ranker? Like our shadows,
Our wishes lengthen, as our sun declines.
No wish should loiter, then, this side the grave.
Our hearts should leave the world, before the knell
Calls for our carcases to mend the soil.
Enough to live in tempest, die in port;
Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat
Defects of judgment; and the will's subdue;
Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore
Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon;
And put good-works on board; and wait the wind
That shortly blows us into worlds unknown:
If unconsider'd too, a dreadful scene!
All should be prophets to themselves; foresee Their future fate; their future fate foretaste; This art would waste the bitterness of death. The thought of death alone, the fear destroys. A disaffection to that precious thought Is more than midnight darkness on the soul,
Which sleeps beneath it, on a precipice,
Puff'd off by the first blast, and lost for ever.
Dost ask, LORENZO, why so warmly prest,
By repetition hammer'd on thine ear,
The thought of death? That thought is the machine,
The grand machine! that heaves us from the dust,
And rears us into men. That thought, ply'd home,
Will soon reduce the ghastly precipice
O'er-hanging hell, will soften the descent,
And gently flope our passage to the grave;
How warmly to be wisht! What heart of flesh
Would trifle with tremendous? dare extremes?
Yawn o'er the fate of infinite? What hand,
Beyond the blackest brand of censure bold,
(To speak a language too well known to Thee)
Would at a moment give its All to chance,
And stamp the die for an eternity?
Aid me, NARCISSA! aid me to keep pace
With destiny; and ere her scissars cut
My thread of life, to break this tougher thread
Of moral death, that ties me to the world.
Sting thou my slumb'ring reason to send forth
A thought of observation on the foe
To sally; and survey the rapid march
Of his ten thousand messengers to man;
Who, JEHU-like, behind him turns them all.
All accident apart, by nature sign'd,
My warrant is gone out, tho' dormant yet;
Perhaps behind one moment lurks my fate,
Must I then forward only look for death? Backward I turn mine eye, and find him there, Man is a self-survivor ev'ry year.
Man, like a stream, is in perpetual flow.
Death's a destroyer of quotidian prey.
My youth, my noon-tide, His; my yesterday;
The bold invader shares the present hour.
Each moment on the former shuts the grave.
While man is growing, life is in decrease;
And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun;
As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.
Shall we then fear, lest that should come to pass,
Which comes to pass each moment of our lives?
If fear we must, let that death turn us pale,
Which murders strength and ardour; what remains
Should rather call on death, than dread his call.
Ye partners of my fault, and my decline!
Thoughtless of death, but when your neighbour's knell
(Rude visitant!) knocks hard at your dull sense,
And with its thunder scarce obtains your ear!
Be death your theme, in ev'ry place and hour;
Nor longer want, ye monumental Sires!
A brother tomb to tell you you shall die.
That death you dread (so great is nature's skill!)
Know, you shall court before you shall enjoy.
But you are learn'd; in volumes, deep you sit
In wisdom, shallow: Pompous ignorance!
Wou'd you be still more learned, than the learn'd?
Learn well to know how much need not be known,
And what that knowledge, which impairs your sense. Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, Unhedg'd, lies open in life's common field;
And bids all welcome to the vital feast.
You scorn what lies before you in the page
Of nature, and experience, moral truth;
Of indispensable, eternal fruit;
Fruit, on which mortals feeding, turn to gods:
And dive in science for distinguisht names,
Dishonest fomentation of your pride;
Sinking in virtue, as you rise in fame.
Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords
Light, but not heat; it leaves you undevout,
Frozen at heart, while speculation shines.
Awake, ye curious indagators! fond
Of knowing all, but what avails you known.
If
you would learn death's character, attend
All casts of conduct, all degrees of health,
All dies of fortune, and all dates of age,
Together shook in his impartial urn,
Come forth at random: Or, if choice is made,
The choice is quite sarcastic, and insults
All bold conjecture, and fond hopes of man.
What countless multitudes not only leave,
But deeply disappoint us, by their deaths!
Tho' great our sorrow, greater our surprize.
Like other tyrants, death delights to smite.
What, smitten, most proclaims the pride of pow'r,
His joy supreme,
To bid the wretch survive the fortunate;
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