The Poetical Works of Beattie, Blair, and Falconer Part 30

BLAIR'S POEMS.

THE GRAVE.

While some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage; Their aims as various, as the roads they take In journeying through life;--the task be mine, To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb; The appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet.--Thy succours I implore, Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains The keys of h.e.l.l and Death.--The Grave, dread thing!

Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appall'd 10 Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes!

Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was chaos, ere the infant Sun Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound.--The sickly taper, By glimmering through thy low-brow'd misty vaults (Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime), Lets fall a supernumerary horror, And only serves to make thy night more irksome. 20 Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms: Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds: No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

See yonder hallow'd fane--the pious work Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were; 30 There lie interr'd the more ill.u.s.trious dead.

The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Rook'd in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles Black-plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons, And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound, Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, The mansions of the dead.--Roused from their slumbers, In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 40 Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, Pa.s.s and repa.s.s, hush'd as the foot of night.

Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!

I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.

Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms, Coeval near with that, all ragged show, Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down Their branchless trunks; others so thin at top, That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree.

Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here: 50 Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs; Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd!

(Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping, When it draws near to witching time of night.) Oft, in the lone church-yard at night I've seen, By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees, The schoolboy with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones 60 (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown), That tell in homely phrase who lie below.

Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave, and, strange to tell! 70 Evanishes at crowing of the c.o.c.k.

The new-made widow too, I've sometimes spied, Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead: Listless, she crawls along in doleful black, Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, Past falling down her now untasted cheek.

p.r.o.ne on the lowly grave of the dear man She drops; whilst busy meddling memory, In barbarous succession, musters up The past endearments of their softer hours, 80 Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks She sees him, and, indulging the fond thought, Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf, Nor heeds the pa.s.senger who looks that way.

Invidious grave!--how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!

A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul; Sweetener of life, and solder of society!

I owe thee much: thou hast deserved from me, 90 Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.

Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, Anxious to please.--Oh! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring,--methought the shrill-tongued thrush 100 Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note; The eglantine smelt sweeter, and the rose a.s.sumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress.--Oh! then the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart Had not imparted half! 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance! 110 Dull Grave!--thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood, Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, And every smirking feature from the face; Branding our laughter with the name of madness.

Where are the jesters now? the men of health Complexionally pleasant? Where the droll, Whose every look and gesture was a joke To clapping theatres and shouting crowds, And made even thick-lipp'd musing melancholy To gather up her face into a smile 120 Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now, And dumb as the green turf that covers them.

Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war?

The Roman Caesars, and the Grecian chiefs, The boast of story? Where the hotbrain'd youth, Who the tiara at his pleasure tore From kings of all the then discover'd globe, And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd, And had not room enough to do its work?-- Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim, 130 And cramm'd into a place we blush to name!

Proud Royalty! how alter'd in thy looks!

How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!

Son of the morning, whither art thou gone?

Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, And the majestic menace of thine eyes, Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now, Like new-born infant wound up in his swathes, Or victim tumbled flat upon its back, That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife. 140 Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues, And coward insults of the base-born crowd, That grudge a privilege thou never hadst, But only hoped for in the peaceful grave, Of being unmolested and alone.

Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs, And honours by the heralds duly paid In mode and form even to a very scruple: Oh, cruel irony! these come too late; And only mock whom they were meant to honour, 150 Surely there's not a dungeon slave that's buried In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffin'd, But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he.

Sorry pre-eminence of high descent, Above the vulgar born, to rot in state!

But see! the well plumed hea.r.s.e comes nodding on, Stately and slow; and properly attended By the whole sable tribe that painful watch The sick man's door, and live upon the dead, By letting out their persons by the hour, 160 To mimic sorrow when the heart's not sad.

How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd And glittering in the sun! Triumphant entries Of conquerors, and coronation pomps, In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people r.e.t.a.r.d the unwieldy show; whilst from the cas.e.m.e.nts And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks close wedged Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste?

Why this ado in earthing up a carcase That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril 170 Smells horrible?--Ye undertakers, tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the princ.i.p.al conceal'd, for which You make this mighty stir?--'Tis wisely done; What would offend the eye in a good picture, The painter casts discreetly into shade.

Proud lineage! now how little thou appear'st!

Below the envy of the private man!

Honour, that meddlesome officious ill, Pursues thee even to death, nor there stops short; 180 Strange persecution! when the grave itself Is no protection from rude sufferance.

Absurd to think to overreach the grave, And from the wreck of names to rescue ours!

The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame Die fast away: only themselves die faster.

The far-famed sculptor, and the laurell'd bard, Those bold insurancers of deathless fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain.

The tapering pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, 190 And wonder of the world; whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outlived The angry shaking of the winter's storm; Yet spent at last by the injuries of heaven, Shatter'd with age and furrow'd o'er with years, The mystic cone, with hieroglyphics crusted, At once gives way. Oh, lamentable sight!

The labour of whole ages tumbles down, A hideous and mis-shapen length of ruins.

Sepulchral columns wrestle, but in vain, 200 With all-subduing Time: his cankering hand With calm deliberate malice wasteth them: Worn on the edge of days, the bra.s.s consumes, The busto moulders, and the deep-cut marble, Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge.

Ambition, half convicted of her folly, Hangs down the head, and reddens at the tale.

Here, all the mighty troublers of the earth, Who swam to sovereign rule through seas of blood; The oppressive, st.u.r.dy, man-destroying villains, 210 Who ravaged kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And in a cruel wantonness of power Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent, Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind the covert.

Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn That haunts and dogs them like an injured ghost Implacable. Here, too, the petty tyrant, Whose scant domains geographer ne'er noticed, And, well for neighbouring grounds, of arm as short; 220 Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor, And gripp'd them like some lordly beast of prey; Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger, And piteous, plaintive voice of misery (As if a slave was not a shred of nature, Of the same common nature with his lord); Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd, Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his kinsman; Nor pleads his rank and birthright: Under ground Precedency's a jest; va.s.sal and lord, 230 Grossly familiar, side by side consume.

When self-esteem, or others' adulation, Would cunningly persuade us we are something Above the common level of our kind, The Grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd flattery, And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.

Beauty,--thou pretty plaything, dear deceit!

That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse, unknown before, The Grave discredits thee: thy charms expunged, 240 Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd, What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?

Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid, Whilst, surfeited upon thy damask cheek, The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd, Riots unscared. For this, was all thy caution?

For this, thy painful labours at thy gla.s.s?

To improve those charms and keep them in repair, For which the spoiler thanks thee not. Foul feeder! 250 Coa.r.s.e fare and carrion please thee full as well, And leave as keen a relish on the sense.

Look how the fair one weeps!--the conscious tears Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers: Honest effusion! the swoln heart in vain Works hard to put a gloss on its distress.

Strength, too,--thou surly, and less gentle boast Of those that laugh loud at the village ring!

A fit of common sickness pulls thee down With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling 260 That rashly dared thee to the unequal fight.

What groan was that I heard?--deep groan indeed!

With anguish heavy laden; let me trace it: From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man, By stronger arm belabour'd, gasps for breath Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant To give the lungs full play. What now avail The strong-built, sinewy limbs, and well spread shoulders?

See how he tugs for life, and lays about him, 270 Mad with his pains!--Eager he catches hold Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard, Just like a creature drowning;--hideous sight!

Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly!

While the distemper's rank and deadly venom Shoots like a burning arrow 'cross his bowels, And drinks his marrow up.--Heard you that groan?

It was his last.--See how the great Goliath, Just like a child that brawl'd itself to rest, Lies still.--What mean'st thou then, O mighty boaster! 280 To vaunt of nerves of thine? What means the bull, Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward, And flee before a feeble thing like man, That, knowing well the slackness of his arm, Trusts only in the well-invented knife?

With study pale, and midnight vigils spent, The star-surveying sage, close to his eye Applies the sight-invigorating tube; And, travelling through the boundless length of s.p.a.ce, Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs, 290 That roll with regular confusion there, In ecstasy of thought. But, ah, proud man!

Great heights are hazardous to the weak head; Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails; And down thou dropp'st into that darksome place, Where nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Here the tongue-warrior lies, disabled now, Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd, And cannot tell his ails to pa.s.sers-by.

Great man of language!--whence this mighty change, 300 This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?

Though strong persuasion hung upon thy lip, And sly insinuation's softer arts In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue; Alas, how chop-fallen now! Thick mists and silence Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast Unceasing.--Ah! where is the lifted arm, The strength of action, and the force of words, The well-turn'd period, and the well-timed voice, With all the lesser ornaments of phrase? 310 Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been; Razed from the book of fame; or, more provoking, Perchance some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes, With heavy halting pace that drawl along; Enough to rouse a dead man into rage, And warm with red resentment the wan cheek.

Here the great masters of the healing art, These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb, 320 Spite of their juleps and catholicons, Resign to fate.--Proud aesculapius' son!

Where are thy boasted implements of art, And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health?

Nor hill nor vale, as far as ship could go, Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook, Escaped thy rifling hand;--from stubborn shrubs Thou wrung'st their shy retiring virtues out, And vex'd them in the fire: nor fly, nor insect, Nor writhy snake, escaped thy deep research. 330 But why this apparatus Why this cost?

Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave, Where are thy recipes and cordials now, With the long list of vouchers for thy cures?

Alas! thou speakest not.--The bold impostor Looks not more silly when the cheat's found out.

Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons, Who meanly stole (discreditable shift!) From back, and belly too, their proper cheer, Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay 340 To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged.

By clamorous appet.i.tes no longer teased, Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs.

But, ah! where are his rents, his comings-in?

Ay! now you've made the rich man poor indeed; Robb'd of his G.o.ds, what has he left behind?

O cursed l.u.s.t of gold! when for thy sake The fool throws up his interest in both worlds; First starved in this, then d.a.m.n'd in that to come.

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! 350 To him that is at ease in his possessions; Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come!

In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain!--How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer her's!

A little longer, yet a little longer, Oh! might she stay, to wash away her stains, 360 And fit her for her pa.s.sage.--Mournful sight!

Her very eyes weep blood;--and every groan She heaves is big with horror: but the foe, Like a staunch murderer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on; Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul, What a strange moment it must be, when near 370 Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view!

That awful gulf no mortal e'er repa.s.s'd To tell what's doing on the other side.

Nature runs back and shudders at the sight, And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting; For part they must: body and soul must part; Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair.

This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge: That drops into the dark and noisome grave, 380 Like a disabled pitcher of no use.

If death were nothing, and nought after death; If when men died, at once they ceased to be, Returning to the barren womb of nothing, Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee Untrembling mouth the heavens:--then might the drunkard Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drain'd, Fill up another to the brim, and laugh At the poor bugbear Death: then might the wretch That's weary of the world, and tired of life, 390 At once give each inquietude the slip, By stealing out of being when he pleased, And by what way, whether by hemp, or steel.

Death's thousand doors stand open.--Who could force The ill pleased guest to sit out his full time, Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well, That helps himself, as timely as he can, When able.--But if there's an Hereafter; And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced, And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man; 400 Then must it be an awful thing to die: More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

Self-murder!--name it not: our island's shame, That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states.

Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, Self-preservation, fall by her own act?

Forbid it, Heaven!--Let not upon disgust The shameless hand be foully crimson'd o'er With blood of its own lord.--Dreadful attempt!