X

Bless'd spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,

How hast thou left mankind for heaven!

Even now reproach and faction mourn,

And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven.

Alas! they never had thy hate;

Unmov'd, in conscious rectitude,

Thy towering mind self-centered stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,

A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,

A thousand sorrows urged thy end:
Like some well fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchas'd strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

Virtue, on herself relying,

Every passion hush'd to rest,

Loses every pain of dying,

In the hopes of being bless'd.

Every added pang she suffers,

Some increasing good bestows,

And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate Death, with its formidable band,

Fever and pain and pale consumptive care

Determin'd took their stand:

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;

But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.

With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

While winds and waves their wishes cross

They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

Song. By a MAN.- Basso.- Staccato.- Spiritoso.

When vice my dart and sythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings;
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN speaker.

Yet let that wisdom, urg'd by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;

Let us prize death as the best gift of nature

As a safe inn, where weary travelers,

When they have journey'd through a world of cares,

May put off life and be at rest forever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,

And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on

To death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.
"Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,

Promiscuously recline;

Where wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.

And, ah! bless'd spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace, be thine above!