Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there is an hereafter,
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd,
And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man,
Then must it be an awful thing to die:
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

Self-murder! name it not: our island's shame; That makes her the reproach of neighb'ring states. Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, Self-preservation, fall by her own act? Forbid it, Heaven! Let not, upon disgust, The shameless hand be fully crimson'd o'er With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt! Just recking from self-slaughter, in a rage To rush into the presence of our Judge; As if we challeng'd Him to do His worst, And matter'd not his wrath: unheard-of tortures Must be reserv'd for such: these herd together; The common damn'd shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. Our time is fix'd, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, , we know not: this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission: Like sentries that must keep their destin'd stand,

And wait th' appointed hour, till they're reliev❜d: Those only are the brave that keep their ground, And keep it to the last.

Is but a coward's trick.

To run away

To run away

From this world's ills, that, at the very worst,
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves,
By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark; 'tis mad;
No phrenzy half so desp'rate as this.

in pity

Tell us, ye dead; will none of you, To those you left behind, disclose the secret? O that some courteous ghost would blab it out, What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be! I've heard, that souls departed, have sometimes Forewarn❜d men of their death: 'twas kindly done, To knock, and give th' alarum. But what means This stinted charity? "Tis but lame kindness That does its work by halves. Why might you not Tell us what 'tis to die? Do the strict laws Of your society forbid your speaking Upon a point so nice? I'll ask no more: Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine Enlightens but yourselves. Well-'tis no matter; A very little time will clear up all,

And make us learn'd as ye are, and as close. Death's shafts fly thick: here falls the village swain,

And there his pamper'd lord. The cup goes round; And who so artful as to put it by!

"Tis long since death had the majority;

Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,

Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear, with mattock in his hand,

Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors. Scarce a scull's cast up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell

Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand,
The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years,
Yet ne'er a yonker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a smuttier tale: when drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds not,
That soon some trusty brother of the trade
Shall do for him, what he has done for thousands.

On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for. Fools that we are! Never to think of death and of ourselves

At the same time; as if to learn to die

Were no concern of ours. Oh! more than sottish,
For creatures of a day in gamesome mood
To frolic on Eternity's dread brink
Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,
The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on
With a resistless, unremitting stream;

Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief,
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow,
And carries off his prize. What is this world?
What, but a spacious burial-field unwall'd,
Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones.
The very turf on which we tread once liv'd;
And we that live must lend our carcasses
To cover our own offspring: in their turns,
They, too, must cover theirs. "Tis here all meet;
The shiv'ring Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;

And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His sov'reign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash'd
The great negociators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,

Deep read in stratagems and wiles of courts;

Now vain their treaty-skill, Death scorns to treat.

Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden
From his gall'd shoulders; and when the cruel tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm-and quick as thought escapes
Where tyrants vex not, where the weary rest.

Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade, The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream, (Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love,) Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down, Unblasted by foul tongue.-Here friends and foes Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds. The lawn-rob'd prelate and plain presbyter, Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet, Familiar mingle here, like sister streams That some rude interposing rock had split.

Here is the large-limb'd peasant:-here the child Of a span long, that never saw the sun, Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch. Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters; The barren wife, and long-demurring maid, Whose lonely unappropriated sweets Smil'd like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff, Not to be come at by the willing hand. Here are the prude severe, and gay coquet,