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He rose, He rose, He burst the bars of Death,
Lift up your
heads, ye everlasting gates,
And give the King of Glory to come in.

London; Pub Jan 1.1802. by Vernor & Hood, and the other Proprietors.

J.Neagle se

Page, 68.

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A MUCH indebted muse, O YORKE ! intrudes.

Amid the smiles of fortune, and of youth, Thine ear is patient of a serious song. How deep implanted in the breast of man The dread of death! I sing its sov'reign cure. Why start at death? Where is he? Death arriv'd, Is past; not come, or gone, he's never here. Ere hope, sensation fails; black-boding man Receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm; These are the bugbears of a winter's eve,

The terrors of the living, not the dead.
Imagination's fool, and error's wretch,

Man makes a death, which nature never made;
Then on the point of his own fancy falls;
And feels a thousand deaths, in fearing one.

But were death frightful, what has age to fear?
If prudent, age should meet the friendly foe,
And shelter in his hospitable gloom.

I scarce can meet a monument, but holds
My younger; ev'ry date cries-" Come away.'
And what recalls me? Look the world around,
And tell me what: The wisest cannot tell.
Should any born of woman give his thought
Full range, on just dislike's unbounded field;
Of things, the vanity; of men, the flaws;
Flaws in the best; the many, flaw all o'er;
As leopards, spotted, or, as Ethiops, dark;
Vivacious ill; good dying immature;
(How immature, NARCISSA's marble tells!
And at his death bequeathing endless pain;
His heart, tho' bold, would sicken at the sight,
And spend itself in sighs, for future scenes.
But grant to life (and just it is to grant
To lucky life) some perquisites of joy;
A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale,
Long-rifled life of sweet can yield no more,
But from our comment on the comedy,
Pleasing reflections on parts well sustain'd,
Or purpos'd emendations where we fail'd,
Or hopes of plaudits from our candid Judge,

When, on their exit, souls are bid unrobe,
Toss fortune back her tinsel, and her plume,
And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene.
With me, that time is come; my world is dead;
A new world rises, and new manners reign:
Foreign comedians, a spruce band! arrive,
To push me from the scene, or hiss me there.
What a pert race starts up! the strangers gaze,
And I at them; my neighbour is unknown;
Nor that the worst: Ah me! the dire effect
Of loit'ring here, of death defrauded long;
Of old so gracious (and let that suffice),
My very master knows me not.

Shall I dare say, peculiar is the fate?
I've been so long remember'd, I'm forgot.
An object ever pressing dims the sight,
And hides behind its ardor to be seen.
When in his courtiers ears I pour my plaint,
They drink it as the nectar of the great ;

And squeeze my hand, and beg me come to-morrow.
Refusal! canst thou wear a smoother form?

Indulge me, nor conceive I drop my theme:
Who cheapens life, abates the Fear of Death:
Twice told the period spent on stubborn Troy,
Court favour, yet untaken, I besiege;
Ambition's ill-judg'd effort to be rich.

Alas! ambition makes my little less;
Embitt'ring the possess'd: Why wish for more?
Wishing, of all employments, is the worst;
Philosophy's reverse; and health's decay!

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