Classic Poem

When pleasures court the human heart,
Oh! 'tis reluctant work to part.
Are we with griefs and pains oppress'd?
Woe says that Death's a welcome guest?
Though sure to cure our evils all,
He's the last doctor we would call.
We think, if he arrives at morn,
'Tis hard to die, as soon as born.
Or if the conqueror invade,
When life projects the evening shade,
Do we not meditate delay,
And still request a longer stay?
We shift our homes, we change the air.
And double, like the hunted hare.
Thus be it morn, or night, or noon,
Come when he will, he comes too soon!
You wish my subject I would wave,
The preface is so very grave.
Come then, my friend, I'll change my style,
And couch instruction with a smile:
But promise, ere I tell my tale,
The serious moral shall prevail.
Vanbruin died—his son, we're told,
Succeeded to his father's gold.
Flush'd with his wealth, the thoughtless blade
Despis'd frugality and trade;
Left Amsterdam with eager haste,
Dress and the Hague engross'd his taste.
Ere long his passion chang'd its shape,
He grew enamour'd with the grape.
Frequented much a house of cheer,
Just like our fools of fortune here;
With sots and harlots fond to join,
And revel o'er his midnight wine.
Once on a time the bowls had flow'd,
Quite till the morning cock had crow'd,
When Death, at every hour awake,
Enter'd the room, and claim'd the rake.
The youth's complexion spoke his fears,
Soft stole adown his cheek the tears.
At length the anguish of his breast
With faltering tongue he thus express'd.
‘Thou king of terrors, hear my prayer,
And condescend for once to spare.
Let me thy clemency engage,
New to the world, and green in age.
When life no pleasures can dispense,
Or pleasures pall upon the sense;
When the eye feels departing sight,
And rolls its orb in vain for light;
When music's joys no longer cheer
The sickening heart, or heavy ear;
Or when my aching limbs forbear,
In sprightly balls to join the fair;
I'll not repeat my suit to Death,
But cheerfully resign my breath.’
‘Done,’ says the monarch, ‘be it so;
Observe—you promise then to go!’
What favour such protracted date
From the stern minister of fate!
Your wonder will be greater soon,
To hear the wretch perverts the boon.
Who, during years beyond a score,
Ne'er thought upon his promise more!
But were these terms by Death forget?
Ah! no—again he seeks the sot.
The wretch was in the tavern found,
With a few gouty friends around.
Dropsy had seiz'd his legs and thighs,
Palsy his hands, and rheum his eyes.
When thus the king—‘Intemperate elf,
Thus, by debauch, to dupe yourself.
What! are my terrors spurn'd by thee!
Thou fool! to trifle thus with me!
You ask'd before for length of days,
Only to riot various ways.
What were thy pleas but then a sneer?
I'll now retort with jest severe.
‘Read this small print,’ the monarch cries—
‘You mock me, sir,’ the man replies;
‘I scarce could read when in my prime,
And now my sight's impair'd by time.
Sure you consider not my age—
I can't discern a smgie page.
And when my friends the bottle pass,
I scarce can see to fill my glass.
‘Here, take this nut, observe it well—
'Tis my command you crack the shell.’
‘How can such orders be obey'd?
My grinders, sir, are quite decay'd.
My teeth can scarce divide my bread,
And not a sound one in my head!’
But Death, who more sarcastic grew,
Disclos'd a violin to view;
Then loud he call'd, ‘Old Boy, advance,
Stretch out your legs, and lead the dance.’
The man rejoin'd—‘When age surrounds,
How can the ear distinguish sounds?
Are not my limbs unwieldy grown?
Are not my feet as cold as stone?
Dear sir, take pity on my state—
My legs can scarce support my weight!’
Death drops the quaint, insulting joke,
And meditates the fatal stroke:
Assuming all his terrors now,
He speaks with anger on his brow.
‘Is thus my lenity abus'd,
And dare you hope to stand excus'd?
You've spent your time, that pearl of price!
To the detested ends of vice.
Purchas'd your short-liv'd pleasures dear,
And seal'd your own destruction here.
Inflam'd your reckoning too above,
By midnight bowls, and lawless love.
Warning, you know, I gave betimes—
Now go, and answer for your crimes.’
‘Oh! my good lord, repress the blow—
I am not yet prepar'd to go:
And let it, sir, be further told,
That not a neighbour thinks me old.
My hairs are now but turning grey,
I am not sixty, sir, till May.
Grant me the common date of men,
I ask but threescore years and ten.’
‘Dar'st thou, prevaricating knave,
Insult the monarch of the grave?
I claim thy solemn contract past—
Wherefore this moment is thy last.’
Thus having said, he speeds his dart,
And cleaves the hoary dotard's heart.