A NIGHT-PIECE on DEATH. Thomas Parnell Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T42652 p. 554 K041605.000 Parnell, Thomas, 1679-1718. Poems on Several Occasions: Written by Dr. Thomas Parnell, Late Arch-Deacon of Clogher: and Published by Mr. Pope. London printed for B. Lintot 1722 [1721] pp. 152-157. [8],221,[3]p.; 8⁰.

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A NIGHT-PIECE on DEATH . BY the blue Tapers trembling Light , No more I waste the wakeful Night , Intent with endless view to pore The Schoolmen and the Sages o'er : Their Books from Wisdom widely stray , Or point at best the longest Way . I'll seek a readier Path , and go Where Wisdom's surely taught below . How deep yon Azure dies the Sky ! Where Orbs of Gold unnumber'd lye , While thro' their Ranks in silver pride The nether Crescent seems to glide . The slumb'ring Breeze forgets to breathe , The Lake is smooth and clear beneath , Where once again the spangled Show Descends to meet our Eyes below . The Grounds which on the right aspire , In dimness from the View retire : The Left presents a Place of Graves , Whose Wall the silent Water laves . That Steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of Night . There pass with melancholy State , By all the solemn Heaps of Fate , And think , as softly-sad you tread Above the venerable Dead , Time was , like thee they Life possest , And Time shall be , that thou shalt Rest . Those Graves , with bending Osier bound , That nameless heave the crumbled Ground , Quick to the glancing Thought disclose Where Toil and Poverty repose . The flat smooth Stones that bear a Name , The Chissels slender help to Fame , ( Which e'er our Sett of Friends decay Their frequent Steps may wear away . ) A middle Race of Mortals own , Men , half ambitious , all unknown . The Marble Tombs that rise on high , Whose Dead in vaulted Arches lye , Whose Pillars swell with sculptur'd Stones , Arms , Angels , Epitaphs and Bones , These ( all the poor Remains of State ) Adorn the Rich , or praise the Great ; Who while on Earth in Fame they live , Are sensless of the Fame they give . Ha ! while I gaze , pale Cynthia fades , The bursting Earth unveils the Shades ! All slow , and wan , and wrap'd with Shrouds , They rise in visionary Crouds , And all with sober Accent cry , Think , Mortal , what it is to dye , Now from yon black and fun'ral Yew , That bathes the Charnel House with Dew , Methinks I hear a Voice begin ; ( Ye Ravens , cease your croaking Din , Ye tolling Clocks , no Time resound O'er the long Lake and midnight Ground ) It sends a Peal of hollow Groans , Thus speaking from among the Bones . When Men my Scythe and Darts supply , How great a King of Fears am I ! They view me like the last of Things : They make , and then they dread , my Stings . Fools ! if you less provok'd your Fears , No more my Spectre-Form appears . Death's but a Path that must be trod , If Man wou'd ever pass to God : A Port of Calms , a State of Ease From the rough Rage of swelling Seas . Why then thy flowing sable Stoles , Deep pendent Cypress , mourning Poles , Loose Scarfs to fall athwart thy Weeds , Long Palls , drawn Herses , cover'd Steeds , And Plumes of black , that as they tread , Nod o'er the ' Scutcheons of the Dead ? Nor can the parted Body know , Nor wants the Soul , these Forms of Woe : As Men who long in Prison dwell , With Lamps that glimmer round the Cell , When e'er their suffering Years are run , Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring Sun : Such Joy , tho' far transcending Sense , Have pious Souls at parting hence . On Earth , and in the Body plac't , A few , and evil Years , they wast : But when their Chains are cast aside , See the glad Scene unfolding wide , Clap the glad Wing and tow'r away , And mingle with the Blaze of Day .