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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:
Yet, ſtrange! the living lay it not heart.
See yonder maker of the dead-man's bed,
The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er ſtole
A gentle tear, with mattoc in his hand,
Digs thro‘ whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors. ——Scarce a ſcull's caſt up,
But well he knows its Owner, and can tell
Some paſſage of his life. ——Thus band in hand
The ſot has walked with Death twice twenty years,
And yet, ne'er Yonker or the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a ſmuttier 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 launcheth out
Into fantastic ſchemes, which the long Livers
In the world's hale and undegenerate days,
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. ——Oh! more then ſottiſh,
For creatures of a day, in gameſome mood,
To frolic on Eternity's dread brink
Unapprehenſive; when, for ought 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;
Yet treads more ſoft than o'er did midnight-thief,
That ſlides his hand under the Miſer's pillow,
And carries off his prize. ——What is this World?
