“It is the will of God and nature,” says Franklin, “that these mortal bodies be laid aside when the soul is to enter into real life. This is rather an embryo state, a preparation for living. A man is not completely born until he be dead. Why, then, should we grieve that a new child is born among the immortals, a new member added to their happy society? We are spirits. That bodies should be lent us, while they can afford us pleasure, assist us in acquiring knowledge, or in doing good to our fellow-creatures, is a kind and benevolent act of God. When they become unfit for these purposes, and afford us pain instead of pleasure, instead of an aid become an encumbrance, and answer none of the intentions for which they were given, it is equally kind and benevolent, that a way is provided by which we may get rid of them. Death is that way.” “God,” says Fuller, “sends his servants to bed, when they have done their work.” This is a subject upon which even Sir Richard Blackmore could write with a poet's feeling. Thou dost, O Death, a peaceful harbour lie Upon the margin of Eternity; Where the rough waves of Time's impetuous tide Their motion lose, and quietly subside: Weary, they roll their drousy heads asleep At the dark entrance of Duration's deep. Hither our vessels in their turn retreat; Here still they find a safe untroubled seat, When worn with adverse passions, furious strife, And the hard passage of tempestuous life. Thou dost to man unfeigned compassion show, Soothe all his grief, and solace all his woe. Thy spiceries with noble drugs abound, That every sickness cure and every wound. That which anoints the corpse will only prove The sovereign balm our anguish to remove. The cooling draught administered by thee, O Death! from all our sufferings sets us free. Impetuous life is by thy force subdued, Life, the most lasting fever of the blood. The weary in thy arms lie down to rest, No more with breath's laborious task opprest. Hear, how the men that long life-ridden lie, In constant pain, for thy assistance cry, Hear how they beg and pray for leave to die. For vagabonds that o'er the country roam, Forlorn, unpitied and without a home, Thy friendly care provides a lodging-room. The comfortless, the naked, and the poor, Much pinch'd with cold, with grievous hunger more, Thy subterranean hospitals receive, Assuage their anguish and their wants relieve. Cripples with aches and with age opprest, Crawl on their crutches to the Grave for rest. Exhausted travellers that have undergone The scorching heats of life's intemperate zone, Haste for refreshment to their beds beneath And stretch themselves in the cool shades of death. Poor labourers who their daily task repeat, Tired with their still returning toil and sweat, Lie down at last; and at the wish'd for close Of life's long day, enjoy a sweet repose.