Since Shylock's Book has walk'd the circles here, What numerous blessings to our country flow! Whales on our shores have run aground, Sturgeons are in our rivers found; Nay, ships have on the Delaware sail'd, A sight most new! Wheat has been sown, harvests have grown, And Shylock held strange dialogues with Sue. On coaches, now, gay coats of arms are wore By some, who hardly had a coat before: Silk gowns instead of homespun, now, are seen, And, sir, 'tis true ('twixt me and you) That some have grown prodigious fat, That were prodigious lean! [88] Unique, as far as I can discover, in the edition of 1795. THE SEXTON'S SERMON[89] At the Burial of a Deist A few short years, at most, will bound our span; ("Wretched and few," the Hebrew patriarch said) Live while you may, be jovial while you can; Too soon our debt to Nature, must be paid. When Nature fails, the man exists no more, And death is nothing but an empty name, Spleen's odious offspring, in some gloomy hour;-- The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream. You ask me, where those numerous hosts have fled That once existed on this changeful ball? If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,[A] Where ere their birth they were, they now are all. [A] Queris quo loco jaceant omnes mortui? ------------ Ubi non nata jacent. _Seneca Trag.--Freneau's note._ Seek not for Paradise!--'tis not for you Where, high in heaven, its sweetest blossoms blow; Nor even, where gliding to the Persian main, Your waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow, What is this Death, ye thoughtless mourners, say? Death is no more than never-ceasing change: New forms arise, while other forms decay, Yet, all is life throughout creation's range. The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine, The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow, The Apalachian, and the Ararat, Sooner or later, must to ruin go. Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust; That dust supports a reptile or a flower; Each changeful atom, by some other nursed, Takes some new form, to perish in an hour. When Nature bids thee from the world retire, With joy thy lodging leave, a sated guest, In sleep's blest state (our Dullman's fond desire) Existing always--always to be blest. Like insects busy in a summer's day, We toil and squabble, to increase our pain: Night comes at last, and weary of the fray, To dust and silence all are sent again! Beneath my hand what numerous crowds retire-- By the cold turf for ages, now, oppressed! Millions have fallen--and millions must expire, Doomed by the impartial Power to endless rest. In vain with stars He decked yon' spangled skies, And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar, And brought so far to your admiring eyes A glimpse of glories, that shall blaze no more!