The Poetical Works of Beattie, Blair, and Falconer Part 31

Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage 410 To rush into the presence of our Judge; As if we challenged him to do his worst, And matter'd not his wrath!--Unheard-of tortures Must be reserved for such: these herd together; The common d.a.m.n'd shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.

Our time is fix'd; and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not:--this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission: 420 Like sentries that must keep their destined stand, And wait the appointed hour, till they're relieved.

Those only are the brave who keep their ground, And keep it to the last. To run away Is but a coward's trick: to run away From this world's ills, that at the very worst Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves, By boldly venturing on a world unknown, And plunging headlong in the dark;--'tis mad!

No frenzy half so desperate as this. 430 Tell us, ye dead! will none of you, in pity To those you left behind, disclose the secret?

Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out; What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.

I've heard that souls departed have sometimes Forewarn'd men of their death:--'twas kindly done To knock, and give the alarm.--But what means This stinted charity?--'Tis but lame kindness That does its work by halves.--Why might you not Tell us what 'tis to die? do the strict laws 440 Of your society forbid your speaking Upon a point so nice?--I'll ask no more: Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine Enlightens but yourselves. Well, 'tis no matter; A very little time will clear up all, And make us learn'd as you are, and as close.

Death's shafts fly thick!--Here falls the village-swain, And there his pamper'd lord!--The cup goes round; And who so artful as to put it by?

'Tis long since death had the majority; 450 Yet, strange! the living lay it not to heart.

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The s.e.xton, h.o.a.ry-headed chronicle; Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand Digs through whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors.--Scarce a skull's cast up, But well he knew its owner, and can tell Some pa.s.sage of his life.--Thus hand in hand The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years; 460 And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder, Or clubs a s.m.u.ttier tale: when drunkards meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup.--Poor wretch! he minds not, That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.

On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegenerate days 470 Could scarce have leisure for.--Fools that we are!

Never to think of death and of ourselves At the same time: as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours.--O more than sottish, For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood, To frolic on eternity's dread brink Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know, The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in!

Think we, or think we not, time hurries on With a resistless, unremitting stream; 480 Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief, That slides his hand under the miser's pillow, And carries off his prize.--What is this world?

What but a s.p.a.cious burial-field unwall'd, Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones!

The very turf on which we tread once lived; And we that live must lend our carcases To cover our own offspring: in their turns They too must cover theirs.--'Tis here all meet! 490 The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor; Men of all climes, that never met before; And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.

Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder, His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge, Are huddled out of sight.--Here lie abash'd The great negotiators of the earth, And celebrated masters of the balance, Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts.

Now vain their treaty skill: death scorns to treat. 500 Here the o'er-loaded slave flings down his burden From his gall'd shoulders;--and when the cruel tyrant, With all his guards and tools of power about him, Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, Mocks his short arm,--and, quick as thought, escapes Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.

Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade, The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream (Time out of mind the favourite seats of love), Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down, 510 Unblasted by foul tongue.--Here friends and foes Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds.

The lawn-robed prelate and plain presbyter, Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet, Familiar mingle here, like sister streams That some rude interposing rock had split.

Here is the large-limb'd peasant;--here the child Of a span long, that never saw the sun, Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch.

Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters; 520 The barren wife; the long-demurring maid, Whose lonely unappropriated sweets Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff, Not to be come at by the willing hand.

Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette, The sober widow, and the young green virgin, Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown, Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here!

Here garrulous old age winds up his tale; And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart, 530 Whose every day was made of melody, Hears not the voice of mirth.--The shrill-tongued shrew, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.

Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave; The just, the good, the worthless, the profane; The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean; The supple statesman, and the patriot stern; The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time, With all the lumber of six thousand years. 540 Poor man!--how happy once in thy first state!

When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand, He stamp'd thee with his image, and, well pleased, Smiled on his last fair work.--Then all was well.

Sound was the body, and the soul serene; Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune, That play their several parts.--Nor head, nor heart, Offer'd to ache: nor was there cause they should; For all was pure within: no fell remorse, Nor anxious casting-up of what might be, 550 Alarm'd his peaceful bosom.--Summer seas Show not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern winds Just ready to expire.--Scarce importuned, The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand, Offer'd the various produce of the year, And everything most perfect in its kind.

Blessed! thrice-blessed days!--But ah, how short!

Blest as the pleasing dreams of holy men; But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.

O slippery state of things!--What sudden turns! 560 What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf Of man's sad history!--To-day most happy, And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject!

How scant the s.p.a.ce between these vast extremes!

Thus fared it with our sire:--not long he enjoy'd His paradise.--Scarce had the happy tenant Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets, Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone, Ne'er to return again.--And must he go?

Can nought compound for the first dire offence 570 Of erring man? Like one that is condemn'd, Fain would he trifle time with idle talk, And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain; Not all the lavish odours of the place, Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon, Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel, With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay, And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take One last and farewell round. At once he lost His glory and his G.o.d. If mortal now, 580 And sorely maim'd, no wonder!--Man has sinn'd.

Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures, Evil he needs would try: nor tried in vain.

(Dreadful experiment! destructive measure!

Where the worst thing could happen is success.) Alas! too well he sped:--the good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, Not to return; or if it did, its visits, Like those of angels, short and far between: Whilst the black Demon, with his h.e.l.l-scaped train, 590 Admitted once into its better room, Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone; Lording it o'er the man: who now too late Saw the rash error which he could not mend: An error fatal not to him alone, But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs.

Inglorious bondage! Human nature groans Beneath a va.s.salage so vile and cruel, And its vast body bleeds through every vein.

What havoc hast thou made, foul monster, Sin! 600 Greatest and first of ills: the fruitful parent Of woes of all dimensions: but for thee Sorrow had never been,--All-noxious thing, Of vilest nature! Other sorts of evils Are kindly circ.u.mscribed, and have their bounds.

The fierce volcano, from his burning entrails That belches molten stone and globes of fire, Involved in pitchy clouds of smoke and stench, Mars the adjacent fields for some leagues round, And there it stops. The big-swoln inundation, 610 Of mischief more diffusive, raving loud, Buries whole tracts of country, threatening more; But that too has its sh.o.r.e it cannot pa.s.s.

More dreadful far than these! Sin has laid waste, Not here and there a country, but a world: Despatching, at a wide-extended blow, Entire mankind; and for their sakes defacing A whole creation's beauty with rude hands; Blasting the foodful grain, the loaded branches; And marking all along its way with ruin. 620 Accursed thing!--Oh! where shall fancy find A proper name to call thee by, expressive Of all thy horrors?--Pregnant womb of ills!

Of tempers so transcendantly malign, That toads and serpents of most deadly kind Compared to thee are harmless.--Sicknesses Of every size and symptom, racking pains, And bluest plagues, are thine.--See how the fiend Profusely scatters the contagion round!

Whilst deep-mouth'd slaughter, bellowing at her heels, 630 Wades deep in blood new-spilt; yet for to-morrow Shapes out new work of great uncommon daring, And inly pines till the dread blow is struck.

But, hold! I've gone too far; too much discover'd My father's nakedness, and nature's shame.

Here let me pause, and drop an honest tear, One burst of filial duty and condolence, O'er all those ample deserts Death hath spread, This chaos of mankind.--O great man-eater!

Whose every day is carnival, not sated yet! 640 Unheard-of epicure, without a fellow!

The veriest gluttons do not always cram; Some intervals of abstinence are sought To edge the appet.i.te: Thou seekest none.

Methinks the countless swarms thou hast devour'd, And thousands at each hour thou gobblest up, This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full!

But, ah! rapacious still, thou gap'st for more: Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals, On whom lank Hunger lays her skinny hand, 650 And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings: As if diseases, ma.s.sacres, and poison, Famine, and war, were not thy caterers.

But know that thou must render up thy dead, And with high interest too.--They are not thine, But only in thy keeping for a season, Till the great promised day of rest.i.tution; When loud-diffusive sound from brazen trump Of strong-lung'd cherub shall alarm thy captives, And rouse the long, long sleepers into life, 660 Day-light, and liberty.-- Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal The mines that lay long forming under ground, In their dark cells immured; but now full ripe, And pure as silver from the crucible, That twice has stood the torture of the fire And inquisition of the forge. We know, The ill.u.s.trious Deliverer of mankind, The Son of G.o.d, thee foil'd. Him in thy power Thou couldst not hold: self-vigorous he rose, 670 And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent: (Sure pledge of our releas.e.m.e.nt from thy thrall!) Twice twenty days he sojourn'd here on earth, And show'd himself alive to chosen witnesses, By proofs so strong, that the most slow-a.s.senting Had not a scruple left. This having done, He mounted up to heaven. Methinks I see him Climb the aerial heights, and glide along Athwart the severing clouds: but the faint eye, 680 Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its hold; Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing.

Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in; Nor are his friends shut out: as some great prince Not for himself alone procures admission, But for his train. It was his royal will That where he is, there should his followers be.

Death only lies between: a gloomy path, Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears; But not untrod, nor tedious: the fatigue 690 Will soon go off. Besides, there's no bye-road To bliss. Then why, like ill-condition'd children, Start we at transient hardships in the way That leads to purer air, and softer skies, And a ne'er-setting sun?--Fools that we are!

We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom; But straight our wish revoke, and will not go.

So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by the rivulet's brink a youngster play: How wishfully he looks to stem the tide! 700 This moment resolute, next unresolved: At last he dips his foot; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From the inoffensive stream, unmindful now Of all the flowers that paint the further bank, And smiled so sweet of late.--Thrice welcome death!

That after many a painful bleeding step Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe On the long-wish'd-for sh.o.r.e.--Prodigious change!

Our bane turn'd to a blessing!--Death, disarm'd, 710 Loses his fellness quite.--All thanks to him Who scourged the venom out!--Sure the last end Of the good man is peace!--How calm his exit!

Night dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft.

Behold him in the evening-tide of life, A life well spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green: By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. 720 High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away: Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest.--Then, oh then!

Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought.--Oh! how he longs To have his pa.s.sport sign'd, and be dismiss'd!

'Tis done! and now he's happy! The glad soul 730 Has not a wish uncrown'd.--Even the lag flesh Rests, too, in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more.

Nor shall it hope in vain:--the time draws on, When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land, or in the s.p.a.cious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust Inviolate!--and faithfully shall these Make up the full account; not the least atom Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. 740 Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd; And each shall have his own.--Hence, ye profane!

Ask not how this can be?--Sure the same power That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, Can re-a.s.semble the loose scatter'd parts, And put them as they were.--Almighty G.o.d Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd Through length of days: and what he can, he will: His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.

When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, 750 Not unattentive to the call, shall wake; And every joint possess its proper place, With a new elegance of form, unknown To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd, Singling its other half, into its arms Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home; and, having long been absent, With haste runs over every different room, In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! 760 Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.

Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.

Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away.

A POEM,

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE LEARNED AND EMINENT MR WILLIAM LAW, PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH.

In silence to suppress my griefs I've tried, And kept within its banks the swelling tide!

But all in vain: unbidden numbers flow; Spite of myself my sorrows vocal grow.

This be my plea.--Nor thou, dear Shade, refuse The well-meant tribute of the willing muse, Who trembles at the greatness of its theme, And fain would say what suits so high a name.

Which, from the crowded journal of thy fame,-- Which of thy many t.i.tles shall I name? 10 For, like a gallant prince, that wins a crown, By undisputed right before his own, Variety thou hast: our only care Is what to single out, and what forbear.

Though scrupulously just, yet not severe; Though cautious, open; courteous, yet sincere; Though reverend, yet not magisterial; Though intimate with few, yet loved by all; Though deeply read, yet absolutely free From all the stiffnesses of pedantry; 20 Though circ.u.mspectly good, yet never sour; Pleasant with innocence, and never more.

Religion, worn by thee, attractive show'd, And with its own unborrow'd beauty glow'd: Unlike the bigot, from whose watery eyes Ne'er sunshine broke, nor smile was seen to rise; Whose sickly goodness lives upon grimace, And pleads a merit from a blubber'd face.

Thou kept thy raiment for the needy poor, And taught the fatherless to know thy door; 30 From griping hunger set the needy free; That they were needy, was enough to thee.

Thy fame to please, whilst others restless be, Fame laid her shyness by, and courted thee; And though thou bade the flattering thing give o'er, Yet, in return, she only woo'd thee more.

How sweet thy accents! and how mild thy look!

What smiling mirth was heard in all thou spoke; Manhood and grizzled age were fond of thee, And youth itself sought thy society. 40 The aged thou taught, descended to the young, Clear'd up the irresolute, confirm'd the strong; To the perplex'd thy friendly counsel lent, And gently lifted up the diffident; Sigh'd with the sorrowful, and bore a part In all the anguish of a bleeding heart; Reclaim'd the headstrong; and, with sacred skill, Committed hallow'd rapes upon the will; Soothed our affections; and, with their delight, To gain our actions, bribed our appet.i.te. 50 Now, who shall, with a greatness like thy own, Thy pulpit dignify, and grace thy gown?

Who, with pathetic energy like thine, The head enlighten, and the heart refine?

Learn'd were thy lectures, n.o.ble the design, The language _Roman_, and the action fine; The heads well ranged, the inferences clear, And strong and solid thy deductions were: Thou mark'd the boundaries out 'twixt right and wrong, And show'd the land-marks as thou went along. 60 Plain were thy reasonings, or, if perplex'd, Thy life was the best comment on thy text; For, if in darker points we were deceived, 'Twas only but observing how thou lived.

Bewilder'd in the greatness of thy fame, What shall the Muse, what next in order name?

Which of thy social qualities commend-- Whether of husband, father, or of friend?

A husband soft, beneficent, and kind, As ever virgin wish'd, or wife could find; 70 A father indefatigably true To both a father's trust and tutor's too; A friend affectionate and staunch to those Thou wisely singled out; for few thou chose: Few, did I say, that word we must recall; A friend, a willing friend, thou wast to all.

Those properties were thine, nor could we know Which rose the uppermost, so all wast thou.

So have I seen the many-colour'd mead, Brush'd by the vernal breeze, its fragrance shed: 80 Though various sweets the various field exhaled, Yet could we not determine which prevail'd, Nor this part _rose_, that _honey-suckle_ call But a rich bloomy aggregate of all.

And thou, the once glad partner of his bed, But now by sorrow's weeds distinguished, Whose busy memory thy grief supplies, And calls up all thy husband to thine eyes; Thou must not be forgot. How alter'd now!

How thick thy tears! How fast thy sorrows flow! 90 The well known voice that cheer'd thee heretofore, These soothing accents thou must hear no more.

Untold be all the tender sighs thou drew, When on thy cheek he fetch'd a long adieu.

Untold be all thy faithful agonies, At the last anguish of his closing eyes; For thou, and only such as thou, can tell The killing anguish of a last farewell.

This earth, yon sun, and these blue-tinctured skies, Through which it rolls, must have their obsequies: 100 Pluck'd from their orbits, shall the planets fall, And smoke and conflagration cover all: What, then, is man? The creature of a day, By moments spent, and minutes borne away.

Time, like a raging torrent, hurries on; Scarce can we say _it is_, but that 'tis gone.