Robert Blair

“ 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 e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dar'd thee to th' unequal fight:
What groan was that I heard?—Deep groan indeed!
With anguish heavy laden; let me trace it;
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belabour'd, gasps for breath,
Like a hard-haunted beast. ”

“ That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleas'd,
And by what way; whether by hemp, or steel.
Death's thousand doors stand open. ”

“ Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid Apparition, tall and ghostly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new open'd grave; and (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock. ”

“ And travelling thro' the boundless 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 head:
Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails;
And down thou dropp'st into the darksome place,
Where nor device, nor knowledge ever come. ”

“ Strange persecution when the Grave itself
Is no protection from rude suffrance.
⁠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. ”

“ And who so artful as to put it by?
’Tis long since death had the majority; ”

“ In journeying thro' life;—The task be mine
To paint the gloomy horrors of the Tomb;
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet.—Thy succours I implore,
Eternal King! whose potent arm sustains
The keys of hell and death.—The Grave, dread thing!
Men shiver, when thou art nam'd: Nature appall'd
Shakes off her wonted firmness—Ah! ”

“ And that there is, Conscience, uninfluenc'd
And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man;
Then must it be an awful thing to die:
More horrid yet, to die by one's own hand. ”

“ Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying Villains,
Who ravag'd kingdoms and laid empires waste,
And in a cruel wantonness of power
Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up
To want, the rest: now, like a storm that's spent,
Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind the covert. ”

“ 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? ”

“ Each soul shall have a Body ready furnish'd;
And each shall have his own.—Hence ye profane,
Ask not; how this can be?—Sure the same pow'r
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,
Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And put them as they were.—Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm-impair'd
Thro' length of days. And what he can; he will:
His faithfulness stands bound to see is done! ”

“ Like Centries that must keep their destin'd stand,
And wait th' ppointed hour, till they're reliv'd.
Those only are the brave, that keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away,
Is but a cowards trick: To run away,
From this world's ills, that at the very worst
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
By boldly vent'ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark;—'tis mad ”

“ The common Damn'd shun their society,
And look upon themselves as finds less foul. ”

“ Not to return;—or if it did, its visits
Like those of Angels, short and far between; ”

“ Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;
Sweetner of life, and solder of society; ”

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

“ The school-boy with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
Ad lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown;) ”

“ Of joys departed
Not to return, low painful the remembrance! ”

“ Like those of Angels, short and far between; ”

“ Not to return, low painful the remembrance! ”