Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VISIONS IN VERSE: 9. DEATH. VISION THE LAST, by NATHANIEL COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VISIONS IN VERSE: 9. DEATH. VISION THE LAST, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis thought my visions are too grave
Last Line: And triumph'd in the thoughts of death!
Subject(s): Death; Future Life; Dead, The; Retribution; Eternity; After Life


'TIS thought my Visions are too grave;
A proof I'm no designing knave.
Perhaps if Interest held the scales,
I had devis'd quite different tales;
Had join'd the laughing low buffoon,
And scribbled satire and lampoon;
Or stirr'd each source of soft desire,
And fann'd the coals of wanton fire;
Then had my paltry Visions sold,
Yes, all my dreams had turn'd to gold;
Had prov'd the darlings of the town,
And I—a poet of renown!
Let not my awful theme surprise,
Let no unmanly fears arise.
I wear no melancholy hue,
No wreaths of cypress or of yew.
The shroud, the coffin, pall, or herse,
Shall ne'er deform my softer verse:
Let me consign the funeral plume,
The herald's paint, the sculptur'd tomb,
And all the solemn farce of graves,
To undertakers and their slaves.
You know, that moral writers say
The world's a stage, and life a play;
That in this drama to succeed,
Requires much thought, and toil indeed!
There still remains one labour more,
Perhaps a greater than before.
Indulge the search, and you shall find
The harder task is still behind;
That harder task, to quit the stage
In early youth, or riper age;
To leave the company and place,
With firmness, dignity, and grace.
Come, then, the closing scenes survey;
'Tis the last act which crowns the play.
Do well this grand decisive part,
And gain the plaudit of your heart.
Few greatly live in Wisdom's eye—
But oh! how few who greatly die!
Who, when their days approach an end,
Can meet the foe, as friend meets friend.
Instructive heroes! tell us whence
Your noble scorn of flesh and sense!
You part from all we prize so dear,
Nor drop one soft reluctant tear:
Part from those tender joys of life,
The friend, the parent, child, and wife.
Death's black and stormy gulf you brave,
And ride exulting on the wave;
Deem thrones but trifles all!—no more—
Nor send one wishful look to shore.
For foreign ports and lands unknown,
Thus the firm sailor leaves his own;
Obedient to the rising gale,
Unmoors his bark, and spreads his sail;
Defies the ocean, and the wind,
Nor mourns the joys he leaves behind.
Is Death a powerful monarch? True—
Perhaps you dread the tyrant too!
Fear, like a fog, precludes the light,
Or swells the object to the sight.
Attend my visionary page,
And I'll disarm the tyrant's rage.
Come, let this ghastly form appear,
He's not so terrible when near.
Distance deludes the' unwary eye,
So clouds seem monsters in the sky:
Hold frequent converse with him now,
He'll daily wear a milder brow.
Why is my theme with terror fraught?
Because you shun the frequent thought.
Say, when the captive pard is nigh,
Whence thy pale cheek and frighted eye?
Say, why dismay'd thy manly breast,
When the grim lion shakes his crest?
Because these savage fights are new—
No keeper shudders at the view.
Keepers, accustom'd to the scene,
Approach the dens with look serene,
Fearless their grisly charge explore,
And smile to hear the tyrants roar.
'Ay—but to die! to bid adieu!
An everlasting farewell too!
Farewell to every joy around!
Oh! the heart sickens at the sound!'
Stay, stripling—thou art poorly taught—
Joy didst thou say?—discard the thought.
Joys are a rich celestial fruit,
And scorn a sublunary root.
What wears the face of joy below,
Is often found but splendid woe.
Joys here, like unsubstantial fame,
Are nothings with a pompous name;
Or else, like comets in the sphere,
Shine with destruction in their rear.
Passions, like clouds, obscure the sight,
Hence mortals seldom judge aright.
The world's a harsh unfruitful soil,
Yet still we hope, and still we toil;
Deceive ourselves with wondrous art,
And disappointment wrings the heart.
Thus when a mist collects around,
And hovers o'er a barren ground,
The poor deluded traveller spies
Imagin'd trees and structures rise;
But when the shrouded sun is clear,
The desert and the rocks appear.
'Ah—but when youthful blood runs high,
Sure 'tis a dreadful thing to die!
To die! and what exalts the gloom.
I'm told that man survives the tomb!
O! can the learned prelate find
What future scenes await the mind?
Where wings the soul, dislodg'd from clay?
Some courteous angel point the way!
That unknown somewhere in the skies!
Say, where that unknown somewhere lies;
And kindly prove, when life is o'er,
That pains and sorrows are no more.
For doubtless dying is a curse,
If present ills be chang'd for worse.'
Hush, my young friend, forego the theme,
And listen to your poet's dream.
Erewhile I took an evening walk,
Honorio join'd in social talk.
Along the lawns the zephyrs sweep,
Each ruder wind was lull'd asleep.
The sky, all beauteous to behold,
Was streak'd with azure, green, and gold,
But, though serenely soft and fair,
Fever hung brooding in the air;
Then settled on Honorio's breast,
Which shudder'd at the fatal guest.
No drugs the kindly wish fulfil,
Disease eludes the doctor's skill.
The poison spreads through all the frame,
Ferments, and kindles into flame.
From side to side Honorio turns,
And now with thirst insatiate burns.
His eyes resign their wonted grace,
Those friendly lamps expire apace!
The brain's an useless organ grown,
And Reason tumbled from his throne.—
But while the purple surges glow,
The currents thicken as they flow;
The blood in every distant part
Stagnates and disappoints the heart;
Defrauded of its crimson store,
The vital engine plays no more.
Honorio dead, the funeral bell
Call'd every friend to bid farewell:
I join'd the melancholy bier,
And dropp'd the unavailing tear.
The clock struck twelve—when nature sought
Repose from all the pangs of thought;
And while my limbs were sunk to rest,
A vision sooth'd my troubled breast.
I dream'd the spectre Death appear'd,
I dream'd his hollow voice I heard!
Methought the' imperial tyrant wore
A state no prince assum'd before.
All nature fetch'd a general groan,
And lay expiring round his throne.
I gaz'd—when strait arose to sight
The most detested fiend of night.
He shuffled with unequal pace,
And conscious shame deform'd his face.
With jealous leer he squinted round,
Or fix'd his eyes upon the ground.
From hell this frightful monster came,
Sin was his sire, and Guilt his name.
This fury, with officious care,
Waited around the Sovereign's chair;
In robes of terrors drest the king,
And arm'd him with a baneful sting;
Gave fierceness to the tyrant's eye,
And hung the sword upon his thigh.
Diseases next, a hideous crowd!
Proclaim'd their master's empire loud;
And, all obedient to his will,
Flew in commission'd troops to kill.
A rising whirlwind shakes the poles,
And lightning glares, and thunder rolls.
The Monarch and his train prepare
To range the foul tempestuous air.
Straight to his shoulders he applies
Two pinions of enormous size!
Methought I saw the ghastly form
Stretch his black wings, and mount the storm.
When Fancy's airy horse I strode,
And join'd the army on the road.
As the grim conqueror urg'd his way,
He scatter'd terror and dismay.
Thousands a pensive aspect wore,
Thousands who sneer'd at Death before.
Life's records rise on every side,
And Conscience spreads those volumes wide;
Which faithful registers were brought
By pale-ey'd Fear and busy Thought.
Those faults which artful men conceal,
Stand here engrav'd with pen of steel,
By Conscience, that impartial scribe!
Whose honest palm disdains a bribe.
Their actions all like critics view,
And all like faithful critics too.
As guilt had stain'd life's various stage,
What tears of blood bedew'd the page!
All shudder'd at the black account,
And scarce believ'd the vast amount!
All vow'd a sudden change of heart,
Would Death relent, and sheathe his dart.
But, when the awful foe withdrew,
All to their follies fled anew.
So when a wolf, who scours at large,
Springs on the shepherd's fleecy charge,
The flock in wild disorder fly,
And cast behind a frequent eye;
But, when the victim's borne away,
They rush to pasture and to play.
Indulge my dream, and let my pen
Paint those unmeaning creatures, Men.
Carus, with pains and sickness worn,
Chides the slow night, and sighs for morn;
Soon as he views the eastern ray,
He mourns the quick return of day;
Hourly laments protracted breath,
And courts the healing hand of Death.
Verres, oppress'd with guilt and shame,
Shipwreck'd in fortune, health, and fame,
Pines for his dark sepulchral bed,
To mingle with the' unheeded dead.
With fourscore years grey Natho bends,
A burden to himself and friends;
And with impatience seems to wait
The friendly hand of lingering fate:
So hirelings wish their labour done,
And often eye the western sun.
The monarch hears their various grief,
Descends, and brings the wish'd relief.
On Death with wild surprise they star'd;
All seem'd averse! All unprepar'd!
As torrents sweep with rapid force,
The grave's pale chief pursued his course.
No human pow'r can or withstand
Or shun the conquests of his hand.
Oh! could the prince of upright mind,
And, as a guardian angel kind,
With every heart-felt worth beside,
Turn the keen shaft of Death aside,
When would the brave Augustus join
The ashes of his sacred line?
But Death maintains no partial war,
He mocks a sultan or a czar.
He lays his iron hand on all——
Yes, kings, and sons of kings, must fall!
A truth Britannia lately felt,
And trembled to her centre!——
Could ablest statesmen ward the blow,
Would Granville own this common foe?
For greater talents ne'er were known
To grace the favourite of a throne.
Could genius save—wit, learning, fire—
Tell me, would Chesterfield expire?
Say, would his glorious sun decline,
And set like your pale star or mine?
Could every virtue of the sky—
Would Herring, Butler, Secker die?
Why this address to peerage all—
Untitled Allen's virtues call!
If Allen's worth demands a place,
Lords, with your leave, 'tis no disgrace.
Though high your ranks in heralds' rolls,
Know Virtue too ennobles souls.
By her that private man's renown'd,
Who pours a thousand blessings round.
While Allen takes Affliction's part,
And draws out all his generous heart;
Anxious to seize the fleeting day,
Lest unimprov'd it steal away;
While thus he walks with jealous strife
Through goodness, as he walks through life,
Shall not I mark his radiant path?—
Rise, muse, and sing the Man of Bath!
Publish abroad, could goodness save,
Allen would disappoint the grave;
Translated to the heavenly shore,
Like Enoch, when his walk was o'er.
Not Beauty's powerful pleas restrain—
Her pleas are trifling, weak, and vain;
For women pierce with shrieks the air,
Smite their bare breasts, and rend their hair.
All have a doleful tale to tell,
How friends, sons, daughters, husbands fell!
Alas! is life our favourite theme!
'Tis all a vain, or painful dream.
A dream which fools or cowards prize,
But slighted by the brave or wise.
Who lives, for others' ills must groan,
Or bleed for sorrows of his own;
Must journey on with weeping eye,
Then pant, sink, agonize, and die.
And shall a man arraign the skies,
Because man lives, and mourns, and dies?
'Impatient reptile!' Reason cried;
'Arraign thy passion and thy pride:
Retire, and commune with thy heart,
Ask, whence thou cam'st, and what thou art?
Explore thy body and thy mind,
Thy station too, why here assign'd?—
The search shall teach thee life to prize,
And make thee grateful, good, and wise.
Why do you roam to foreign climes,
To study nations, modes, and times;
A science often dearly bought,
And often what avails you nought?
Go, man, and act a wiser part,
Study the science of your heart.
This home philosophy, you know,
Was priz'd some thousand years ago.
Then why abroad a frequent guest?
Why such a stranger to your breast?
Why turn so many volumes o'er,
Till Dodsley can supply no more?
Not all the volumes on thy shelf,
Are worth that single volume, Self.
For who this sacred book declines,
Howe'er in other arts he shines;
Though smit with Pindar's noble rage,
Or vers'd in Tully's manly page;
Though deeply read in Plato's school;
With all his knowledge is a fool.
'Proclaim the truth—say, what is man?
His body from the dust began;
And when a few short years are o'er,
The crumbling fabric is no more.
'But whence the soul? From Heav'n it came!
Oh! prize this intellectual flame.
This nobler Self with rapture scan,
'Tis mind alone which makes the man.
Trust me, there's not a joy on earth,
But from the soul derives its birth.
Ask the young rake (he'll answer right)
Who treats by day, and drinks by night,
What makes his entertainments shine,
What gives the relish to his wine;
He'll tell thee, (if he scorns the beast)
That social pleasures form the feast.
The charms of beauty too shall cloy,
Unless the soul exalts the joy.
The mind must animate the face,
Or cold and tasteless every grace.
'What! must the soul her powers dispense
To raise and swell the joys of sense?—
Know too, the joys of sense control,
And clog the motions of the soul;
Forbid her pinions to aspire,
Damp and impair her native fire:
And sure as Sense (that tyrant!) reigns,
She holds the empress, Soul, in chains.
Inglorious bondage to the mind,
Heav'n-born, sublime, and unconfin'd.
She's independent, fair, and great,
And justly claims a large estate;
She asks no borrow'd aids to shine,
She boasts within a golden mine;
But, like the treasures of Peru,
Her wealth lies deep, and far from view.
Say, shall the man who knows her worth,
Debase her dignity and birth;
Or e'er repine at Heaven's decree,
Who kindly gave her leave to be;
Call'd her from nothing into day,
And built her tenement of clay?
Hear and accept me for your guide,
(Reason shall ne'er desert your side.)
Who listens to my wiser voice,
Can't but applaud his Maker's choice;
Pleas'd with that First and Sovereign Cause,
Pleas'd with unerring Wisdom's laws;
Secure, since Sovereign Goodness reigns,
Secure, since Sovereign Pow'r obtains.
'With curious eyes review thy frame,
This science shall direct thy claim.
Dost thou indulge a double view,
A long, long life, and happy too?
Perhaps a farther boon you crave—
To lie down easy in the grave?
Know then my dictates must prevail,
Or surely each fond wish shall fail.—
'Come then, is Happiness thy aim?
Let mental joys be all thy game.
Repeat the search, and mend your pace,
The capture shall reward the chase.
Let every minute, as it springs,
Convey fresh knowledge on its wings;
Let every minute, as it flies,
Record thee good as well as wise.
While such pursuits your thoughts engage,
In a few years you'll live an age.
Who measures life by rolling years?
Fools measure by revolving spheres.
Go thou, and fetch the' unerring rule
From Virtue's, and from Wisdom's school.
Who well improves life's shortest day,
Will scarce regret its setting ray;
Contented with his share of light,
Nor fear nor wish the' approach of night.
And when Disease assaults the heart,
When Sickness triumphs over Art,
Reflections on a life well past
Shall prove a cordial to the last;
This med'cine shall the soul sustain,
And soften or suspend her pain;
Shall break Death's fell tyrannic pow'r,
And calm the troubled dying hour.'
Blest rules of cool prudential age!
I listen'd, and rever'd the sage.
When lo! a form divinely bright
Descends and bursts upon my sight,
A seraph of illustrious birth!
(Religion was her name on earth)
Supremely sweet her radiant face,
And blooming with celestial grace!
Three shining cherubs form'd her train,
Wav'd their light wings, and reach'd the plain;
Faith, with sublime and piercing eye,
And pinions fluttering for the sky;
Here Hope, that smiling angel, stands,
And golden anchors grace her hands;
There Charity, in robes of white,
Fairest and favourite maid of light!
The seraph spake—''Tis Reason's part,
To govern, and to guard the heart;
To lull the wayward soul to rest,
When hopes and fears distract the breast.
Reason may calm this doubtful strife,
And steer thy bark through various life:
But when the storms of death are nigh,
And midnight darkness veils the sky,
Shall Reason then direct thy sail,
Disperse the clouds, or sink the gale?
Stranger, this skill alone is mine,
Skill! that transcends his scanty line.
'That hoary sage has counsel'd right—
Be wise, nor scorn his friendly light.
Revere thyself—thou'rt near allied
To angels on thy better side.
How various e'er their ranks or kinds,
Angels are but unbodied minds;
When the partition-walls decay,
Men emerge angels from their clay.
'Yes, when the frailer body dies,
The soul asserts her kindred skies.
But minds, though sprung from heavenly race,
Must first be tutor'd for the place.
(The joys above are understood,
And relish'd only by the good)
Who shall assume this guardian care?
Who shall secure their birthright there?
Souls are my charge—to me 'tis giv'n
To train them for their native Heav'n.
'Know then—Who bow the early knee,
And give the willing heart to me;
Who wisely, when Temptation waits,
Elude her frauds and spurn her baits;
Who dare to own my injur'd cause,
(Though fools deride my sacred laws;)
Or scorn to deviate to the wrong,
Though Persecution lifts her thong.
Though all the sons of hell conspire
To raise the stake and light the fire;
Know, that for such superior souls,
There lies a bliss beyond the poles;
Where spirits shine with purer ray,
And brighten to meridian day;
Where Love, where boundless Friendship rules,
(No friends that change, no love that cools!)
Where rising floods of knowledge roll,
And pour and pour upon the soul!
'But where's the passage to the skies?—
The road through Death's black valley lies.
Nay, do not shudder at my tale—
Though dark the shades, yet safe the vale.
This path the best of men have trod;
And who'd decline the road to God?
Oh! 'tis a glorious boon to die!
This favour can't be priz'd too high.'
While thus she spake, my looks express'd
The raptures kindling in my breast:
My soul a fix'd attention gave;
When the stern Monarch of the Grave
With haughty strides approach'd—Amaz'd
I stood, and trembled as I gaz'd.
The Seraph calm'd each anxious fear,
And kindly wip'd the falling tear;
Then hasten'd with expanded wing
To meet the pale terrific King.
But now what milder scenes arise!
The tyrant drops his hostile guise.
He seems a youth divinely fair,
In graceful ringlets waves his hair.
His wings their whitening plumes display,
His burnish'd plumes reflect the day.
Light flows his shining azure vest,
And all the angel stands confest.
I view'd the change with sweet surprise,
And oh! I panted for the skies;
Thank'd Heav'n, that e'er I drew my breath,
And triumph'd in the thoughts of Death!





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