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SE C T. CXXVI.

NATURAL DESCRIPTION OF A WIDOW MOURNING

OVER THE GRAVE OF HER HUSBAND.

THE

HE new-made widow too I've fometimes fpied,
Sad fight! flow moving o'er the proftrate dead:
Liftlefs fhe crawls along in doleful black,
While bursts of forrow gufh from either eye,
Faft-falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lovely grave of the dear man
She drops; while bufy meddling memory,
In barbarous fucceffion, mufters up

The past endearments of their fofter hours,
Tenacious of its theme. Still, ftill fhe thinks
She fees him; and, indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the fenfeless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.

BLAIR.

SECT.

CXXVII.

BUT

A FUNERAL DESCRIBED.

UT fee! the well plum'd hearfe comes nodding on
Stately and flow; and properly attended

By the whole fable trade, that painful watch
The fick man's door, and live upon the dead,
By letting out their perfons by the hour
To mimic forrow, when the heart's not fad.
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd

And

And glitt'ring in the fun! Triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,

In glory fcarce exceed. Great gluts of people
Retard th' unwieldy fhew; whilft from the cafements,
And houses tops, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us why this waste?
Why this ado in earthing up a carcafe

That's fall'n into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us,
'Midft all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principle conceal'd, for which
You make this mighty ftir? 'Tis wifely done:
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The Painter cafts difcreetly into shades.

BLAIR

SE C T. CXXVIII.

NO ACCOMPLISHMENTS CAN SECURE US FROM THE COMMON FATE OF MANKIND.

BEAUTY! thou pretty play-thing! dear deceit!

That steals fo foftly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulfe unknown before!
The grave difcredits thee: thy charms expung'd,
Thy rofes faded, and thy lilies foil'd,

What haft thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now to gaze and do thee homage!
Methinks, I fee thee with thy head low laid;

Whilft furfeited upon thy damask cheek,

M

Th

The high-fed worm in lazy volumes roll'd
Riots unfcar'd. For this was all thy caution?
For this thy painful labours at thy glass,

.T' improve those charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not? Foul feeder!
Coarfe fare and carrion please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the fenfe.

Look how the fair one weeps! The conscious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flow'rs.
Honeft effufion! the fwoln heart in vain

Works hard to put a glofs on its distress.
With ftudy pale, and midnight vigils spent,
The ftar-furveying fage close to his eye
Applies the fight-invigorating tube;

And trav❜ling thro' the boundless length of space
Marks well the courses of the far feen orbs,
That roll with regular confufion there,

In ecftafy of thought. But ah! proud man!
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head:
Soon, very foon, thy firmest footing fails; .
And down thou drop'ft into that darkfome place,
Where nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Here the great mafters of the healing art,
These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb!
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Refign to fate. Proud Efculapius' fon,
Where are thy boasted implements of art,
And all thy well-cram'd magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as fhip could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom❜d brook,
Efcap'd thy rifling hand! from ftubborn fhrubs
Thou wrung'ft their shy retiring virtues out,

And

And vex'd them in the fire; nor fly, nor infect,
Nor writhy fnake escap'd thy deep research.

SECT.

CXXIX.

BLAIR.

DEAT

ON THE SEXTON.

EATH's fhafts fly thick! Here falls the village
fwain,

And there his pamper'd lord! The cup goes round,
And who fo artful as to put it by?

'Tis long fince death had the majority;
Yet, ftrange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle!

Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er ftole
A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand

Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors! Scarce a fcull's caft up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some paffage of his life. Thus hand in hand
The fot has walk'd with death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a fmuttier tale; when drunkards meet,
None fings a merrier catch, or lends a hand

More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds not,
That foon fome trusty brother of the trade

Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.

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SECT.

CXXX.

ON THE EXIT OF THE GOOD MAN.

SURE the laft 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.
Behold him in the ev'ning-tide of life,
A life well spent, whose early care it was,
His riper years should not upbraid his green:
By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the fun, feems larger at his setting!
High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches
After the prize in view; and, like a bird
That's hamper'd, ftruggles hard to get away!
Whilft the glad gates of fight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the faft-coming harveft! Then! O then!
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of nought.

BLAIR,

E

SECT. CXXXI.

ON THE RESURRECTION OF THE BODY.

ACH foul fhall have a body ready furnish'd; And each shall have his own. Hence ye prophane! Ask not, how this can be? Sure the same pow'r That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,

Can

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