By which means we are cowards bred, And ever dream of dying,—till we are dead. Death, thou child's bugbear, thou fool's terror, Ghastly set forth the weak to awe, Begot by fear, increased by error, Whom none but a sick fancy ever saw, Thou, who art only feared By the illiterate and timorous herd Esteemed the greatest of felicities— Should any dread, or seek to avoid thy dart, What Heaven has ordained to be The remedy Of all thy mortal pains and miseries. Sorrow, want, sickness, injury, mischance, Which the wide world with mourning fills, Are for the living all, not for the dead. When life's sun sets, death is a bed Where we lie down To rest the weary limbs and careful head, Can fright us from that sweet, that happy rest Break our repose, or rouse us from that everlasting sleep. The grave is privileged from noise and care, From tyranny and wild oppression; Violence has little power there, E'en worst oppressors let the dead alone; We're there secure from prince's frowns, From the rude hands of barbarous clowns, And policies of those that sweat The simple to betray and cheat ; Or if some one with sacrilegious hand Would persecute us after death, His want of power shall his will withstand, And he shall only lose his breath; And all the clutter he can keep Will only serve to rock us while we soundly sleep. The dead no more converse with tears, With idle jealousies and fears; No danger makes the dead man start, No idle love torments his heart, No loss of substance, parents, children, friends, Either his peace or sleep offends; Nought can provoke his anger or despite, A noble indignation, Warranted both by virtue and religion. Then let me die, and no more subject be Unto the tyrannizing powers To which this short mortality of ours Is either preordained by destiny, To woe and torment turn at last ; No man's a friend to sorrow and disgrace, (Cotton.) LYCIDAS. ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year; Begin then, sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, |