From back and belly too their proper cheer,

Eased of a tax it irked 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 comings in?

Ay! now you've made the rich man poor indeed;
Robbed of his gods, what has he left behind?

Oh, cursed lust of gold! when, for thy sake,
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds;
First starved in this, then damned in that to come.

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 unfurnished for that world to come?

In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help;
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,

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 tremendous verge,

At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

F

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! my soul!

What a strange moment must it be, when near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view?

That awful gulf no mortal e'er repassed

To tell what's doing on the other side.

Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight,

And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting;

For part they must; body and soul must part;

Fond couple; linked 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.

If death were nothing, and nought after death;

If when men died, at once they ceased to be,

Returning to the barren womb of nothing,

Whence first they sprung, then might the debauchee

Untrembling mouth the heavens; then might the drunkard

Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drained,

Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

At the poor bugbear, death; then might the wretch

That's weary of the world, and tired of life,

At once give each inquietude the slip,

By stealing out of being when he pleased,

And by what way, whether by hemp or steel;

Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force

The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,

Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,

That helps himself as timely as he can,

When able. But if there's an hereafter;

And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced

And suffered to speak out, tells every man;

Then must it be an awful thing to die;

More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

Self-murder! name it not; our island's shame,

That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states.

Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate,

Self-preservation, fall by her own act?

Forbid it Heaven. Let not, upon disgust,.

The shameless hand be fully crimsoned o'er
With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt!

Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage,

To rush into the presence of our Judge;

As if we challenged him to do his worst,

And mattered not his wrath! Unheard-of tortures

Must be reserved for such; these herd together;

The common damned shun their society,