We seldom use our liberty aright,

Nor judge of things by universal light;

Our prepossessions and affections bind

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The soul in chains, and lord it o'er the mind;
And if self-int'rest be but in the case,

Our unexamin'd principles may pass.

[ceive,

Good Heav'ns! that man should thus himself de

To learn on credit, and on trust believe!

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Better the mind no notions had retain'd,
But still a fair unwritten blank remain'd:

For now, who truth from falsehood would discern, Must first disrobe the mind, and all unlearn. Errors contracted in unmindful youth,

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When once remov'd, will smooth the way to truth.

To dispossess the child the mortal lives,

But death approaches ere the man arrives.

[find,

Those who would learning's glorious kingdom The dear bought purchase of the trading mind, 130 From many dangers must themselves acquit, And more than Scylla and Charybdis meet. Oh! what an ocean must be voyag'd o'er To gain a prospect of the shining shore? Resisting rocks oppose th' inquiring, soul, And adverse waves retard it as they roll.

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Does not that foolish deference we pay To men that liv'd long since our passage stay? What odd prepost'rous paths at first we tread, And learn to walk by stumbling on the dead? 140 First we a blessing from the grave implore, Worship old urns, and monuments adore;

The rev'rend sage, with vast esteem, we prize; He liv'd long since, and must be wondrous wise. Thus are we debtors to the famous, dead

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For all those errors which their fancies bred:
Errors indeed! for real knowledge stay'd
With those first times, nor farther was convey'd,
While light opinions are much lower brought,
For on the waves of ignorance they float;
But solid truth scarce ever gains the shore,
So soon it sinks, and ne'er emerges more.

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Suppose those many dreadful dangers past, Will knowledge dawn, and bless the mind at last? Ah! no; 'tis now environ'd from our eyes, 155 Hides all its charms, and undiscover'd lies. Truth, like a single point, escapes the sight, And claims attention to perceive it right : But what resembles truth is soon descry'd, Spread like a surface and expanded wide. The first man rarely, very rarely, finds The tedious search of long inquiring minds: But yet what's worse, we know not when we err; What mark does truth, what bright distinction, bear? How do we know that what we know is true? 165 How shall we falsehood fly, and truth pursue? Let none then here his certain knowledge boast, 'Tis all but probability at most :

This is the easy purchase of the mind,

The vulgar's treasure, which we soon may find: 170 But truth lies hid, and ere we can explore

The glitt'ring gem, our fleeting life is o'er.

G

SINCE we can die but once, and after death
Our state no alteration knows,

But when we have resign'd our breath
Th' immortal spirit goes

To endless joys or everlasting woes,
Wise is the man who labours to secure
That mighty and important stake,
And by all methods strives to make
His passage safe and his reception sure.
Merely to die no man of reason fears,
For certainly we must,

As we are born, return to dust;

'Tis the last point of many ling'ring years : But whither then we go,

Whither we fain would know;

But human understanding cannot show :

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15

This makes us tremble, and creates
Strange apprehensions in the mind,

Fills it with restless doubts and wild debates
Concerning what we living cannot find.
None know what death is but the dead,
Therefore we all, by nature, dying dread,

20

As a strange doubtful way we know not how to tread.

II.

When to the margin of the grave we come,
And scarce have one black painful hour to live, 25
No hopes, no prospect, of a kind reprieve
To stop our speedy passage to the tomb,
How moving and how mournful is the sight!
How wondrous pitiful, how wondrous sad!
Where then is refuge, where is comfort, to be had
In the dark minutes of the dreadful night

3I

To cheer our drooping souls for their amazing flight? Feeble and languishing in bed we lie,

Despairing to recover, void of rest,

Wishing for death, and yet afraid to die ;
Terrors and doubts distract our breast,

With mighty agonies and mighty pains opprest.
III.

Our face is moisten'd with a clammy sweat,
Faint and irregular the pulses beat;

The blood unactive grows,

And thickens as it flows,

Depriv'd of all its vigour, all its vital heat :
Our dying eyes roll heavily about,

Their light just going out,

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40

G

And for some kind assistance call;

But pity, useless pity's all

Our weeping friends can give

Or we receiver:

Tho' their desires are great their pow'rs are small.
The tongue's unable to declare

The pains and griefs, the miseries, we bear,
How insupportable our torments are.
Music no more delights our deaf'ning ears,
Restores our joys, or dissipates our fears,
But all is melancholy, all is sad,
In robes of deepest mourning clad;
For ev'ry faculty and ev'ry sense
Partakes the woe of this dire exigence.

IV..

Then we are sensible, too late,

'Tis no advantage to be rich or great;

For all the fulsome pride and pageantry of state
No consolation brings ;

Riches and honours then are useless things,
Tasteless or bitter all,

And, like the book which the Apostle ate,
To the ill-judging palate sweet,

But turn at last to nauseousness and gall.
Nothing will then our drooping spirits cheer
But the remembrance of good actions past:
Virtue's a joy that will forever last,

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And makes pale Death less terrible appear, 'Takes out his baneful sting, and palliates our fear.