LIFE.

(Occasion'd by some lines upon Death.)

Say, Delia, has not Death a pain
 Beyond what mortals fear, or feign? 
Beyond th' oppressor's scourge, or scorn? 
Beyond what suff'ring worth may mourn? 
Do not the wise, the learn'd, the great,
 At his approach, appall'd, retreat? 
Do not the brave with horror start,
 And, shock'd, betray th' unconquer'd heart? 
To Death for ease we fly in vain,
 And pleasure lose for certain pain. 

Nor is this all. The conscious mind
 Connects an awful scene behind:
 Where ev'ry crime shall be expos'd,
 And ev'ry secret guilt disclos'd;
 Where hearts unus'd to melt, shall bleed,
 And sad remorse, with pangs succeed. 

Then cease awhile the doubtful strife,
 And, reconcil'd, look back on life. 
How full of smiles is it begun! 
With what delight does youth glide on! 
What pleasures sparkle in our eyes,
 When first the infant passions rise! 
If Love invades the sprightly veins,
 With all its cares, and pleasing pains;
 Tho' absence heighten the distress,
 Or jealous fears disturb our peace;
 Tho' the soft flame, with which we burn,
 Be pay'd with pride, neglect, or scorn;
 Slight he the nymph, or she the swain,
 Yet there's a pleasure in the pain. 

In Friendship what relief we find! 
What ease, from int'rests thus combin'd;
 By mutual ties of honour bound,
 How kind, how faithful, Friends are found! 
How full each word! how fair each deed! 
(Save just in case of real need)
 Without reserve their joys they share,
 And by dividing, lessen care. 

What tho' dull moralists of old,
 Strange tales of broken faith have told;
 What tho' there were, for private ends,
 Those who debas'd the name of friends;
 Yet these were things done long ago,
 The world is strangely mended now! 
And in this upright age we see,
 Friends are — what they appear to be. 

Next young Ambition smiling brings
 Alternate joy to Slaves and Kings. 
The Monarch, lo! in transports hurl'd,
 Surveys in thought a conquer'd world. 
The Peasant o'er his clod espies
 Preferments, riches, honours rise;
 Till, (what sometimes is vastly odd)
 The vision flies, and leaves the clod:
 Yet Expectation gilds his joys;
 Fruition only cures, and cloys. 
Gay, blooming Expectation strays
 To charming scenes, thro' charming ways;
 With wondrous art it can foresee
 What never was, nor e'er can be:
 Yet who would wish to spy the cheat? 
Or who'd not hug the dear deceit? 
Since life's prime bliss, it is believ'd,
 Consists in being — well-deceiv'd. 

Nor must we laugh at, nor may blame
 The man who thirsts, or bleeds for Fame. 
Renown, tho' late, at length succeeds,
 To recompence his glorious deeds;
 And tho' it comes not till his fall,
 'Tis better late — than not at all. 

Observe the Man of dress, and lace:
 How soft his air! how sweet his face! 
The youth has lov'd, and learnt to dance:
 And now he travels into France,
 Fresh manners to import, and mark
 The sword-knot of the Grand Monarque. 
Then, fine and finish'd, homeward roves,
 Each taste corrects, refines, improves;
 Admires awhile, and is admir'd;
 And tiring others, till he's tir'd,
 Walks off, a little sick of life,
 And takes, by way of cure, a Wife:
 Enquires — whose house is to be let,
 (His own being quitted for a debt)
 Then, as his finances require,
 To frugal Yorkshire does retire,
 And ends a plain, contented 'Squire. 

Nor Youth alone has joy in view,
 Age has its satisfactions too. 
Who envies not the miser's store? 
Who seeming rich, and really poor,
 Yet that one passion, lust of gain,
 Supports him under ev'ry pain:
 Amidst a thousand ills he'll thrive,
 And think it worth his while to live. 
The venerable Sage, who deals
 In long, insipid, ancient tales,
 Who dwells on feats of former times,
 And loudly taxes modern crimes;
 Whose tedious lore at morn's begun,
 And ends but with the setting sun;
 At ninety odd, this happy man
 Repines, that life is but a span! 
That as the sparks fly upwards all,
 So mortal man is doom'd to fall! 
That flesh is grass; and like the flow'r,
 Springs, blooms, and dies within an hour! —
 More truths, perhaps, he might unfold;
 But ah! he dies; his tale is told. 

Nor are these all the joys of age:
 Love may exert its feebler rage
 Thro' each re-animated vein,
 Enliv'ning all the heart again:
 Past scenes restoring to its view,
 And warmth, as well as youth renew. 
Nor this prepost'rous call, or strange;
 Winter itself, grown old, will change,
 And put Spring's youthful liv'ry on,
 Pervaded by the gen'rous sun. 

Delia, if this is Life, and these
 Can pass it off with so much ease;
 Or all-enamour'd with the scene,
 Would act it o'er and o'er again:
 If these can taste the present hour,
 What joys has Wisdom in her pow'r! 
Who leads, with lasting pleasure blest,
 Fair Virtue, ever-chearful guest! 
The constant inmates of your breast. 

With Delia, Love's a gentle flame,
 Whose source is honour and esteem. 
Her Friendship still is more refin'd,
 A gen'rous sympathy of mind. 
Ambitious — only to excell,
 And be supreme in doing well. 
And hence, as a reward, may claim
 Our just returns of Praise, and Fame. 

Live then, and condescend to taste,
 Tho' you're digusted with the feast;
 Live for your own, for Virtue's sake,
 And Pleasure with the Wise partake:
 And (if the fates so much decree)
 A little longer live — for Me.