The Relapse.
95
And Men might plead Prescription from the Grave;
Deathless, from Repetition of Reprieve.
Deathless? far from it! such are dead already;
Their Hearts are bury'd, and the World their Grave.
Tell me, some God! my Guardian Angel! tell,
What thus infatuates? what Inchantment plants
The Phantom of an Age 'twixt us; and Death
Already at the Door? He knocks, we hear him,
And yet we will not hear. What Mail defends
Our untouch'd Hearts? What Miracle turns off
The pointed Thought, which from a thousand Quivers
Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd?
We stand, as in a Battle, Throngs on Throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;
Tho' bleeding with our Wounds, immortal still!
We see Time's Furrows on another's Brow,
And Death intrench'd, preparing his Assault;
How few themselves, in that just Mirror, see!
Or, seeing, draw their Inference as strong!
There Death is certain; doubtful Here: He must,
And soon; We may, within an Age, expire.
Tho' grey our Heads, our Thoughts and Aims are green;
Like damag'd Clocks, whose Hand and Bell dissent;
Folly sings Six, while Nature points at Twelve.
Absurd Longevity! More, More, it cries:
More Life, more Wealth, more Trash of ev'ry Kind.
And wherefore mad for more, when Relish fails?
Object, and Appetite, must club for Joy;
Shall Folly labour hard to mend the Bow,
Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without,
While Nature is relaxing ev'ry String?
Ask Thought for Joy; grow rich, and hoard within.
Think you the Soul, when this Life's Rattles cease,
Has nothing of more Manly to succeed?
Contract the Taste immortal; learn ev'n Now
Deathless, from Repetition of Reprieve.
Deathless? far from it! such are dead already;
Their Hearts are bury'd, and the World their Grave.
Tell me, some God! my Guardian Angel! tell,
What thus infatuates? what Inchantment plants
The Phantom of an Age 'twixt us; and Death
Already at the Door? He knocks, we hear him,
And yet we will not hear. What Mail defends
Our untouch'd Hearts? What Miracle turns off
The pointed Thought, which from a thousand Quivers
Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd?
We stand, as in a Battle, Throngs on Throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;
Tho' bleeding with our Wounds, immortal still!
We see Time's Furrows on another's Brow,
And Death intrench'd, preparing his Assault;
How few themselves, in that just Mirror, see!
Or, seeing, draw their Inference as strong!
There Death is certain; doubtful Here: He must,
And soon; We may, within an Age, expire.
Tho' grey our Heads, our Thoughts and Aims are green;
Like damag'd Clocks, whose Hand and Bell dissent;
Folly sings Six, while Nature points at Twelve.
Absurd Longevity! More, More, it cries:
More Life, more Wealth, more Trash of ev'ry Kind.
And wherefore mad for more, when Relish fails?
Object, and Appetite, must club for Joy;
Shall Folly labour hard to mend the Bow,
Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without,
While Nature is relaxing ev'ry String?
Ask Thought for Joy; grow rich, and hoard within.
Think you the Soul, when this Life's Rattles cease,
Has nothing of more Manly to succeed?
Contract the Taste immortal; learn ev'n Now
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