Heaven's cheerful face to lower, then vapors choak'd The troubled air, and form'd a veil of clouds To hide the willing Sun. The earth convuls'd With painful throes threw forth a bristly crop Of thorns, and briars; and insect, bird, and beast, That wont before with admiration fond
To gaze at man, and fearless crowd around him, Now fled before his face, shunning in haste The infection of his misery. He alone
Who justly might, the offended Lord of Man, Turn'd not away his face; he, full of pity, Forsook not in this uttermost distress
His best-lov'd work. That comfort still remain'd (That best, that greatest comfort in affliction) The countenance of God, and thro' the gloom Shot forth some kindly gleams, to cheer and warm The offender's sinking soul. Hope sent from Heaven Uprais'd his drooping head, and shew'd afar A happier scene of things; the Promis'd Seed Trampling upon the Serpent's humbled crest; Death of his sting disarm'd; and the dark grave, Made pervious to the realms of endless day, No more the limit but the gate of life.
Cheer'd with the view, Man went to till the ground, From whence he rose ; sentenc'd indeed to toil As to a punishment, yet (ev'n in wrath, So merciful is Heaven) this toil became The solace of his woes, the sweet employ Of many a live-long hour, and surest guard Against Disease and Death. Death, tho' denounc'd, Was yet a distant ill, by feeble arm
Of Age, his sole support, led slowly on.
Not then, as since, the short-liv'd sons of men Flock'd to his realms in countless multitudes; Scarce in the course of twice five hundred years, One solitary ghost went shivering down To his unpeopled shore. In sober state, Thro' the sequester'd vale of rural life, The venerable Patriarch guileless held The tenor of his way; Labor prepar'd
His simple fare, and Temperance rul'd his board, Tir'd with his daily toil, at early eve
He sunk to sudden rest; gentle and pure As breath of evening Zephyr, and as sweet Were all his slumbers; with the Sun he rose,
Alert and vigorous as He to run
His destin'd course. Thus nerv'd with giant strength He stemm'd the tide of time, and stood the shock Of ages rolling harmless o'er his head.
At life's meridian point arriv'd, he stood, And looking round, saw all the vallies fill'd With nations from his loins; full well content To leave his race thus scatter'd o'er the earth, Along the gentle slope of life's decline He bent his gradual way, till full of years He dropt like mellow fruit into his grave. Such in the infancy of Time was Man; So calm was life, so impotent was Death! O had he but preserv'd these few remains, The shatter'd fragments of lost happiness, Snatch'd by the hand of Heaven from the sad wreck Of innocence primæval; still had he liv'd In ruin great; tho' fallen, yet not forlorn; Tho' mortal, yet not every where beset With Death in every shape! But he, impatient To be completely wretched, hastes to fill up The measure of his woes :-'Twas Man himself Brought Death into the world; and Man himself Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiply'd destruction on mankind.
First Envy, eldest-born of Hell, embru'd Her hands in blood, and taught the Sons of Men To make a Death which Nature never made, And God abhorr'd; with violence rude to break The thread of life ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition saw, and soon improv'd The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough By subtle fraud to snatch a single life; Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell
To sate the lust of power: more horrid still, The foulest stain and scandal of our nature, Became its boast. One murder made a villain; Millions a hero. Princes were privileg'd
To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. Ah! why will Kings forget that they are Men? And Men that they are brethren? Why delight In human sacrifice? Why burst the ties
Of Nature, that should knit their souls together In one soft bond of amity and love?
Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on Inhumanly ingenious to find out
New pains for life, new terrors for the grave, Artificers of Death! Still Monarchs dream Of universal empire growing up
From universal ruin. Blast the design, Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine !
Yet say, should Tyrants learn at last to feel, And the loud din of battle cease to bray; Should dove-ey'd Peace o'er all the earth extend Her olive-branch, and give the world repose, Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and strength, and youth
Defy his power? Has he no arts in store, No other shafts save those of War? Alas!
Ev'n in the smile of Peace, that smile which sheds A heavenly sunshine o'er the soul, there basks That serpent Luxury. War its thousands slays; Peace its ten thousands. In the embattled plain, Tho' Death exults, and claps his raven wings, Yet reigns he not ev'n there so absolute, So merciless, as in yon frantic scenes Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth, Where in the intoxicating draught conceal'd, Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless love, He snares the simple youth, who nought suspecting, Means to be blest-but finds himself undone.
Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky,
Hope swells his sails, and Passion steers his course. Safe glides his little bark along the shore Where Virtue takes her stand; but if too far He launches forth beyond Discretion's mark, Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. O sad but sure mischance! O happier far To lie like gallant Howe 'midst Indian wilds A breathless corse, cut off by savage hands In earliest prime, a generous sacrifice To freedom's holy cause, than so to fall, Torn immature from life's meridian joys, A prey to Vice, Intemperance, and Disease. Yet die ev'n thus, thus rather perish still, Ye Sons of Pleasure, by the Almighty stricken, Than ever dare (tho' oft, alas! ye dare)
To lift against yourselves the murderous steel, To wrest from God's own hand the sword of Justice, And be your own avengers! Hold, rash Man, Tho' with anticipating speed thou'st rang'd Thro' every region of delight, nor left One joy to gild the evening of thy days; Tho' life seem one uncomfortable void, Guilt at thy heels, before thy face Despair; Yet gay this scene, and light this load of woe, Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think, O think, And, ere thou plunge into the vast abyss, Pause on the verge awhile; look down and see Thy future mansion. Why that start of horror? From thy slack hand why drops the uplifted steel? Didst thou not think such vengeance must await The wretch, that with his crimes all fresh about him Rushes irreverent, unprepar'd, uncall'd,
Into his Maker's presence, throwing back With insolent disdain his choicest gift?
Live then, while Heaven in pity lends thee life, And think it all too short to wash away, By penitential tears and deep contrition, The scarlet of thy crimes. So shalt thou find Rest to thy soul; so unappall'd shalt meet
Death when he comes, not wantonly invite His lingering stroke. Be it thy sole concern With innocence to live: with patience wait
The appointed hour: too soon that hour will come, Tho' Nature run her course. But Nature's God, If need require, by thousand various ways, Without thy aid, can shorten that short span, 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 miscreants 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
The astonish'd Earth, and from his looks throws round 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
An impious race. Sometimes, when all seems peace, Wakes the grim whirlwind, and with rude embrace Sweeps nations to their grave, 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.
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