Friend to the wretch, whom every friend forsakes, I woo thee, Death! In fancy's fairy paths Let the gay songster rove, and gently trill The strain of empty joy. — Life and its joys I leave to those that prize them. — At this hour, This solemn hour; when silence rules the world, And wearied nature makes a general pause! Wrapt in night's sable robe, through cloisters drear, And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng Of meagre phantoms shooting cross my path With silent glance, I seek the shadowy vale Of Death! — Deep in a murky cave's recess, Lav'd by oblivion's listless stream, and fenc'd By shelving rocks, and intermingled horrors Of yew' and cypress' shade, from all intrusion Of busy noontide beam, the monarch sits In unsubstantial majesty enthron'd. At his right hand, nearest himself in place, And frightfulness of form, his parent, Sin, With fatal industry and cruel care, Busies herself in pointing all his stings, And tipping every shaft with venom drawn From her infernal store; around him rang'd In terrible array, and strange diversity Of uncouth shapes, stand his dread ministers. Foremost Old Age, his natural ally And firmest friend: next him, diseases thick, A motley train; fever with cheek of fire; Consumption wan; palsy, half warm with life, And half a clay-cold lump; joint-torturing gout, And ever-gnawing rheum; convulsion wild; Swoln dropsy; panting asthma; apoplex Full-gorg'd. — There too the pestilence that walks In darkness, and the sickness that destroys At broad noon-day. These, and a thousand more, Horrid to tell, attentive wait; and, when By Heaven's command, Death waves his ebon wand, Sudden rush forth to execute his purpose, And scatter desolation o'er the earth. Ill-fated man, for whom such various forms Of misery wait, and mark their future prey! Ah! why, All-righteous Father, didst thou make This creature, man? Why wake the' unconscious dust To life and wretchedness? O better far Still had he slept in uncreated night, If this the lot of being! — Was it for this Thy breath divine kindled within his breast The vital flame? For this was thy fair image Stamp'd on his soul in godlike lineaments? For this dominion given him absolute O'er all thy creatures, only that he might reign Supreme in woe? From the blest source of good Could Pain and Death proceed? Could such foul ill Fall from fair Mercy's hands? Far be the thought, The impious thought! God never made a creature But what was good. He made a living man: The man of death was made by man himself. Forth from his Maker's hands he sprung to life, Fresh with immortal bloom; no pain he knew, No fear of death, no check to his desires, Save one command. That one command, (which stood 'Twixt him and ruin, the test of his obedience,) Urg'd on by wanton curiosity He broke. — There in one moment was undone The fairest of God's works. The same rash hand That pluck'd in evil hour the fatal fruit, Unbar'd the gates of hell, and let loose Sin And Death, and all the family of Pain, To prey upon mankind. Young Nature saw The monstrous crew, and shook through all her flame, Then fled her new-born lustre, then began Heaven's cheerful face to low'r, then vapours chok'd The troubled air, and form'd a vale of clouds To hide the willing sun. The earth, convuls'd With painful throes, threw forth a bristly crop Of thorns and briars; and insect, bird, and beast, That wont before with admiration fond To gaze at man, and fearless crowd around him, Now fled before his face, shunning in haste The' infection of his misery. He alone Who justly might, the' offended Lord of man, Turn'd not away his face; he, full of pity, Forsook not in this uttermost distress His best-lov'd work. That comfort still remain'd, (That best, that greatest comfort in affliction) The countenance of God, and through the gloom Shot forth some kindly gleams, to cheer and warm The' offender's sinking soul. Hope, sent from Heaven, Uprais'd his drooping head, and show'd afar A happier seene of things; the promis'd seed Trampling upon the serpent's humbled crest, Death of his sting disarm'd, and the dank grave Made pervious to the realms of endless day, No more the limit but the gate of life. Cheer'd with the view, man went to till the earth From whence he rose; sentenc'd indeed to toil, As to a punishment; (yet ev'n in wrath So merciful is Heaven!) this toil became The solace of his woes, the sweet employ Of many a live-long hour, and surest guard Against disease and Death. — Death, though denounc'd, Was yet a distant ill, by feeble arm Of Age, his sole support, led slowly on. Not then, as since, the short-liv'd sons of men Flock'd to his realms in countless multitudes; Scarce in the course of twice five hundred years One solitary ghost went shivering down To his unpeopled shore. In sober state, Through the sequester'd vale of rural life, The venerable patriarch guileless held The tenor of his way; labour prepar'd His simple fare, and temperance rul'd his board. Tir'd with his daily toil, at early eve He sunk to sudden rest; gentle and pure As breath of evening zephyr, and as sweet Were all his slumbers; with the sun he rose, Alert and vigorous as he, to run His destin'd course. Thus nerv'd with giant strength, He stem'd the tide of time, and stood the shock Of ages rolling harmless o'er his head. At life's meridian point arriv'd, he stood, And looking round saw all the vallies fill'd With nations from his loins; full well content To leave his race thus scatter'd o'er the earth, Along the gentle slope of life's decline He bent his gradual way, till full of years He dropt like mellow fruit into his grave. Such in the infancy of time was man; So calm was life, so impotent was death. O, had he but preserv'd those few remains, Those shatter'd fragments of lost happiness, Snatch'd by the hand of Heaven from the sad wreck Of innocence primeval, still had he liv'd Great ev'n in ruin, though fallen yet not forlorn; Though mortal, yet not every where beset With Death in every shape! But he, impatient To be completely wretched, hastes to fill up The measure of his woes. 'Twas man himself Brought Death into the world, and man himself Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiplied destruction on mankind. First Envy, eldest born of hell, embru'd Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of men. To make a death which nature never made, And God abhor'd, with violence rude to break The thread of life, ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition saw, and soon improv'd The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough, By subtle Fraud, to snatch a single life, Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell To sate the lust of power; more horrid still, The foulest stain and scandal of our nature Became its boast. — One murder made a villain, Millions a hero. — Princes were privileg'd To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. Ah! why will kings forget that they are men! And men that they are brethren? Why delight In human sacrifice? Why burst the ties Of nature, that should knit their souls together In one soft bond of amity and love; Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on Inhumanly ingenious to find out New pains for life, new terrors for the grave, Artificers of Death! still monarchs dream Of universal empire growing up From universal ruin. — Blast the design, Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine! Yet say, should tyrants learn at last to feel, And the loud din of battle cease to roar; Should dove-eyed Peace o'er all the earth extend Her olive branch, and give the world repose, Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and strength, and youth, Defy his power? Has he no arts in store, No other shafts save those of war? — Alas! Ev'n in the smile of peace, that smile which sheds A heavenly sunshine o'er the soul, there basks That serpent Luxury; war its thousands slays, Peace its ten thousands: in the' embattled plain, Though Death exults, and claps his raven wings, Yet reigns he not ev'n there so absolute, So merciless, as in yon frantic scenes Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth, Where in the' intoxicating draught conceal'd, Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless love, He snares the simple youth, who nought suspecting Means to be blest — but finds himself undone. Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky, Hope swells his sails, and fancy steers his course; Safe glides his little bark along the shore, Where virtue takes her stand; but if too far He launches forth, beyond discretion's mark, Sudden his tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. O sad but sure mischance! O happier far To lie like gallant Howe, midst Indian wilds, A breathless corse, cut off by savage hands In earliest prime, a generous sacrifice To freedom's holy cause; than so to fall, Torn immature from life's meridian joys, A prey to vice, intemperance, and disease. Yet die ev'n thus, thus rather perish still, Ye sons of pleasure, by the' Almighty stricken, Than ever dare (though oft, alas! ye dare) To lift against yourselves the murderous steel, To wrest from God's own hand the sword of Justice, And be your own avengers. — Hold, rash man, Though with anticipating speed thou'st rang'd Through every region of delight, nor left One joy to gild the evening of thy days, Though life seem one uncomfortable void, Guilt at thy heels, before thy face despair. Yet gay this scene, and light this load of woe, To wail her sons: the house that should protect, Entombs its master, and the faithless plain, If there he flies for help, with sudden yawn Starts from beneath him. — Shield me, gracious Heaven, O snatch me from destruction! if this globe, This solid globe, which thine own hand hath made So firm and sure, if this my steps betray: If my own mother-earth from whence I sprung, Rise up with rage unnatural to devour Her wretched offspring, whither shall I fly? Where look for succour? Where, but up to Thee, Almighty Father? Save, O save thy suppliant From horrors such as these! — At thy good time Let Death approach; I reck not — let him but come In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd, Too much for man to bear. O rather lend Thy kindly aid to mitigate his stroke, And at that hour when all aghast I stand (A trembling candidate for thy compassion) On this world's brink, and look into the next; When my soul starting from the dark unknown, Casts back a wishful look, and fondly clings To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd From this fair scene, from all her custom'd joys, And all the lovely relatives of life, Then shed thy comforts o'er me; then put on The gentlest of thy looks. Let no dark crimes In all their hideous forms then starting up Plant themselves round my couch in grim array, And stab my bleeding heart with two-edg'd torture, Sense of past guilt, and dread of future woe. Far be the ghastly crew! and in their stead, Let cheerful memory from her purest cells Lead forth a goodly train of virtues fair, Cherish'd in earliest youth, now paying back With tenfold usury the pious care, And pouring o'er my wounds the heavenly balm Of conscious innocence. — But chiefly thou, Whom soft-ey'd Pity once led down from Heaven To bleed for man, to teach him how to live, And, oh! still harder lesson! how to die: Disdain not thou to smooth the restless bed Of sickness and of pain. — Forgive the tear That feeble nature drops, calm all her fears, Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith, Till my rapt soul, anticipating Heaven, Bursts from the thraldom of encumbering clay, And on the wing of ecstasy upborn, Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life!