There was, ’tis said, and I believe, a Time, When humble Christians died with views sublime; When all were ready for their Faith to bleed, But few to write or wrangle for their Creed; When lively Faith upheld the sinking Heart, And Friends, assur’d to meet, prepar’d to part; When Love felt Hope, when Sorrow grew serene, And all was comfort in the Death-bed scene. Alas! when now the gloomy King they wait, ’Tis Weakness yielding to resistless Fate; Like wretched Men upon the Ocean cast, They labour hard and struggle to the last; “Hope against Hope,” and wildly gaze around, In search of Help that never shall be found; Nor, till the last strong Billow stops the Breath, Will they believe them in the jaws of Death! When these my Records I reflecting read, And find what Ills these numerous Births succeed; What powerful Griefs these Nuptial Ties attend, With what regret these painful Journeys end; When from the Cradle to the Grave I look, Mine I conceive a melancholy Book. Where now is perfect Resignation seen? Alas! it is not on the Village-Green;---- I’ve seldom known, though I have often read Of, happy Peasants on their Dying-bed; Whose Looks proclaim’d that Sunshine of the Breast, That more than Hope, that Heav’n itself express’d. What I behold are feverish fits of Strife, ’Twixt fears of Dying and desire of Life; Those earthly Hopes, that to the last endure; Those Fears, that Hopes superior fail to cure; At best a sad submission to the Doom, Which, turning from the Danger, lets it come. Sick lies the Man, bewilder’d, lost, afraid, His Spirits vanquish’d and his Strength decay’d; No Hope the Friend, the Nurse, the Doctor lend-- “Call then a Priest and fit him for his End.” A Priest is call’d, ’tis now, alas! too late, Death enters with him at the Cottage-gate; Or Time allow’d--he goes, assur’d to find, The self-commending, all-confiding Mind; And sighs to hear what we may justly call, Death’s _Common-Place_, the Train of Thought in all. “True, I’m a Sinner,” feebly he begins,-- “But trust in Mercy to forgive my Sins:” (Such cool Confession no past Crimes excite! Such Claim on Mercy, as a Sinner’s Right!) “I know, Mankind are frail, that GOD is just, “And pardons those who in his Mercy trust; “We’re sorely tempted in a World like this, “All Men have done, and I like all, amiss; “But now, if spar’d, it is my full intent, “On all the past to ponder and repent; “Wrongs against me I pardon great and small, “And if I die, I die in peace with all.” His Merits thus and not his Sins confest, He speaks his Hopes and leaves to Heav’n the rest. Alas! are these the Prospects, dull and cold, That dying Christians to their Priests unfold? Or mends the Prospect when th’ Enthusiast cries,