And quench the lamp of life.-O when he comes,
Rous'd by the cry of wickedness extreme,
To Heaven ascending from some guilty land,
Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes array'd
In all the terrors of Almighty wrath;
Forth from his bosom plucks his lingering arm,
And on the miscreant pours destruction down!
Who can abide his coming? Who can bear
His whole displeasure? In no common form
Death then appears, but, starting into size
Enormous, measures with gigantic stride [round
The astonish'd earth, and from his looks throws
Unutterable horror and dismay.
All Nature lends her aid. Each element
Arms in his cause. Ope fly the doors of Heaven,
The fountains of the deep their barriers break,
Above, below, the rival torrents pour,
And drown creation, or in floods of fire
Descends a livid cataract, and consumes [peace,
An impious race. Sometimes, when all seems
Wakes the grim Whirlwind, and with rude embrace
Sweeps nations to their graves, or in the deep
Whelms the proud wooden world; full many a youth
Floats on his watery bier, or lies unwept
On some sad desert shore.-At dead of night,
In sullen silence stalks forth Pestilence:
Contagion close behind taints all her steps
With poisonous dew; no smiting hand is seen,
No sound is heard: but soon her secret path
Is mark'd with desolation; heaps on heaps
Promiscuous drop; no friend, no refuge near;
All, all is false and treacherous around,
All that they touch, or taste, or breathe, is Death.
But ah! what means that ruinous roar? Why fail
These tottering feet?-Earth to its centre feels
The Godhead's power, and, trembling at his touch
Through all its pillars, and in every pore,
Hurls to the ground, with one convulsive heave,
Precipitating domes, and towns, and towers,
The work of ages. Crush'd beneath the weight
Of general devastation, millions find
One common grave: not ev'n a widow left
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 come
In genuine form, not with this 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 wo.
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 upborne,
Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life!
ON SEEING THE FIGURE OF DEATH IN A DREAM.
AVERT, proud Death, thy lifted spear,
Nor vaunt the King of Terrors here
Shorn of thy first envenom'd sting,
Vain are all terrors thou canst bring :
Smite, monster, smite, nor spare thy deepest wound; From Jesse's root our sov'reign balm is found.
When o'er the world's wide misery,
Coeval darkness sway'd with thee,
Creation shrunk beneath thy frown,
And horror mark'd thy ebon crown.
Those downcast kingdoms, whelm'd in ruin lie,
Smote by the beaming Day-spring from on high.
Though, clad in vesture of affright,
Thou prowl'st beneath the pall of night,
Thy famish'd form doth quash alarm:
Unpoise that daring strengthless arm;
Bow thy diminish'd head; stern tyrant, flee ;
For thou art swallow'd up in victory.
Sweet Mercy hath her triumph shown,
Thy darken'd host of fear o'erthrown:
Now to behold thee, vanquish'd slave,"
No power's left beyond the grave;
We greet thee kind!-0 wondrous friendship this!
Welcome, good herald !—to announce our bliss.
MEDITATION ON DEATH.
ENOUGH, enough, my soul, of worldly noise,
Of airy pomps, and fleeting joys;
What doth this busy world provide at best
But brittle goods, that break like glass,
But poison'd sweets, a troubled feast,
[pass? And pleasures like the winds, that in a moment
Thy thoughts to nobler meditations give,
And study how to die, not how to live.
How frail is beauty! Ah, how vain,
And how short-liv'd those glories are,
That vex our nights and days with pain,
And break our hearts with care!
In dust we no distinction see,
Such Helen is; such, Myra, thou must be.
How short is life! why will vain courtiers toil,
And crowd a vainer monarch, for a smile?
What is that monarch, but a mortal man,
His crown a pageant, and his life a span?
With all his guards, and his dominions, he
Must sicken too, and die as well as we.
Those boasted names of conquerors and kings
Are swallow'd, and become forgotten things;
One destin'd period men in common have,
The great, the base, the coward, and the brave,
All food alike for worms, companions in the grave:
The prince and parasite together lie,
No fortune can exalt, but death will climb as high.
Lansdowne.
A NIGHT-PIECE, ON DEATH.
By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er:
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way,
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