Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here: Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs: Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd, (Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping, When it draws near to witching time of night.) Oft, in the lone churchyard at night I've seen, By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees, The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown), That tell in homely phrase who lie below. Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows: That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and (strange to tell !) Evanishes at crowing of the cock. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury Of dress-Oh! then, the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness 844.-THE MISER. Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons, Who meanly stole (discreditable shift!) From back, and belly too, their proper cheer, Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged, By clamorous appetites no longer teased, Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. But, ah! where are his rents, his comingsin ? Ay now you've made the rich man poor indeed; Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind? First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 843.-FRIENDSHIP. Invidious grave!-how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul; Sweetener of life, and solder of society, I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird 845.-UNPREPARED FOR DEATH. How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! To him that is at ease in his possessions; Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come! On all she's leaving, now no longer hers! Oh! might she stay, to wash away her stains, And fit her for her passage. Mournful sight! Her very eyes weep blood;-and every groan She heaves is big with horror: but the foe, Like a staunch murderer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; Till, forced at last to the tremendousverge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 846.-DEATH. Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul, What a strange moment it must be, when near Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view! That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd For part they must: body and soul must part; Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair. This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge: That drops into the dark and noisome grave, Like a disabled pitcher of no use. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 847.-THE GRAVE. Death's shafts fly thick!-Here falls the village-swain, And there his pamper'd lord!-The cup goes round; And who so artful as to put it by? Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand Digs through whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors.-Scarce a skull's cast up, But well he knew its owner, and can tell Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years; And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale: when drunkards meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup.-Poor wretch! he minds not, That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for.-Fools that we are! Never to think of death and of ourselves For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood, That slides his hand under the miser's pillow, And carries off his prize. - What is this world? What but a spacious burial field unwall'd, Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones! The very turf on which we tread once lived; The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor; Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder, His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge, Are huddled out of sight.-Here lie abash'd Here the o'er-loaded slave flings down his burden From his gall'd shoulders ;-and when the cruel tyrant, With all his guards and tools of power about him, Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, Mocks his short arm,-and, quick as thought, escapes Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds. Of a span long, that never saw the sun, Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters; The barren wife; the long-demurring maid, Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff, Not to be come at by the willing hand. Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette, Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave; The just, the good, the worthless, the profane; The downright clown, and perfectly wellbred; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean; The supple statesman, and the patriot stern; The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time, With all the lumber of six thousand years. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 848.-THE DEATH OF A GOOD MAN. Sure the last end Of the good man is peace!-How calm his exit ! Night dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft. By unperceived degrees he wears away; After the prize in view! and, like a bird, 849.-THE RESURRECTION. Even the lag flesh When not a single spot of burial earth, Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. Ask not how this can be ?-Sure the same power That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts, Through length of days: and what he can, he His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, Not unattentive to the call, shall wake; Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd, With haste runs over every different room, Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away. Robert Blair.-Born 1699, Died 1746. 850. THE ROSE. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. 851.-A SUMMER EVENING. How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, And there followed some droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best; He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretells a bright rising again. Just such is the Christian; his course he begins, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines, And travels his heavenly way : But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace, And gives a sure hope at the end of his days, Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748. Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains Not sordid souls of earthly mould, So two rich mountains of Peru Not the mad tribe that hell inspires On Etna's top let furies wed, Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms Not minds of melancholy strain, Can the dear bondage bless: Nor can the soft enchantments hold The rugged and the keen: Nor let the cruel fetters bind For love abhors the sight: Two kindest souls alone must meet, Dr. Watts.-Born 1674, Died 1748. 852.-FEW HAPPY MATCHES. Say, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares. 853. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. When the fierce north wind, with his airy forces, Roars up the Baltic to a foamy fury; comes Rushing amain down, You, whose capacious powers survey How flat your highest praises fall Great God forgive our feeble lays, 855.-NIGHT. These thoughts, O Night! are thine; From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere, Her shepherd cheered; of her enamoured less Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung, Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing? Immortal silence! where shall I begin? Where end ? or how steal music from the spheres To soothe their goddess? O majestic Night! Nature's great ancestor! Day's elder born! Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, In ample folds of drapery divine, Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven through. out, Voluminously pour thy pompous train: Thy gloomy grandeurs-Nature's most august, Inspiring aspect!-claim a grateful verse; And, like a sable curtain starr'd with gold, Drawn o'er my labours past, shall clothe the scene. Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 856.-ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! |