That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd To tell what's doing on the other side. Nature runs back and shudders at the sight, And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting; For part they must: body and soul must part; Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair. This wings its way to its Almighty Source, The witness of its actions, now its judge: That drops into the dark and noisome grave, 380 Like a disabled pitcher of no use. If death were nothing, and nought after death; If when men died, at once they ceased to be, Returning to the barren womb of nothing, Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee Untrembling mouth the heavens:--then might the drunkard Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drain'd, Fill up another to the brim, and laugh At the poor bugbear Death: then might the wretch That's weary of the world, and tired of life, 390 At once give each inquietude the slip, By stealing out of being when he pleased, And by what way, whether by hemp, or steel. Death's thousand doors stand open.--Who could force The ill pleased guest to sit out his full time, Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well, That helps himself, as timely as he can, When able.--But if there's an Hereafter; And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced, And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man; 400 Then must it be an awful thing to die: More horrid yet to die by one's own hand. Self-murder!--name it not: our island's shame, That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states. Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, Self-preservation, fall by her own act? Forbid it, Heaven!--Let not upon disgust The shameless hand be foully crimson'd o'er With blood of its own lord.--Dreadful attempt! Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage 410 To rush into the presence of our Judge; As if we challenged him to do his worst, And matter'd not his wrath!--Unheard-of tortures Must be reserved for such: these herd together; The common damn'd shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. Our time is fix'd; and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not:--this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission: 420 Like sentries that must keep their destined stand, And wait the appointed hour, till they're relieved. Those only are the brave who keep their ground, And keep it to the last. To run away Is but a coward's trick: to run away From this world's ills, that at the very worst Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves, By boldly venturing on a world unknown, And plunging headlong in the dark;--'tis mad! No frenzy half so desperate as this. 430 Tell us, ye dead! will none of you, in pity To those you left behind, disclose the secret?