Athwart the severing clouds: but the faint eye, 680 Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its hold; Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing. Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in; Nor are his friends shut out: as some great prince Not for himself alone procures admission, But for his train. It was his royal will That where he is, there should his followers be. Death only lies between: a gloomy path, Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears; But not untrod, nor tedious: the fatigue 690 Will soon go off. Besides, there's no bye-road To bliss. Then why, like ill-condition'd children, Start we at transient hardships in the way That leads to purer air, and softer skies, And a ne'er-setting sun?--Fools that we are! We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom; But straight our wish revoke, and will not go. So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by the rivulet's brink a youngster play: How wishfully he looks to stem the tide! 700 This moment resolute, next unresolved: At last he dips his foot; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From the inoffensive stream, unmindful now Of all the flowers that paint the further bank, And smiled so sweet of late.--Thrice welcome death! That after many a painful bleeding step Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe On the long-wish'd-for shore.--Prodigious change! Our bane turn'd to a blessing!--Death, disarm'd, 710 Loses his fellness quite.--All thanks to him Who scourged the venom out!--Sure the last end Of the good man is peace!--How calm his exit! Night dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening-tide of life, A life well spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green: By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. 720 High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away: Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest.--Then, oh then! Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought.--Oh! how he longs To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd! 'Tis done! and now he's happy! The glad soul 730 Has not a wish uncrown'd.--Even the lag flesh Rests, too, in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain:--the time draws on, When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust Inviolate!--and faithfully shall these Make up the full account; not the least atom Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. 740 Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd;