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NIGHT the FOURTH.
THE
Christian Triumph.
Containing
Our only Cure for the FEAR of DEATH,
And Proper Sentiments of Heart on that Inestimable Blessing.
Humbly Inscribed
To the Honble Mr. YORKE.
A Much-indebted Muse, O Yorke! intrudes.
Amid the Smiles of Fortune, and of Youth,
Thine Ear is patient of a serious Song.
How deep-implanted in the Breast of Man
The Dread of Death? I sing its sov'reign Cure.
Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd,
Is past; not come, or gone, He's never here.
Ere Hope, Sensation fails; Black-boding Man
Receives, not suffers, Death's tremendous Blow.
The Knell, the Shroud, the Mattock, and the Grave;
The deep damp Vault, the Darkness, and the Worm;
Amid the Smiles of Fortune, and of Youth,
Thine Ear is patient of a serious Song.
How deep-implanted in the Breast of Man
The Dread of Death? I sing its sov'reign Cure.
Why start at Death? Where is he? Death arriv'd,
Is past; not come, or gone, He's never here.
Ere Hope, Sensation fails; Black-boding Man
Receives, not suffers, Death's tremendous Blow.
The Knell, the Shroud, the Mattock, and the Grave;
The deep damp Vault, the Darkness, and the Worm;
These
