Joined to my body swelled the womb; I was,
At least I think so, nothing; must I pass
Again to nothing, when this vital breath
Ceasing, consigns me o'er, to rest, and death;
Must the whole man, amazing thought, return
To the cold marble, or contracted urn;
And never shall those particles agree,
That were in life this individual he;
But severed, must they join the general mass
Through other forms, and shapes ordained to pass;
Nor thought nor image kept of what he was!
Does the great word that gave him sense, ordain,
That life shall never wake that sense again;
And will no power his sinking spirits save
From the dark caves of death and chambers of the grave!
Each evening I behold the setting sun
With downward speed into the ocean run;
Yet the same light, pass but some fleeting hours,
Exerts his vigour, and renews his powers;
Starts the bright race again, his constant flame
Rises and sets, returning still the same.
I mark the various fury of the winds;
These neither seasons guide, nor order binds;
They now dilate, and now contract their force,
Various their speed, but endless is their course.
From his first fountain and beginning ouze,
Down to the sea each brook and torrent flows;
Though sundry drops or leave, or swell the stream,
The whole still runs, with equal pace, the same.
Still other waves supply the rising urns,
And the eternal flood no want of water mourns.
Why then must man obey the sad decree,
Which subjects neither sun, nor wind, nor sea?
A flower, that does with opening morn arise,
And flourishing the day, at evening dies;
A winged eastern blast, just skimming o'er
The ocean's brow, and sinking on the shore;
A fire, whose flames through crackling stubble fly;
A meteor shooting from the summer sky;
A bowl adown the bending mountain rolled;
A bubble breaking, and a fable told;
A noontide shadow, and a midnight dream;
Are emblems, which with semblance apt proclaim
Our earthly course; but, O my soul! so fast
Must life run off, and death for ever last!
This dark opinion, sure, is too confined;
Else whence this hope, and terror of the mind;
Does something still, and somewhere yet remain,
Reward or punishment, delight or pain;
Say: shall our relics second birth receive;
Sleep we to wake, and only die to live!
When the sad wife has closed her husband's eyes,
And pierced the echoing vault with doleful cries;
Lies the pale corpse not yet entirely dead,
The spirit only from the body fled,
The grosser part of heat and motion void,
To be by fire, or worm, or time destroyed;
The soul, immortal substance, to remain,
Conscious of joy, and capable of pain!
And if her acts have been directed well,
While with her friendly clay she deigned to dwell;
Shall she with safety reach her pristine seat,
Find her rest endless, and her bliss complete;
And while the buried man we idly mourn,
Do angels joy to see his better half return?
But if she has deformed this earthly life
With murderous rapine, and seditious strife,
Amazed, repulsed, and by those angels driven
From the ethereal seat, and blissful Heaven,
In everlasting darkness must she lie,
Still more unhappy, that she cannot die!
Amid two seas on one small point of land
Wearied, uncertain, and amazed we stand;
On either side our thoughts incessant turn,
Forward we dread; and looking back we mourn.
Losing the present in this dubious haste,
And lost ourselves betwixt the future and the past.
These cruel doubts contending in my breast,
My reason staggering, and my hopes oppressed,
Once more I said: once more I will inquire,
What is this little, agile, pervious fire,
This fluttering motion, which we call the mind;
How does she act, and where is she confined!
Have we the power to guide her, as we please;
Whence then those evils, that obstruct our ease!
We happiness pursue, we fly from pain,
Yet the pursuit, and yet the flight is vain;
And, while poor nature labours to be blessed,
By day with pleasure, and by night with rest;
Some stronger power eludes our sickly will;
Dashes our rising hope with certain ill;
And makes us with reflective trouble see,
That all is destined, which we fancy free.
That power superior then, which rules our mind, Is his decree by human prayer inclined?
Will he for sacrifice our sorrows ease,
And can our tears reverse his firm decrees!
Then let religion aid, where reason fails;
Throw loads of incense in, to turn the scales;
And let the silent sanctuary show,
What from the babbling schools we may not know, How man may shun, or bear his destined part of woe.
What shall amend, or what absolve our fate? Anxious we hover in a mediate state,
Betwixt infinity and nothing; bounds,
Or boundless terms, whose doubtful sense confounds.
Unequal thought, whilst all we apprehend,
Is, that our hopes must rise, our sorrows end;
As our Creator deigns to be our friend.
I said; and instant bade the priests prepare
The ritual sacrifice, and solemn prayer.
Select from vulgar herds, with garlands gay,
A hundred bulls ascend the sacred way.
The artful youth proceed to form the choir,
They breathe the flute, or strike the vocal wire.
The maids in comely order next advance,
They beat the timbrel, and instruct the dance.
Follows the chosen tribe from Levi sprung,
Chanting by just return the holy song.
Along the choir in solemn state they passed,
The anxious king came last.
The sacred hymn performed, my promised vow
I paid; and bowing at the altar low,
Father of Heaven! I said, and judge of earth!
Whose word called out this universe to birth;
By whose kind power and influencing care
The various creatures move, and live, and are;
But, ceasing once that care, withdrawn that power,
They move, alas, and live, and are no more:
Omniscient Master, omnipresent King,
To thee, to thee, my last distress I bring.
Thou, that canst still the raging of the seas,
Chain up the winds, and bid the tempests cease;
Redeem my shipwrecked soul from raging gusts
Of cruel passion, and deceitful lusts;
From storms of rage, and dangerous rocks of pride,
Let thy strong hand this little vessel guide
(It was thy hand that made it) through the tide
Impetuous of this life; let thy command
Direct my course, and bring me safe to land.
If, while this wearied flesh draws fleeting breath, Not satisfied with life, afraid of death,
It haply be thy will, that I should know
Glimpse of delight, or pause from anxious woe;
From now, from instant now, great Sire! dispel
The clouds that press my soul; from now reveal
A gracious beam of light; from now inspire
My tongue to sing, my hand to touch the lyre;
My opened thought to joyous prospects raise;
And, for thy mercy, let me sing thy praise.
Or, if thy will ordains, I still shall wait
Some new hereafter, and a future state;
Permit me strength, my weight of woe to bear,
And raise my mind superior to my care.
Let me, howe'er unable to explain
The secret labyrinths of thy ways to man,
With humble zeal confess thy awful power;
Still weeping hope, and wondering still adore.
So in my conquest be thy might declared:
And, for thy justice, be thy name revered.
My prayer scarce ended, a stupendous gloom
Darkens the air, loud thunder shakes the dome;
To the beginning miracle succeed
An awful silence, and religious dread.
Sudden breaks forth a more than common day:
The sacred wood, which on the altar lay,
Untouched, unlighted, glows.
Ambrosial odour, such as never flows
From Arab's gum, or the Sabæan rose,
Does round the air revolving scents diffuse;
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