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THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT IV.

THE

CHRISTIAN TRIUMPH.

Containing the only Cure for the Fear of Death, and proper sentiments of heart on that inestimable blessing.

INSCRIBED TO THE HON. MR. YORKE.

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 sovereign cure.
Why start at death? where is he? death arrived,
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 bug-bears 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 thiops dark;
Vivacious ill; good dying immature;
(How immature, Narcissa's marble tells)
And at its death bequeathing endless pain;
His heart, though 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 purposed 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 neighbor 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 abate the fears of death.
Twice told the period spent on stubborn Troy,
Court-favor, 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 !
Were I as plump as stall'd theology,
Wishing would waste me to this shade again.
Were I as wealthy as a South-Sea dream,
Wishing is an expedient to be poor.
Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool;
Caught at a court; purg'd off by purer air,
And simpler diet; gifts of rural life!

Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid
My heart at rest beneath this humble shed.
The world's a stately bark, on dang❜rous seas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril :
Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore,
I hear the tumult of the distant throng,
As that of seas remote, or dying storms;
And meditate on scenes, more silent still;
Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death.
Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut,
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,
Eager ambition's fiery chase I see;

I see the circling hunt of noisy men,
Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing and pursu'd each other's prey ;
As wolves for rapine: as the fox, for wiles;
Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
What, though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame,
Earth's highest station ends in, "Here he lies :"
And "Dust to dust" concludes her noblest song.
If this song lives, posterity shall know

One (though in Britain born, with courtiers bred,)
Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late;
Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme
For future vacancies in church or state;

Some avocation deeming it-to die;
Unbit by rage canine of dying rich;

Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of hell.
O my coëvals! remnants of yourselves!
Poor human ruins, tottering o'er the grave!
Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees,
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil?
Shall our pale, wither'd hands, be still stretch'd out,
Trembling at once with eagerness and age?
With avarice, and convulsions, grasping hard?
Grasping at air! for what has earth besides?
Man wants but little; nor that little long;
How soon must he resign his very dust,
Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
Years inexperienc'd rush on num'rous ills;
And soon as man, expert from time, has found
The key of life, it opes the gates of death.

When in this vale of years I backward look,
And miss such numbers, numbers too of such,
Firmer in health, and greener in their age,
And stricter on their guard, and fitter far
To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe
I still survive and am I fond of life,
Who scarce can think it possible, I live?
Alive by miracle, or, what is next,
Alive by Mead! if I am still alive,

Who long have buried what gives life to live,
Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought.
Life's lee is not more shallow, than impure
And vapid; sense and reason shew the door,
Call for my bier, and point me to the dust.

O thou great Arbiter of life and death!
Nature's immortal, immaterial sun!
Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth
From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay
The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath
The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow,
To drink the spirit of the golden day,
And triumph in existence; and couldst know
No motive, but my bliss, and hast ordain'd
A rise in blessing! with the patriarch's joy,

Thy call I follow to the land unknown;
I trust in thee, and know in whom I trust;
Or life or death, is equal; neither weighs:
All weight in this-Ō let me live to thee!

Though Nature's terrors thus may be represt;
Still frowns grim death; guilt points the tyrant's spear.
And whence all human guilt? From death forgot.
Ah me! too long I set at nought the swarm
Of friendly warnings, which around me flew ;
And smil'd unsmitten: Small my cause to smile!
Death's admonitions, like shafts upward shot,
More dreadful by delay; the longer ere

They strike our hearts, the deeper is their wound.
O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it stings:
Who can appease its anguish? How it burns?
What hand the barb'd, envenom'd thought can draw?
What healing hand can pour the balm of peace,
And turn my sight undaunted on the tomb?

With joy,-with grief, that healing hand I see;
Ah! too conspicuous! it is fix'd on high.
On high? What means my frenzy? I blaspheme:
Alas! how low! how far beneath the skies!
The skies it form'd; and now it bleeds for me-
But bleeds the balm I want-yet still it bleeds.
Draw the dire steel-ah no!-the dreadful blessing
What heart or can sustain, or dares forego?
There hangs all human hope; that nail supports
The falling universe: that gone, we drop!
Horror receives us, and the dismal wish
Creation had been smother'd in her birth-
Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust;
When stars and sun are dust beneath his throne !
In Heaven itself can such indulgence dwell?
O what a groan was there! a groan not his.
He seiz'd our dreadful right; the load sustain'd;
And heav'd the mountain from a guilty world.

A thousand worlds, so bought, were bought too dear. Sensations new in angel's bosoms rise;

Suspend their song, and make a pause in bliss.

O for their song to reach my lofty theme! Inspire me, Night! with all thy tuneful spheres! Much rather thou! who dost these spheres inspire!

F

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