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 Heav'n) 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 shiv'ring down To his unpeopled shore. In sober state, Through the sequester'd vale of rural life, The venerable Patriarch guileless held The tenor of his way; Labour prepar'd His simple fare, and Temp'rance 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 valleys 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 dropp'd 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 Heav'n from the sad wreck Of innocence primeval; still had he liv'd
In ruin great; tho' fall'n, yet not forlorn; Though mortal, yet not every where beset With Death in ev'ry 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, embrued 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 scandel of our nature,
One Murder made a Villain; 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, let not 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-eyed Peace o'er all the earth extend
Her olive branch, and give the world repose,
Would Death be foild? Would health, and strength, and Defy his pow'r? 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 heav'nly sunshine o'er the soul; there basks That serpent Luxury War its thousands slays; Peace its ten thousands. In th' 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 tumultucus mirth,
Where in th' intoxicating draught conceal'd, Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless lovė, 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 fredom's holy cause; than so to fall, Torn immature from life's meridian joys, A prey to Vice, Intemp'rance, and Disease, Yet die ev❜n thus, thus rather perish still, Ye sons of Pleasure, by the Almighty strick'n, Than ever dare (though oft alas! ye dare) To lift against yourselves the murd'rous steel, To wrest from God's own hand the sword of Justice, And be your own avengers! Hold, rash Man, Though with anticipating speed thou'st rang'd' Through emery region of delight, nor left One joy to gild the evening of thy days; Though 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 a while: 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 irreverant, unprepar'd, uncall'd,
Into his Maker's presence, throwing back With insolent disdain, his choicest gift?
Live then, while Heav'n 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 shall meet Death when he comes, not wantonly invite His ling'ring stroke. Be it thy sole concern With innocence to live with patience wait Th' 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 heav'n 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 ling'ring 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
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