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.
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!