With horrors doubled to defend the pass, The blackest, nature, or dire guilt, can raise; 480 And moated round with fathomless destruction, Sure to receive, and whelm them in their fall. Such, Britons! is the cause, to you unknown, Or worse, o'erlook'd; o'erlook'd by magistrates, Thus criminals themselves. I grant the deed Is madness, but the madness of the heart. And what is that? Our utmost bound of guilt. A sensual, unreflecting life, is big With monstrous births, and suicide, to crown The black infernal brood. The bold to break 490 Heaven's law supreme, and desperately rush, Through sacred Nature's murder, on their own, Because they never think of death, they die. 493 'Tis equally man's duty, glory, gain, At once to shun, and meditate, his end. When by the bed of languishment we sit (The seat of wisdom! if our choice, not fate), Or, o'er our dying friends, in anguish hang, Wipe the cold dew, or stay the sinking head, Number their moments, and, in every clock, 500 Start at the voice of an eternity; See the dim lamp of life just feebly lift An agonizing beam, at us to gaze, Then sink again, and quiver into death, That most pathetic herald of our own; How read we such sad scenes? As sent to man In perfect vengeance? No; in pity sent, To melt him down, like wax, and then impress, Indelible, Death's image on his heart; Bleeding for others, trembling for himself. 510 We bleed, we tremble, we forget, we smile. The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry. Our quick-returning folly cancels all; As the tide rushing razes what is writ In yielding sands, and smooths the letter'd shore. Lorenzo! hast thou ever weigh'd a sigh? Or studied the philosophy of tears? (A science, yet unlectured in our schools!) Hast thou descended deep into the breast, And seen their source? If not, descend with me, 520 And trace these briny rivulets to their springs. Our funeral tears from different causes rise, As if from separate cisterns in the soul, Of various kinds, they flow. From tender hearts, By soft contagion call'd, some burst at once, And stream obsequious to the leading eye. Some ask more time, by curious art distill'd. 527 Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to melt, Struck by the magic of the public eye, Like Moses' smitten rock, gush out amain. Some weep to share the fame of the deceased, So high in merit, and to them so dear. They dwell on praises, which they think they share; 533 And thus, without a blush, commend themselves. Some mourn, in proof that something they could love: They weep not to relieve their grief, but show. Some weep in perfect justice to the dead, As conscious all their love is in arrear. Some mischievously weep, not unapprised