At last they reach'd the spiry building high, And soon they enter'd at the eastern gate-- The parson said his prayers most learnedly, And mutter'd more than memory can relate. 29 Then through the temple's lengthy aisles they went, Approaching still the pulpit's painted door, From whence, on Sundays, many a vow was sent, And sermons plunder'd from some prelate's store. 30 Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise, And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below, Like sultry Phoebus glar'd his flaming eyes, Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow. 31 Up to the pulpit strode he with an air, And from the Preacher thus his text he read: "More I esteem, and better is by far "A dog existing than a lion dead. 32 "Go, eat thy dainties with a joyful heart, "And quaff thy wine with undissembled glee, "For he who did these heavenly gifts impart "Accepts thy prayers, thy gifts, thy vows, and thee." THE SERMON 33 These truths, my friends, congenial to my soul, Demand a faithful and attentive ear-- No longer for your 'parted friend condole, No longer shed the tributary tear. 34 Curs'd be the sobs, these useless floods of woe That vainly flow for the departed dead-- If doom'd to wander on the coasts below, What are to him these seas of grief you shed? 35 If heaven in pleasure doth his hours employ-- If sighs and sorrows reach a place like this, They blast his glories, and they damp his joy, They make him wretched in the midst of bliss. 36 And can you yet--and here he smote his breast-- And can you yet bemoan that torpid mass Which now for death and desolation drest, Prepares the deep gulph of the grave to pass. 37 You fondly mourn--I mourn Alcander too, Alcander late the living, not the dead; His casks I broach'd, his liquors once I drew, And freely there on choicest dainties fed. 38 But vanish'd are they now!--no more he calls, No more invites me to his plenteous board; No more I caper at his splendid balls, Or drain his cellars, with profusion stor'd. 39 Then why, my friends, for yonder senseless clay, That ne'er again befriends me, should I mourn? Yon' simple slaves that through the cane-lands stray Are more to me than monarchs in the urn. 40 The joys of wine, immortal as my theme, To days of bliss the aspiring soul invite; Life, void of this, a punishment I deem, A Greenland winter, without heat or light. 41 Count all the trees that crown Jamaica's hills, Count all the stars that through the heavens you see. Count every drop that the wide ocean fills; Then count the pleasures Bacchus yields to me. 42 The aids of wine for toiling man were meant; I prize the smiling Caribbean bowl-- Enjoy those gifts that bounteous nature lent, Death to thy cares, refreshing to the soul. 43