The Relapse.
97
Dost ask, Lorenzo, why so warmly prest,
By Repetition hammer'd on thine Ear,
The Thought of Death? That Thought is the Machine,
The grand Machine! that heaves us from the Dust,
And rears us into Men. That Thought ply'd home
Will soon reduce the ghastly Precipice
O'er hanging Hell, will soften the Descent,
And gently slope our Passage to the Grave;
How warmly to be wisht! What Heart of Flesh
Would trifle with Tremendous? dare Extremes?
Yawn o'er the Fate of Infinite? What Hand,
Beyond the blackest Brand of Censure bold,
(To speak a Language too well known to Thee)
Would at a Moment give its All to Chance,
And stamp the Die for an Eternity?
Aid me, Narcissa! aid me to keep Pace
With Destiny; and ere her Scissars cut
My Thread of Life, to break this tougher Thread
Of Moral Death, that ties me to the World,
Sting thou my slumb'ring Reason to send forth
A Thought of Observation on the Foe;
To sally; and survey the rapid March
Of his ten thousand Messengers to Man;
Who, Jehu-like, behind him turns them all.
All Accident apart, by Nature sign'd,
My Warrant is gone out, tho' dormant yet;
Perhaps behind one Moment lurks my Fate.
Must I then forward only look for Death?
Backward I turn mine Eye, and find him there.
Man is a Self-survivor ev'ry Year.
Man, like a Stream, is in perpetual Flow.
Death's a Destroyer of Quotidian Prey.
My Youth, my Noon-tide, His; my Yesterday;
The bold Invader shares the present Hour.
Each Moment on the Former shuts the Grave.
By Repetition hammer'd on thine Ear,
The Thought of Death? That Thought is the Machine,
The grand Machine! that heaves us from the Dust,
And rears us into Men. That Thought ply'd home
Will soon reduce the ghastly Precipice
O'er hanging Hell, will soften the Descent,
And gently slope our Passage to the Grave;
How warmly to be wisht! What Heart of Flesh
Would trifle with Tremendous? dare Extremes?
Yawn o'er the Fate of Infinite? What Hand,
Beyond the blackest Brand of Censure bold,
(To speak a Language too well known to Thee)
Would at a Moment give its All to Chance,
And stamp the Die for an Eternity?
Aid me, Narcissa! aid me to keep Pace
With Destiny; and ere her Scissars cut
My Thread of Life, to break this tougher Thread
Of Moral Death, that ties me to the World,
Sting thou my slumb'ring Reason to send forth
A Thought of Observation on the Foe;
To sally; and survey the rapid March
Of his ten thousand Messengers to Man;
Who, Jehu-like, behind him turns them all.
All Accident apart, by Nature sign'd,
My Warrant is gone out, tho' dormant yet;
Perhaps behind one Moment lurks my Fate.
Must I then forward only look for Death?
Backward I turn mine Eye, and find him there.
Man is a Self-survivor ev'ry Year.
Man, like a Stream, is in perpetual Flow.
Death's a Destroyer of Quotidian Prey.
My Youth, my Noon-tide, His; my Yesterday;
The bold Invader shares the present Hour.
Each Moment on the Former shuts the Grave.
While
