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And feel L, Death ay mas Se

Death, de gecede toe With erry man tager

Death, the tire

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Tolls, vindes, as hands.

Death, of all t

Joy's muruz, anger,

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Though the furcs

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(Te duc virgtinge te

"With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine!
"Art, genius, fortune, elevated pow'r!
"With various lustres these light up the world,
"Which death puts out, and darkens human race."
I grant, LORENZO! this indictment just:
The sage, peer, potentate, king, conqueror!
Death humbles these; more barb'rous life the mari.
Life is the triumph of our mould'ring clay;
Death, of the spirit infinite, divine!

Death has no dread, but what frail life imparts;
Nor life true joy, but what kind death improves.
No bliss has life to boast, 'till death can give
Far greater; life's a debtor to the grave,
Dark lattice! letting in eternal day.

LORENZO! blush at fondness for a life,
Which sends celestial souls on errands vile,
To cater for the sense; and serve at boards,
Where ev'ry ranger of the wilds, perhaps
Each reptile, justly claims our upper hand.
Luxurious feast! a soul, a soul immortal,
In all the dainties of a brute bemir'd!
LORENZO! blush at terror for a death,
Which gives thee to repose in festive bow'rs,
Where nectars sparkle, angels minister,
And more than angels share, and raise, and crown,
And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.
What need I more? O death, the palm is thine.

Then welcome, death! thy dreaded harbingers, Age and disease; disease, though long my guest, That plucks my nerves, those tender strings of life; Which, pluck'd a little more, will toll the bell, That calls my few friends to my funeral; Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear,

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While reason and religion, better taught,
Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb
With wreath triumphant. Death is victory;
It binds in chains the raging ills of life;
Lust and Ambition, wrath and avarice,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his pow'r.
That ills corrosive, cares importunate,

Are not immortal too, O death! is thine.

Our day of dissolution!-Name it right;

"Tis our great pay-day; 'tis our harvest, rich

And ripe: What though the sickle, sometimes keen,

Just scars us as we reap the golden grain?

More than thy balm, O Gilead! heals the wound.

Birth's feeble cry, and death's deep dismal groan,
Are slender tributes low-taxt nature pays
For mighty gain: The gain of each, a life!
But O! the last, the former so transcends,
Life dies, compar'd! Life lives beyond the grave.

And feel I, Death! no joy from thought of thee?
Death, the great counsellor, who man inspires
With ev'ry nobler thought, and fairer deed!
Death, the deliverer, who rescues man!
Death, the rewarder, who the rescu'd crowns!
Death, that absolves my birth! a curse without it!
Rich death, that realizes all my cares,
Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a chimera!
Death, of all pain the period, not of joy;
Joy's source, and subject, still subsist unhurt;
One, in my soul; and one, in her great sire;
Though the four winds were warring for my dust.
Yes, and from winds and waves, and central night,
Though prison'd there, my dust too I reclaim,
(To dust when drop proud nature's proudest spheres)

And live entire. Death is the crown of life:
Were death deny'd, poor man would live in vain;
Were death deny'd, to live would not be life;
Were death deny'd, ev'n fools would wish to die.
Death wounds to cure: We fall; we rise; we reign!
Spring from our fetters; fasten in the skies;
Where blooming Eden withers in our sight.
Death gives us more than was in Eden lost;
This King of Terrors is the Prince of Peace.
When shall I die to vanity, pain, death?
When shall I die?When shall I live for ever?





Containing our only Cure for the fear of Death, and proper Sentiments of Heart on that inestimable Blessing.

To the Honourable 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 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.

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