A Prospect of Death . A Pindaric Essay . —— Sed omnes una manet nox , Et calcanda semel via Lethi . Hor. Horace, 1.28. I. Since we can die but once , and after Death Our State no alteration knows ; But , when we have resign'd our Breath , Th' immortal Spirit goes To endless Joys , or everlasting Woes . Wise is the Man who labours to secure That mighty and important Stake ; And , by all methods , strives to make His passage safe , and his reception sure . Merely to die no Man of Reason fears , For certainly we must , As we are born , return to Dust : 'Tis the last Point of many lingering Years . But whither then we go , Whither , we fain would know ; But human Understanding cannot show , This makes us tremble , and creates Strange apprehensions in the Mind ; Fills it with restless 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 . II . When to the Margin of the Grave we come , And scarce have one black painful hour to live . No hopes , no prospect of a kind Reprieve , To stop our speedy passage to the Tomb . How moving , and how mournful is the sight , How wond'rous pitiful , how wond'rous sad ; Where then is Refuge , where is Comfort to be had , In the dark Minutes of the dreadful Night , To chear our drooping Souls for their amazing Flight ? Feeble and languishing in Bed we lie , Despairing to recover , void of rest , Wishing for Death , and yet afraid to die : Terrors and Doubts distract our Breast , With mighty Agonies , and mighty Pains opprest . III . Our Face is moisten'd with a clammy Sweat ; Faint and irregular the Pulses 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 just going out ; And for some kind assistance call , But pity , useless pity's all Our weeping Friends can give , Or we receive ; Tho' their Desires are great , their Pow'rs are smal . The Tongue's unable to declare The Pains , the Griefs , the Miseries we bear ; How insupportable our Torments are . Musick no more delights our deaf'ning Ears , Restores our Joys , or dissipates our Fears ; But all is melancholy , all is sad , In Robes of deepest Mourning clad : For ev'ry Faculty , and ev'ry 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 fulsom Pride , and Pageantry of State , No Consolation brings . Riches and Honours , then are useless things , Tasteless , or bitter all ; And , like the Book which the Apostle eat , To the ill-judging Palate sweet , But turn at last to Nauseousness and Gall . Nothing will then our drooping Spirits chear , But the remembrance of good Actions past . Virtue's a Joy that will for ever last , And makes pale Death less terrible appear ; Takes out his baneful Sting , and palliates our Fear . In the dark Anti-Chamber of the Grave What wou'd we give , ev'n all we have , All that our Cares , and Industry had gain'd , All that our Fraud , our Policy , our Art obtain'd , Cou'd we recal those fatal Hours again , Which we consum'd in sensless Vanities , Ambitious Follies , and Luxurious Ease ; For then they urge our Terrors , and increase our Pain . V. Our Friends and Relatives stand weeping by , Dissolv'd in Tears to see us die ; And plunge into the deep Abyss of wide Eternity . In vain they mourn , in vain they grieve , Their Sorrows cannot ours relieve . They pity our deplorable Estate , But what , alas can pity do , To soften the decrees of Fate ! Besides , the Sentence is irrevocable too . All their endeavours to preserve our Breath , Tho' they do unsuccessful prove , Show us how much how tenderly they love , But cannot cut off the entail of Death . Mournful they look , and crowd about our Bed , One with officious haste , Brings us a Cordial , we want Sense to taste : Another softly raises up our Head ; This wipes away the Sweat , that , sighing cries , See what Convulsions , what strong Agonies , Both Soul and Body undergo ! His Pains no intermission know ; For ev'ry gasp of Air he draws , returns in Sighs . Each would his kind assistance lend To serve his dear Relation , or his dearer Friend ; But still in vain , with Destiny they all contend . VI . Our Father , pale with grief and watching grown , Takes our cold Hand in his , and cries Adieu , Adieu , my Child , now I must follow you . Then weeps , and gently lays it down , Our Sons , who in their tender Years , Were Objects of our Cares , and of our Fears ; Come trembling to our Bed , and kneeling cry , Bless us , O Father ! now before you die ; Bless us , and be you blest to all Eternity . Our Friend , whom equal to our selves we love , Compassionate and kind , Cries , will you leave me here behind , Without me fly , to the blest Seats above ? Without me , did I say , ah no ! Without thy Friend thou can'st not go : For tho' thou leav'st me grov'ling here below , My Soul with thee shall upward fly , And bear thy Spirit company , Thro' the bright Passage of the yielding Sky . Ev'n Death that parts thee from thy self , shall be Incapable to separate ( For 'tis not in the Power of Fate ) My Friend , my best , my dearest Friend , and me : But since it must be so , farewel For ever ! No ; for we shall meet agen , And live like Gods , tho' now we die like Men , In the eternal Regions , where just Spirits dwell . VII . The Soul , unable longer to maintain The fruitless and unequal Strife , Finding her weak Endeavours vain , To keep the Counterscarp of Life , By slow degrees retires toward the Heart , And fortifies that little Fort With all the kind Artilleries of Art ; Botanick Legions guarding ev'ry Port . But Death , whose Arms no Mortal can repel , A formal Siege disdains to lay , Summons his fierce Battalions to the Fray , And in a minute storms the feeble Cittadel . Sometimes we may capitulate , and he Pretends to make a solid Peace , But 'tis all Sham , all Artifice ; That we may negligent and careless be : For if his Armies are withdrawn to day , And we believe no Danger near , But all is peaceable , and all is clear , His Troops return some unsuspected way , While in the soft Embrace of Sleep we lie , The secret Murd'rers stab us , and we die . VIII . Since our first Parents-Fall , Inevitable Death descends on all , A Portion none of Human Race can miss , But that which makes it sweet , or bitter , is , The Fears of Misery , or certain Hopes of Bliss : For when th' Impenitent and Wicked die , Loaded with Crimes , and Infamy , If any Sense at that sad time remains , They feel amazing Terrors , mighty Pains . The earnest of that vast stupendous woe , Which they to all Eternity must undergo ; Confin'd in Hell with everlasting Chains . Infernal Spirits hover in the Air , Like rav'nous Wolves , to seize upon the prey , And hurry the departed Souls away To the dark Receptacles of Despair ; Where they must dwell till that tremendous Day , When the loud Trump shall call them to appear Before a Judge most terrible , and most severe , By whose just Sentence they must go To everlasting Pains , and endless woe . IX . But the good Man , whose Soul is pure , Unspotted , regular , and free From all the ugly Stains of Lust , and Villainy Of Mercy , and of Pardon sure ; Looks thro' the Darkness of the gloomy Night , And sees the Dawning of a glorious Day ; Sees Crowds of Angels ready to convey His Soul , whene'er she takes her flight , To the surprizing Mansions of immortal Light . Then the Celestial Guards around him stand , Nor suffer the black Dæmons of the Air T' oppose his Passage to the promis'd Land ; Or terrify his Thoughts with wild Despair , But all is calm within , and all without is fair . His Prayers , his Charity , his Virtues press . To plead for Mercy , when he wants it most ; Not one of all the happy Number's lost ; And those bright Advocates ne'er want success . But when the Soul's releas'd from dull Mortality , She passes up in triumph thro' the Sky , Where she's united to a glorious throng Of Angels , who with a Celestial Song , Congratulate her Conquest as she flies along . X. If therefore all must quit the Stage , When or how soon we cannot know , But late or early , we are sure to go ; In the fresh Bloom of Youth , or wither'd Age ; We cannot take too sedulous a Care , In this important , grand Affair . For as we die , we must remain , Hereafter all our Hopes are vain , To make our Peace with Heav'n , or to return again . The Heathen , who no better understood Than what the Light of Nature taught , declar'd No future Misery cou'd be prepar'd , For the sincere , the merciful , the good ; But , if there was a State of Rest , They should with the same Happiness be blest , As the immortal Gods , if Gods there were possest , We have the promise of eternal truth , Those who live well , and pious Paths pursue . To Man , and to their Maker true , Let 'em expire in Age , or Youth , Can never miss Their way , to everlasting Bliss : But from a World of Misery and Care , To Mansions of eternal Ease repair : Where Joy in full Perfection flows , And in an endless Circle move , Thro' the vast round of Beatifick Love , Which no Cessation knows .