A Pastoral Reflection ON DEATH.  
A POEM.  
— Omnes una manet Nox,  
Et calcanda semel via Lethi.  Hor. 
LONDON: Printed for T. Dring, at the Harrow at Chancery Lane End next Fleetstreet. MDCXCI.   

DEAR NED,  
AN Old Friend is the best Maecenas, that makes me choose you before any Poetical Lord or Esquire, and I believe this Reflection will prove too Melancholy for the Town, where Men make it their Business to forget Mortality. For these Reasons, I have sent this Poem to you in the Country, where much Leisure and an honest Retirement will permit you to enjoy the Meditation. Nothing here goes off but satire, for our good natured Age, is mightily in love with a Muse that's born with Teeth, though such Births have always been esteemed Ominous, and is very fond of Men that come into the World, like Briers to scratch and tear all about them. I cannot deny but Obscenity has its good liking: But I should be very unwilling to make my Court that way, for I am much of the Spanish Lady's Mind, who dreaded to be delivered down to Posterity for a Whore, though to a King. You had not been troubled with this Poem in Print, if most of it had not been put out before in a Book of Miscellanies, but it was so blemished by the Press, that its ill usage moved the Compassion of Strangers, which encouraged me to rescue it from its Deformity, and to add a second Part. But after all, if it will divert you when you want a News-Letter or a Gazette, it is as much as is expected by  
Dear Ned, Yours.   

A Pastoral Reflection ON DEATH.  Strephon and Damon. 

BEneath a gloomy Yews unhealthy Shade,  
Whose noxious Coverts shunned by Bird and Beast,  
The wretched Damon lay with Arms   
His labouring Breast, quick like a sickly Pulse,  
His Heart with Passion seemed to throb and beat,  
Out of his half-closed Eyes there stole a Tear  
Along the Sallow Furrows of his Cheeks,  
The deep engraven Characters of Grief.  
The Pipe which he with Tuneful Breath inspired,  
And made the Vocal Organ of his Lays,  
Fell broke, and silent, by the dire effect  
Of raging Sorrow, for in that was lost  
The Wonder and Delight of all the Plains.   

As Strephon chanced to shape his Course that way,  
In Quest of two lost Ewes that lately strayed,  
He spied the Shepherd stretched upon the Ground.  
Amazed at the sad spectacle of Woe,  
He silent stood; then, Damon, Damon, cried;  
When thus provoked, he raised his weary Head,  
That straight recoiled, and gently sunk to rest,  
At last with's Elbow pillowed from the Ground,  
He gave Attention to his Speaking Friend.   STREPHON. 
What makes my Damon secretly Retire?  
Resolved in private to possess his Grief,  
When Damon's Sheep require their Damon's Care?  
Last Night I heard the Wolves run howling by,  
With their fierce Eyes devouring all our Flocks,  
Their Fear above their Hunger scarce prevailed;  
For two Lambs in my view they almost seized.  
In yonder Village too, I heard this Day,  
That Thiefs have lately visited our Folds.  
Rise Damon, rise, and leave thy Cares behind.  DAMON. 
All this will not provoke my Diligence;  
For far more ravenous Wolves have seized on me,  
And make my panting Heart their wretched Prey,  
That vainly strives to shift the cruel Pain.  
My Breast was never infested with wild Care  
As long as dear Myrtillo lived, whose Charms  
Could calm the roughest Tempest of my Mind.  
A discontinued Sunshine I enjoyed,  
Till dear Myrtillo set in his dark Grave.  
Now there's no lucid Interval of Peace,  
Or pause of Quiet to my troubled Mind.  
Sad Death must be the Period of my Woe  
And Life, than Damon, like Myrtillo, Dye.  STREPHON. 
Thy Soul, fond Shephard, is with Passion crazed,  
And thy distempered Reason falsely takes  
The dreadful King of Terrors for thy Friend;  
Should he but lay his Icy Hand on thee,  
Affrighted Nature would recant the wish  
Which you in Trouble made with too much haste;  
And like the Grass before the Mowers Sith,  
Would bending, try to 'scape the fatal Stroke.  
If Death's so pleasant, why should you lament  
Myrtillo's Fate?  DAMON. 
Alas! the lovely Youth  
Would willingly have suffered tedious Life.  
The strong Convulsions of his Friendship were  
More fierce than the last Agonies of Death;  
His parting Soul by lingering here below,  
Did seem to catch at Life to stay with me.  
But when resistless Fate had summoned him,  
He kindly fixed his closing Eyes on mine,  
Then beckoned me to follow to the Grave.  
This makes me think 'tis no hard Task to Die,  
For harmless Shepherds, whose unspotted Lives  
Are innocent, as are the Flocks they feed.  
Fear is but the Result of Gild.  STREPHON. 
I Know  
Death has his Terrors chief from our Crimes,  
And Virtue can disarm the Ghastly Foe;  
Yet Nature too still fears to be dissolved,  
Like tender Lambs that dread the Butcher's Knife,  
Although they nothing fear beyond the Blow▪  
For who can boast a perfect Innnocence,  
Or run the nimble Race of humane Life,  
Always along a spotless milky-way?  
There's no such Path but in the Heavens above,  
Which we at Penning-time so plainly see.  
Methinks I tremble whilst I talk of DEATH,  
Am almost frighted with my own Discourse.  
Thus I anticipate the Fatal Hour  
That must snatch me from chaste Dorinda's Arms,  
And the dear Pledges of our Mutual Love.  
When I am Dead, who'll teach my lovely Boys  
To use the Hook, or help the labouring Ewe?  
Dorinda, with my Boys, and Sheep, must all  
Be left a Prey to Man, who still to Man  
Proves the most savage Wolf. The strong  
Worry the weak, remorseless Avarice,  
Urging the hungry Miser to Oppress,  
And wild Ambition Treads upon the Poor,  
Bad footing sure; and that which will subvert  
But ill-laid Greatness of aspiring Man.  
Such Thoughts as these Myrtillo had, when Life  
Did, as you say, seem pleasing to the Youth.  DAMON. 
Why would you abrogate my firm Resolve,  
And with those Fears repeal the thoughts of Death?  
Did you but know how sweetly they Repose  
On Beds of Earth that are Lodged under Ground.  
Uninterrupted Rest they all enjoy,  
And with the want of Life are best by Death:  
They but Retreat to a far greater World.  
For how few tread the Surface of the Globe,  
Compared to crowding Colonies that Fate  
Sends daily to the Bowels of the Earth,  
That has been peopling ever since old Time  
Commenced the Subterranean Universe,  
Still gapes to swallow down the upper World.  
But when my Body's earthen Pitcher's broke  
By Nature's stroke, or Fortune's random blow;  
My Soul, like Gideon's Lamp, from its cracked Urn,  
Shall Death's Black Night turn to Eternal Day;  
For all the Spots of my poor sullied Soul  
Shall be washed off by Heavens Eternal Lamb,  
Whose tender Veins spouted a Bath of Blood,  
(The sacred Laver of all faithful Swains.)  
I well remember dear Mirtillo's Song  
With which he used to cheer his doubtful Soul  
Before she took her last Eternal Flight.  

A Penitential ODE.  


I.  
TEar off the Strings, undress the speaking Lyre,  
Let nought but Groans her Breast inspire,  
Her Grief all common Sorrow must surpass,  
For she, Alas!  
Her Master's Crimes must now bewail,  
In sounds, I hope, that will prevail.  
In well-set Sighs, and Tears, I'll try  
(Such Waters will befriend their Harmony)  
To make my Penitential MELODY.  
At my first Groan kind Angels Sing,  
Glad of my Pious Suffering.  
For whilst I Weep, whilst I Lament,  
In Songs they welcome home the hopeful Penitent.   

II.  
For what Crime shall my first Tear fall?  
O! not for One, Lord, but for All.  
For my Firstborn Iniquity,  
That had Its Birth into the World with me?  
In Eight Days time that Monster Dead was found,  
In my Baptismal Font the Fatal Twin was Drowned.  
For my grey long-lived Errors that engage  
My easy Youth, my stubborn Age,  
My Tears shall flow, and try  
To slay the numerous Progeny,  
That like their Parent, they may in the Waters Dye.  
But if they ride  
In Triumph, on that weaker Tide,  
I'll borrow an auxiliary Flood  
Of our great Shepherds precious Blood.  
With that resistless Torrent I'll confound  
Th' Egyptian Host of Sin in that Red-Sea they're drowned,   

III.  
Bring all her Strings, new dress the speaking Lyre,  
And with glad Notes her Breast inspire,  
 she is ready, let it not be long,  
The great JEHOVA claims her Song:  
See how her Strings about my Finger's crowd,  
And how they press to tell my Joy aloud.  
As jointly we Rejoice,  
The Heavens, and Earth, reflect the Image of our Voice.   STREPHON. 
When you shall tread the confines of the Grave,  
And your Soul is to a strange somewhere bound,  
(For Nature still will combat lively Faith)  
'tis great Relief to have such cheerful hopes  
‛ That will repress the Horrors of the Mind:  
We only by the Optics of our Fatith  
Can travel to the Promised Land above.  
Yet we must not precipitate our Fate,  
But wait Heaven's Leisure, therefore (Damon pray)  
For my sake Live to Night, to Morrow Dye.   

The Second Part.  
THE faithful Shepherd's Care renews with Day,  
Early as Light he quits his honest Rest;  
No Goblins, made by Fancy, haunt his sleep,  
Or lustful Heats provoke his wanton Blood.  
Perhaps his Phyllis dances o'er his Mind,  
Or some loved Lamb plays in his harmless Thought,  
And thus repeats the pleasure of the Day.  
As fresh and pure as Morn young Strephon risen  
To tend his Flocks, that then stood bleating o'er  
Their empty Cribs. But Damon's pungent Grief  
Had made him come now earlier to the Plain.  
When all things else are silent, and at rest,  
His watchful Cares prevent his wished Repose,  
For his too faithful Memory recalls  
Each former Grief, and makes him once again  
Distinctly suffer past Calamities.  
Myrtillo dies a Thousand times a Night,  
And he with Tears as oft bedews his Hearse.  
He, by the wretched Witchcraft of his Woe,  
With blubbered Eyes had fascinated's Flock.  
When Strephon had surveyed the sad estate  
Of Sheep and Shepherd, with a gentle Sigh,  
He thus began their Morning Dialogue.  STREPHON. 
Damon, I thank you, since at my Request  
You to the short Account of Life this Day  
Have added, but an Earnest given, I hope,  
Of more.  DAMON. 
Alas! Myrtillo still is Dead.  STREPHON. 
'Tis true, and he has reched the peaceful shore  
Of t'other World, where he dissolving lies  
In Hallelujas, whilst our trembling Ears,  
The Trumpet, Drum, all the mad din of War,  
Wound, the sad Preludes of ensuing Fate,  
The dying Groans of a distempered State.  
The Wolf was the sole Rapperee we feared.  
Now the more ravenous humane Beasts of Prey,  
Trained up in Slaughter, Rapine, Perfidy,  
Bold Martial Satyrs, hot with Rage and Lust  
Will Butcher all our Flocks. Nor Age, nor Sex,  
Will scape the fury of their double Heat.  
Wild desolation marches still with War.  DAMON. 
Is this your invitation to long Life?  
Sure then 'tis best straight to entrench in Dust,  
They can't beat up my Charters in the Grave,  
Or rudely Bomb my humble Sepulchre;  
Nor can they pilfer my stripped Souls cast ,  
Safely locked up in a deep sleep by Death,  
Till the last Trump's enlivening sound shall raise  
The Sluggard that has slept for Ages past.  
You did not quite complete the Catalogue  
Of Miseries that threaten tedious Life.  
See how the Storms beat on the Church's Ark,  
For many fierce Euroclydons now blow  
On the small Ship that wafts the Gentile Church.  
But still, I hope, she'll ride the angry Wave,  
That by its Motion mounts her higher Heaven.  STREPHON. 

You know there's not security against  
That Wind that bears a Tempest in its Name,  
By leaping overboard; then Damon, bear  
A Mind impregnable against th' Assaults  
Of Fate, or Chance; nor suffer black Despair  
To add more Clouds to the dark lowering Sky.  
When Death shall Summon all its sullen Train,  
And grow more dreadful by that Circumstance.  
Then stand erect under thy adverse Fate  
And neither Fear, or Wish, to breathe last.  
As our Great Sidney, that Arcadian Swain,  
That always won the Prizes of the Plain,  
Pushed on by Honour to his early Fate,  
Appeased the mortal Anguish of his Wound  
With Music: I confirm my labouring Soul  
With this short Lay, in my Lifes dark Eclipse.   

What makes my Soul to linger here,  
And but to quit her Prison fear,  
Crammed full of anxious Thoughts and Cares?  
(She hugs the Load so ill she bears.)  
Vice makes us tremble when we Dye,  
But Virtue baffles Destiny.  
Who here a Virtuous Life has past,  
May, without Sighing, Breath his last.   DAMON. 

'Tis hard to tread the Straight, but narrow Path  
Of Virtue, for distorted Flesh and Blood.  
Fond Love wryth's Youth, Ambition warps old Age,  
The lust of Power: Nay, all the lawless crew  
Of Passions, the vile Rabble of the Mind,  
Still makes an uproar in the little World,  
Their lawful Sovereign, Reason, to Depose.  
But now, I hope, she'll re-ascend her Throne  
By Right Divine. Propitious Queen of Man!  
Heaven puts the Sceptre in thy equal Hand,  
Exert thy Power, long be thy boundless Sway,  
And let me have the pleasure to OBEY.     
FINIS.