Death. Victurosq; Dei Celant, Ut Vivere Durent; Felix Est Mori --- Poem by Daniel Baker

Luc. Phar. Lib. .

I.
Come, Life's long Hope, and on thy peaceful Breast
My burning Temples let me rest!
Worn out with Grief, prest down with Loads of Care,
To thee for succour I repair,
Thou Comfort of the Sad, and ease of the Opprest.
Could Mortals all thy Virtues clearly see,
As much belov'd and courted thou wouldst be
By all the World, as now thou art by me.
Wars would not fright us then
Into wall'd Towns, nor thence
Would we be driven by the Pestilence.
To breath the healthful Country Air agen:
Nor to the Doctor would Men flie,
Unless to crave his aidful hand, to make them sooner die,
Thou art the Pilgrims Home, the poor Man's Wealth
The Captive's Ransom, and the sick Man's Health,
In vain of Goods and Liberty
The Living boast; for none are free
Or rich, but only such as are made so by thee.


II.
But Men (alas!) are blind to their own Good,
They shun the Harbour, and desire to be
For ever tossing on the stormy Flood:
From Peace and Happiness they flee,
Because the Benefits that come from thee
Cannot be seen nor understood
But by a wel--purg'd Mind, a quick enlightning Eye.
Blest Aaron's Lot: full wisely he did spie
Thy various Gifts, and well did count
To what vast Sums thy Treasures do amount,
When to the Top of Hor, with thee to meet,
His longing Soul drew up his aged Feet.
There unconcern'd like one that goes to Rest,
Having first himself undrest,
While God--like Moses and his own dear Son,
The Heir of his high Place, with Tears stood looking on.
His wel--pleas'd Head down laid the good old Priest
To Heav'n it's Home, his Spirit enlarged fled;
Within thy Arms his other Part was safe Deposited.


III.
Ah! Let it not prejudge my suit, that I
To thee so late a Convert flie.
Thou dost dispence, I grant, such solid Joys
As well may win a Soul, that lies
Nurs'd in the Lap of warm Prosperities,
And well thou dost deserve our first and freest Choice:
But 'ts (alas) our folly still
Not to know Good, 'till first we taste of Ill.
We're like Sea--monsters, which before
They're wounded, never come to Shore.
So when God's People by the Flesh--pots sate,
Enjoying Bondage easie, they forgat
Their promis'd Country: But the Iron Rod
Of Pharaoh, and the toilsom Fire
Soon kindled in their Breasts a strong desire
Out of Egypt to retire,
And travel tow'rds the fatal Land, where God
Had promis'd rest to them, and safe abode;
A Land, where gentle Streams of Milk and tastful Honey flow'd.


IV.
They know thee not, who thee grim Feature style,
And meagre Shadow; Names too vile
And much unfit for thee, whose ev'ry Part
Lays stronger Chains upon the Heart,
And binds with sweeter Force, than all
That mortal Lovers Beauty call,
Tho' heighten'd much by Fancy, and help'd by Art
Through the false perspective of Hate
They look'd, who hollow Cheeks in thee espy'd.
And Mouth for ever open, grinning wide,
With deep sunk Eyes, and Nose down levell'd flat.
Thou'rt lovely all; no Virgin e'er
Smil'd so sweet, or look'd so fair,
Save she whose heav'nly Womb Man's ruin did repair.
The Charms and Graces which we find
Dispersed here and there in Woman--kind,
Are all united, and sum'd up in thee,
Beauties rich Epitome.
Oh! that in this thou would'st not too
That peevish Sex out--do,
Flying the more from Men, the more they woe.


V.
Truth is, thou once wast such as we
Fond tim'rous Men suspect thee still to be.
Thy Look was Terrible, and justly might
The most resolved Heart affright,
Unable to endure the ghastly Sight,
And on thy gloomy Eye lids sate eternal Night.
But now thy looks are mended: now in thee
No Terrour nor Deformity,
But Friendliness and Love is all we see.
The Blood that issu'd from my Saviour's Side
By strange Transfusion fill'd each Vein
Of thine with such a noble Tide,
That thou'rt grown fresh and young again;
Young as the Morn, Fresh as a Virgin--bride.
The Roses which thy Cheek adorn,
Were there transplanted, from the Thorn
Which on his sacred Head did grow:
His Innocence did deck
Thy Hands and Neck
With Beds of Lilies whiter far than Snow.
Thy Shaft which was of old
Headed with baleful Lead, he tip'd with Gold,
It touch'd his precious Heart,
And straight new Virtue drew, to dart
Not Death, but Life and Joy instead of Smart.
And ever since, thou'rt lovely grown;
Since then, thy charming Face has shone
With borrow'd Grace and Beauty, not thine own.


VI.
Thy Nature thus being chang'd 'tis fit
Thy Name should likewise change with it.
And so it is; Thy Christian Name is Rest,
Sweet Rest, whose balmy Hand at Night repairs
The vital Sp'rits, and Strength, which Day
And painful Labour waste away:
Of all God's Gifts the softest, and the best
The fruitful Womb of Peace, the Tomb of Grief and Cares.
But yet, 'twixt other Rests and thee there lies
This diff'rence: they give Short, thou Lasting Joys.
They make us abler to endure
The long Disease of Life, thou the Disease dost cure.
Our tender Hearts, which the fierce Vulture, Pain
Devoureth, they restore to feel fresh Wounds again;
But when thy Pow'r is o'er,
To Grief and Labour we return no more:
Of everlasting Peace and Joy thou art the Door.
Eternal Life we cannot gain but by
Thy Gift and Liberality,
And he that hopes to live, must wish to die.


VII.
This Hope it is that now my Heart doth move,
For truly (that I may no Flatt'rer prove)
Thy Goods, O gentle Death, not thee I love.
I would not perish like a Beast:
To thee and all the World I here protest.
No such unmanly Thought e'er came within my Breast.
My Wishes are more gen'rous than to be
Reduced to my First Non--entity:
I would not be unmade, but made anew by thee.
I thee, as Men rich Widows do,
Not for thy self, but for thy Portion woe:
Nor shouldst thou ever hear of Love from me,
Were I not sure e'er long to bury thee,
That by thy Spoils enrich'd I may arise
More glorious Banns to solemnize,
And change thy cold Love for a nobler Flame,
The Nuptials of th' eternal Lamb.