Robert Blair

“ At the poor bugbear Death ——Then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life,
At once give each inquietude the flip,
By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way ——whether by hemp or steel.
Death's thousand doors stand open. ”

“ Pursues thee ev'n to death ——nor there stops short.
Strange, persecution when the grave itself
Is no protection from rude sussrance.
Absurd to think to over-reach the Grave,
And from the wreck of names to rescue ours.
The best concerted schemes men lay for fame;
Die fast away ——only themselves die faster! ”

“ Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the sense.
Look how the fair one weeps! ——the conscious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flow'rs:
Honest effusion! ——the swoln heart in vain
Works hard to put a gloss on its distress.
Strength too ——thou surly, and less gentle boast
Of those that laugh loud at the village-ring,
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down
With greater ease than o'er thou didst the stripling,
That rashly dar'd thee to th' unequal sight——
What groan was that I heard? ——Deep groan indeed! ”

“ And travelling thro' the bountiless length of space,
Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs,
That roll with regular confusion there,
In ecstasy of thought. But ah! proud man,
Great heights are hazardous to the weak heads
Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails
And down thou dropp'st into the darksome place,
Where nor device, nor knowledge ever came.
Here the tongue-warrior lies, disabled now;
Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd ”

“ How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at case in his possessions;
Who counting on long years of pleasure here;
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come! ”

“ With haste runs over ev'ry different room,
In pain to see the whole.---Thrice happy meeting
Nor time, nor death, hall ever part them more.
'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night,
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. ”

“ Inglorious bondage! ——Human nature groans
Beneath a vassalege so vile and cruel,
And its vast body bleeds thro' ev'ry vein.
What havock left thou made, foul monster sin?
Greatest and first of ills. ——The fruitful parent
Of woes of all dimensions! ——But for the
Sorrow had never been. ——Ah! noxious thing,
Of vilest nature! ——Other forts of evils
Are kindly circumscrib'd, and have their bounds. ”

“ O'er all those ample desarts death hath spread,
This chaos of mankind ——O great man-eater!
Whose every day is carnival, not fated yet!
Unheard-of epicure, without a fellow!
The veriest gluttons do not always cram,
Some intervals of abstinence are fought
To edge the appetite ——Thou seekest none.
Methinks the countless swarms thou left devour'd,
And thousands that each hour thou gobblest up;
This, less than this, might gorge thee the full
But ah! ”

“ Our time is fix'd, and all our days, are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not ——this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till leav'n shall give permission; ”

“ Their brauchless trunks ——others so thin a-top,
That scarce two crows can lodge in the same tree.
Strange things the neighbours say, have happen'd here.
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd! ”

“ And wonder of the world, whose spiky top
Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outliv'd
The angry shaking of the winter's storm; ”

“ Digs thro‘ whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors. ——Scarce a scull's cast up,
But well he knows its Owner, and can tell
Some passage of his life. ——Thus band in hand
The sot has walked with Death twice twenty years,
And yet, ne'er Yonker or the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a smuttier tale ——When Drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup. ——Poor wretch, he minds not
That soon some trusty Brother of the trade
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. ”

“ Ghearless, unsocial plant, that loves to dwell
'Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms;
Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embody'd, thick, perform their mystic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree, is thine. ”

“ When it draws near to witching time of night. ”