Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

That stopt the entrance with his fpatious ftride; And with the terrour of his Countenance bold, Full many did affray, that elfe faine enter would.

His Name was Danger, draded over all,

Who day and night did watch and duly ward,
From fearful Cowards entrance to forstall,
And Faint-heart-fooles, whom fhew of Perill hard
Could terrifie from Fortunes faire award :

For, oftentimes, faint Hearts at first espiall
Of his grim Face, were from approaching fear'd;
Unworthy they of Grace, whom one deniall
Excludes from faires hope, withouten further triall.

Yet many doughty Warriors often tride In greater Perills to be ftout and bold,

Durft not the Sternenefs of his Look abide ; But foon as they his Countenance behold, Began to faint, and feel their Courage cold. Again, fome other, that in hard affaies Were Cowards known, and little count did hold, Either through gifts, or guile, or fuch like waies, Crept in by stooping lowe, or stealing of the kaies. (Spenser.

DAY-BREAK.

By this, the northern Wagoner had fet
His fevenfold teme behind the stedfaft Star,
That was in Ocean Waves yet never wet,
But firme is fixt, and sendeth Light from far
To all, that in the wide deep wandering are:
And chearful Chaunticlere with his note fhrill
Had warned once, that Phebus fiery carre

In haft was climbing up the Eaftern hill;
Full envious that night fo long his roome did fill.

DEATH.

And in his Hand a bended bow was feene, many Arrowes under his right fide,

And

(Spenfer

All

All deadly dangerous, all cruel keene, Headed with Flint, and Feathers bloudie dide, Such as the Indians in their Quivers hide :

Thofe could he well direct, and ftraite as line, And bid them ftrike the marke which he had eyde; Ne was there Salve, ne was there Medicine, That mote recure their Wounds; fo inly they did

(tine.'

As pale and wan as Ashes was his Look,
His Body lean and meagre as a rake,
And Skin all withered like a dried Rook,
Thereto as cold and drery as a Snake,
That feem'd to tremble evermore, and quake;
All in a Canvas thin he was bedight,
And girded with a Belt of twisted brake,
Upon his Head he wore an Helmet light,
Made of a dead Man's Scull, that feem'd a gaftly
(fight. Spen.
But oh! how foon wou'd you who thus complain,
And Nature's Caufe of Cruelty arraign,
By Reafon's Standard this Mistake correct,
And ceafe to murmur, did you once reflect
That Death removes us only to our Seat,
Does not extinguish Life, but change its State.
Then are difplay'd, O ravishing Surprize!
Fair Scenes of Blifs, and Triumphs in the Skies:
To which admitted, each fuperior Mind,
By Virtue's vital Energy refin'd,

Shines forth with more than folar Glory bright,
And cloath'd with Robes of beatific Light;
His Hours in heav'nly Tranfports does employ,
Young with immortal Bloom from living Streams of

(Joy. Death's a black Veil, cov'ring a beauteous Face,

Fear'd afar off

By erring Nature: a mistaken Phantom!

A harmless lambent Fire! She kiffes cold,

But kind and soft, and fweet as my Cleora! Dryd.Cleom.

If the be like my Love,

She is not dreadful fure.
Ah! could we know

Dryd. All for Love.

What Joy the brings, at least what rest from Grief,
How should we prefs into her friendly Arms,
And be pleas'd not to be, or, to be happy. Dryd. Cleom.
Death ends our Woes,
(Spa. Fry.
And the kind Grave fhuts up the mournful Scene.Dryd.
When Honour's loft, 'tis a Relief to dye;
Death's but a fure Retreat from Infamy.

'Tis to the Vulgar Death too harsh appears; The Ill we feel is only in our Fears.

To dye is landing on fome filent Shore,

Where Billows never break, nor Tempfts roar ;
E'er well we feel the friendly Stroke, 'tis o'er.

The Wife thro' Thought th' Infults of Death defy,
The Fools thro' bleft Infenfibility.

'Tis what the Guilty fear, the Pious crave,

Sought by the Wretch, and vanquish'd by the Brave : It eafes Lovers, fets the Captives free,

And tho' a Tyrant, offers Liberty.

Aye, but to dye, and go we know not where,

To lye in cold Obstruction, and to rot :
This fenfible warm Motion to become

A kneaded Clod and the delighted Spirit
To bathe in fiery Floods, or to reside
In thrilling Regions of thick-ribbed Ice :
To be imprifon'd in the viewless Winds,
Or blown with reftlefs Violence about
The pendant World; or to be worse than work
Of thofe that lawless and uncertain Thought
Imagine howling; 'tis too horrible!

The wearieft and most loathed worldly Life,
That Pain, Age, Penury and Imprisonment
Can lay on Nature, is a Paradise

[ocr errors]

Gar.

To what we fear of Death. Shak. Meaf. for Meaf. Even in Sleep, the Body, wrapt in Eafe,

Sur

Supinely lies, as in the peaceful Grave,
And wanting Nothing, Nothing can it crave:
Were that found Sleep eternal, it were Death;
Yet the first Atoms, then the Seeds of breath.
Then Death to us, and Death's Anxiety
Is lefs than Nothing, if a lefs could be:
For then our Atoms, which in Order lay,
Are scatter'd from their Heap, and puff'd away,
And never can return into their Place,

When once the Pause of Life has left an empty Space, And laft, fuppofe great Nature's Voice fhould call To thee, or me, or any of us all;

}

What do'st thou mean, ungrateful Wretch, thou vain,
Thou mortal Thing, thus idly to complain.
And figh and fob, that thou shalt be no more?
For if thy Life were pleafant heretofore,
If all the bounteous Bleffings I could give,
Thou haft enjoy'd, if thou hast known to live,
And Pleasure not leak'd thro' thee like a Sieve,
Why do'st thou not give Thanks as at a plenteous Feaft,
Cramm'd to the Throat with Life,and rife,and take thy
But if my Bleflings thou haft thrown away, (Reft?
If indigefted Joys pafs'd thro', and would not ftay,
Why doft thou wish for more to squander still ?
If Life be grown a Load, a real Ill,

And I would all thy Cares and Labours end,
Lay down thy Burden, Fool, and know thy Friend,
To pleafe thee I have empty'd all my Store
I can invent, and can fupply no more,

But run the round again, the Round I ran before.
Suppofe thou art not broken yet with Years,
Yet ftill the felf-fame Scene of Things appears,
And would be ever, could't thou ever live;

}

For Life is ftill but Life, there's Nothing new to give.
But if a Wretch, a Man opprefs'd by Fate,
Should beg of Nature to prolong his D te,
She fpeaks aloud to him with more Disdain ;
Beftill thou Martyr Fool, thou covetous of Pain.

E 5

But

But if an old decrepid Sot lament;

What thou, he cries, who haft out-liv'd Content?
Doft thou complain, who haft enjoy'd my Store?
But this is ftill th' Effect of wishing more.
Now leave thofe Joys, unfuiting to thy Age,
To a fresh Comer, and refign the Stage.
Is Nature to be blam'd if thus fhe chide
No fure; for 'tis her Bus'nefs to provide.
What can we plead against so just a Bill
We stand convicted, and our Caufe goes ill.
For Life is not confin'd to him or thee;
'Tis given to all for Ufe, to none for Property.
Therefore when Thoughts of Death disturb thy Head,
Confider, Ancus, great and good, is dead;
Ancus, thy better far was born to dye;
And thou, doft thou bewail Mortality?
So many Monarchs, with their mighty State,
Who rul'd the World, were over-rul'd by Fate.
The Founders of invented Arts are loft,
And Wits, who made Eternity their Boaft.
Where now is Homer, who poffefs'd the Throne ?
Th' immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone.
And thou, dost thou difdain to yield thy Breath,
Whofe very Life is little more than Death?
More than one Half by lazy Sleep poffefs'd,
And when awake, thy Soul but nods at beft,
Day-Dreams and fickly Thoughts revolving in thy
(Breaft. Dryd. Lucret.

Temple of Death.

In thofe cold Climates, where the Sun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his Face in Tears;
A dreadful Vale lies in a defart Ifle;

On which indulgent Heav'n did never smile.
There a thick Grove of aged Cyprefs-Trees,
Which none without an awful Horror fees,
Into its wither'd Arms, depriv'd of Leaves,
Whole Flocks of ill-prefaging Birds receives:
Poifons are all the Plants the Soil will bear,
And Winter is the only Seafon there.

Millions

« ElőzőTovább »