Tho' in the Search, too deep for humane

Thought,

With unsuccessful Toil he wrought,

'Till in pursuit of Thee himself was by Thee caught;

Retain'd thy Prisoner,thy acknowledg'd Slave, And funk beneath thy Weight to a lamented

Grave.

A

Omnes una manet Nox,

Calcanda femel via Lethi. Hor.

I.

we can die but once, and after Death Our State no alteration knows;

we have refign'd our Breath,

mmortál Spirit goes

less Joys, or everlasting Woes at Man, who labours to fecure Mighty, and Important Stake; by all Methods strives to make ge safe, and his Reception sure.

Meerly to dye, no Man of Reafon fears;

For certainly we muft,

As we are born, return to Duft : 'Tis the last Point of many ling'ring Years. But whither then we go,..

Whither, we fain wou'd know:

But humane Understanding cannot show.
This makes us tremble, and Creates
Strange Apprehenfions in the Mind;

Fills it with reftlefs Doubts, and wild Debates;
Concerning what, we, living, cannot find.

None know what Death is, but the Dead: Therefore we all, by Nature, Dying dread, As a strange doubtful way, we know not how to tread.

When to the Margin of the Grave we come, And scarce have one black painful Hour to live; No Hopes, no Profpect of a kind Reprieve, To stop our speedy Paffage to the Tomb?

How moving, and how mournful is the fight; How wond'rous pitiful, how wond'rous fad; Where then is Refuge,where is Comfort to be had In the dark Minutes of the dreadful Night, To cheer our drooping Souls for their amazing flight?

Feeble, and languishing in Bed we lye;

Despairing to Recover, void of Reft; Wifhing for Death, and yet afraid to dye:

Terrors and Doubts distract our Breast, With mighty Agonics and mighty Pains oppreft.

IIL

Our Face is moistned with a clammy Sweat:

Faint and irregular the Pulfes beat.

The Blood unactive grows,

And thickens as it flows,

Depriv'd of all its Vigour, all its vital Heat.
Our dying Eyes rowl heavily about,

Their Light's juft going out;

And for fome kind Affiftance call;

But pity, useless pity's all

Our weeping Friends can give,

Or we receive:

Tho their Defires are great their Pow'rs are small The Tongue's unable to declare,

The Pains, the Griefs, the Miseries we bear:
How infupportable our Torments are.
Mufick no more delights our deafning Ears,
Reftores our Joys, or diffipates our Fears.
But all is melancholy, all is fad,

In Robes of deepest Mourning clad.
For every Faculty, and every Sense
Partakes the Woe of this dire Exigence.

IV.

Then we are sensible too late,

'Tis no advantage to be Rich, or Great:

For all the fulfome Pride, and Pageantry of State

No