Virtue, on herself relying, Every passion hush'd to rest, Loses every pain of dying, In the hopes of being blest.
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, Determined 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 defaced 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 labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
"_As helpless friends who view from shore The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar._"—_p._ 236. ]
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.
When vice my dart and scythe 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!
Yet let that wisdom, urged 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 travellers, When they have journey'd through a world of cares, May put off life and be at rest for ever. 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! blest 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!