The Christian Triumph.
55
Blest be that Hand divine, which gently laid
My Heart at Rest, beneath this humble Shed.
The World's a stately Bark, on dang'rous Seas,
With Pleasure seen, but boarded at our Peril:
Here, on a single Plank, thrown safe ashore,
I hear the Tumult of the distant Throng,
As that of Seas remote, or dying Storms;
And meditate on Scenes, more silent still;
Pursue my Theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Here, like a Shepherd gazing from his Hut,
Touching his Reed, or leaning on his Staff,
Eager Ambition's fiery Chace I see;
I see the circling Hunt, of noisy Men,
Burst Law's Inclosure, leap the Mounds of Right,
Pursuing, and pursu'd, each other's Prey;
As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles;
Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all.
Why all this Toil for Triumphs of an Hour?
What, tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame?
Earth's highest Station ends in, "Here he lies:"
And "Dust to Dust" concludes her noblest Song.
If this Song lives, Posterity shall know
One, tho' in Britain born, with Courtiers bred,
Who thought ev'n Gold might come a Day too late;
Nor on his subtle Death-bed plann'd his Scheme
For future Vacancies in Church or State;
Some Avocation deeming it ——— to die;
Unbit by Rage canine of dying rich;
Guilt's Blunder! and the loudest Laugh of Hell.
O my Coëvals! Remnants of yourselves!
Poor human Ruins, tott'ring o'er the Grave!
Shall we, shall aged Men, like aged Trees,
Strike deeper their vile Root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched Soil?
Shall our pale, wither'd Hands, be fill stretch'd out,
My Heart at Rest, beneath this humble Shed.
The World's a stately Bark, on dang'rous Seas,
With Pleasure seen, but boarded at our Peril:
Here, on a single Plank, thrown safe ashore,
I hear the Tumult of the distant Throng,
As that of Seas remote, or dying Storms;
And meditate on Scenes, more silent still;
Pursue my Theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Here, like a Shepherd gazing from his Hut,
Touching his Reed, or leaning on his Staff,
Eager Ambition's fiery Chace I see;
I see the circling Hunt, of noisy Men,
Burst Law's Inclosure, leap the Mounds of Right,
Pursuing, and pursu'd, each other's Prey;
As Wolves, for Rapine; as the Fox, for Wiles;
Till Death, that mighty Hunter, earths them all.
Why all this Toil for Triumphs of an Hour?
What, tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame?
Earth's highest Station ends in, "Here he lies:"
And "Dust to Dust" concludes her noblest Song.
If this Song lives, Posterity shall know
One, tho' in Britain born, with Courtiers bred,
Who thought ev'n Gold might come a Day too late;
Nor on his subtle Death-bed plann'd his Scheme
For future Vacancies in Church or State;
Some Avocation deeming it ——— to die;
Unbit by Rage canine of dying rich;
Guilt's Blunder! and the loudest Laugh of Hell.
O my Coëvals! Remnants of yourselves!
Poor human Ruins, tott'ring o'er the Grave!
Shall we, shall aged Men, like aged Trees,
Strike deeper their vile Root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched Soil?
Shall our pale, wither'd Hands, be fill stretch'd out,
Trembling,
