A Prospect of Death.

A Pindaric Essay.

I.

Since we can die but once, and after Death
 Our State no alteration knows;
 But, when we have resign'd our Breath,
 Th' immortal Spirit goes
 To endless Joys, or everlasting Woes. 
Wise is the Man who labours to secure
 That mighty and important Stake;
 And, by all methods, strives to make
 His passage safe, and his reception sure. 
Merely to die no Man of Reason fears,
 For certainly we must,
 As we are born, return to Dust:
 'Tis the last Point of many lingering Years. 
But whither then we go,
 Whither, we fain would know;
 But human Understanding cannot show,
 This makes us tremble, and creates
 Strange apprehensions in the Mind;
 Fills it with restless Doubts, and wild Debates
 Concerning what, we living, cannot find. 
None know what Death is, but the Dead,
 Therefore we all by Nature, Dying dread,
 As a strange, doubtful way, we know not how to tread. 

II.

When to the Margin of the Grave we come,
 And scarce have one black painful hour to live. 
No hopes, no prospect of a kind Reprieve,
 To stop our speedy passage to the Tomb. 
How moving, and how mournful is the sight,
 How wond'rous pitiful, how wond'rous sad;
 Where then is Refuge, where is Comfort to be had,
 In the dark Minutes of the dreadful Night,
 To chear our drooping Souls for their amazing Flight? 
Feeble and languishing in Bed we lie,
 Despairing to recover, void of rest,
 Wishing for Death, and yet afraid to die:
 Terrors and Doubts distract our Breast,
 With mighty Agonies, and mighty Pains opprest. 

III.

Our Face is moisten'd with a clammy Sweat;
 Faint and irregular the Pulses beat;
 The Blood unactive grows,
 And thickens as it flows,
 Depriv'd of all its Vigour, all its vital Heat. 
Our dying Eyes rowl heavily about,
 Their Light just going out;
 And for some kind assistance call,
 But pity, useless pity's all
 Our weeping Friends can give,
 Or we receive;
 Tho' their Desires are great, their Pow'rs are smal. 
The Tongue's unable to declare
 The Pains, the Griefs, the Miseries we bear;
 How insupportable our Torments are. 
Musick no more delights our deaf'ning Ears,
 Restores our Joys, or dissipates our Fears;
 But all is melancholy, all is sad,
 In Robes of deepest Mourning clad:
 For ev'ry Faculty, and ev'ry Sense,
 Partakes the Woe of this dire Exigence. 

IV.

Then we are sensible, too late,
 'Tis no advantage to be Rich or Great:
 For all the fulsom Pride, and Pageantry of State,
 No Consolation brings. 
Riches and Honours, then are useless things,
 Tasteless, or bitter all;
 And, like the Book which the Apostle eat,
 To the ill-judging Palate sweet,
 But turn at last to Nauseousness and Gall. 
Nothing will then our drooping Spirits chear,
 But the remembrance of good Actions past. 
Virtue's a Joy that will for ever last,
 And makes pale Death less terrible appear;
 Takes out his baneful Sting, and palliates our Fear. 
In the dark Anti-Chamber of the Grave
 What wou'd we give, ev'n all we have,
 All that our Cares, and Industry had gain'd,
 All that our Fraud, our Policy, our Art obtain'd,
 Cou'd we recal those fatal Hours again,
 Which we consum'd in sensless Vanities,
 Ambitious Follies, and Luxurious Ease;
 For then they urge our Terrors, and increase our Pain. 

V.

Our Friends and Relatives stand weeping by,
 Dissolv'd in Tears to see us die;
 And plunge into the deep Abyss of wide Eternity. 
In vain they mourn, in vain they grieve,
 Their Sorrows cannot ours relieve. 
They pity our deplorable Estate,
 But what, alas can pity do,
 To soften the decrees of Fate! 
Besides, the Sentence is irrevocable too. 
All their endeavours to preserve our Breath,
 Tho' they do unsuccessful prove,
 Show us how much how tenderly they love,
 But cannot cut off the entail of Death. 
Mournful they look, and crowd about our Bed,
 One with officious haste,
 Brings us a Cordial, we want Sense to taste:
 Another softly raises up our Head;
 This wipes away the Sweat, that, sighing cries,
 See what Convulsions, what strong Agonies,
 Both Soul and Body undergo! 
His Pains no intermission know;
 For ev'ry gasp of Air he draws, returns in Sighs. 
Each would his kind assistance lend
 To serve his dear Relation, or his dearer Friend;
 But still in vain, with Destiny they all contend. 

VI.

Our Father, pale with grief and watching grown,
 Takes our cold Hand in his, and cries Adieu,
 Adieu, my Child, now I must follow you. 
Then weeps, and gently lays it down,
 Our Sons, who in their tender Years,
 Were Objects of our Cares, and of our Fears;
 Come trembling to our Bed, and kneeling cry,
 Bless us, O Father! now before you die;
 Bless us, and be you blest to all Eternity. 
Our Friend, whom equal to our selves we love,
 Compassionate and kind,
 Cries, will you leave me here behind,
 Without me fly, to the blest Seats above? 
Without me, did I say, ah no!
 Without thy Friend thou can'st not go:
 For tho' thou leav'st me grov'ling here below,
 My Soul with thee shall upward fly,
 And bear thy Spirit company,
 Thro' the bright Passage of the yielding Sky. 
Ev'n Death that parts thee from thy self, shall be
 Incapable to separate
 (For 'tis not in the Power of Fate)
 My Friend, my best, my dearest Friend, and me:
 But since it must be so, farewel
 For ever! No; for we shall meet agen,
 And live like Gods, tho' now we die like Men,
 In the eternal Regions, where just Spirits dwell. 

VII.

The Soul, unable longer to maintain
 The fruitless and unequal Strife,
 Finding her weak Endeavours vain,
 To keep the Counterscarp of Life,
 By slow degrees retires toward the Heart,
 And fortifies that little Fort
 With all the kind Artilleries of Art;
 Botanick Legions guarding ev'ry Port. 
But Death, whose Arms no Mortal can repel,
 A formal Siege disdains to lay,
 Summons his fierce Battalions to the Fray,
 And in a minute storms the feeble Cittadel. 
Sometimes we may capitulate, and he
 Pretends to make a solid Peace,
 But 'tis all Sham, all Artifice;
 That we may negligent and careless be:
 For if his Armies are withdrawn to day,
 And we believe no Danger near,
 But all is peaceable, and all is clear,
 His Troops return some unsuspected way,
 While in the soft Embrace of Sleep we lie,
 The secret Murd'rers stab us, and we die. 

VIII.

Since our first Parents-Fall,
 Inevitable Death descends on all,
 A Portion none of Human Race can miss,
 But that which makes it sweet, or bitter, is,
 The Fears of Misery, or certain Hopes of Bliss:
 For when th' Impenitent and Wicked die,
 Loaded with Crimes, and Infamy,
 If any Sense at that sad time remains,
 They feel amazing Terrors, mighty Pains. 
The earnest of that vast stupendous woe,
 Which they to all Eternity must undergo;
 Confin'd in Hell with everlasting Chains. 
Infernal Spirits hover in the Air,
 Like rav'nous Wolves, to seize upon the prey,
 And hurry the departed Souls away
 To the dark Receptacles of Despair;
 Where they must dwell till that tremendous Day,
 When the loud Trump shall call them to appear
 Before a Judge most terrible, and most severe,
 By whose just Sentence they must go
 To everlasting Pains, and endless woe. 

IX.

But the good Man, whose Soul is pure,
 Unspotted, regular, and free
 From all the ugly Stains of Lust, and Villainy
 Of Mercy, and of Pardon sure;
 Looks thro' the Darkness of the gloomy Night,
 And sees the Dawning of a glorious Day;
 Sees Crowds of Angels ready to convey
 His Soul, whene'er she takes her flight,
 To the surprizing Mansions of immortal Light. 
Then the Celestial Guards around him stand,
 Nor suffer the black Dæmons of the Air
 T' oppose his Passage to the promis'd Land;
 Or terrify his Thoughts with wild Despair,
 But all is calm within, and all without is fair. 
His Prayers, his Charity, his Virtues press. 
To plead for Mercy, when he wants it most;
 Not one of all the happy Number's lost;
 And those bright Advocates ne'er want success. 
But when the Soul's releas'd from dull Mortality,
 She passes up in triumph thro' the Sky,
 Where she's united to a glorious throng
 Of Angels, who with a Celestial Song,
 Congratulate her Conquest as she flies along. 

X.

If therefore all must quit the Stage,
 When or how soon we cannot know,
 But late or early, we are sure to go;
 In the fresh Bloom of Youth, or wither'd Age;
 We cannot take too sedulous a Care,
 In this important, grand Affair. 
For as we die, we must remain,
 Hereafter all our Hopes are vain,
 To make our Peace with Heav'n, or to return again. 
The Heathen, who no better understood
 Than what the Light of Nature taught, declar'd
 No future Misery cou'd be prepar'd,
 For the sincere, the merciful, the good;
 But, if there was a State of Rest,
 They should with the same Happiness be blest,
 As the immortal Gods, if Gods there were possest,
 We have the promise of eternal truth,
 Those who live well, and pious Paths pursue. 
To Man, and to their Maker true,
 Let 'em expire in Age, or Youth,
 Can never miss
 Their way, to everlasting Bliss:
 But from a World of Misery and Care,
 To Mansions of eternal Ease repair:
 Where Joy in full Perfection flows,
 And in an endless Circle move,
 Thro' the vast round of Beatifick Love,
 Which no Cessation knows.