Classic Poem

AN ODE .

How awful Death! yet Man, secure,
Lives here as if immortal made;
Th' approach of Death, unseen, tho' sure,
Doth seldom make his heart afraid.

Whence can this strange indiff'rence rise,
This fondness to forget our end?
To bus'ness, pleasure, or the noise
Of empty Fame, our wishes tend.

Hope lifts the lively spirit high,
And health invigorates the heart;
Yet this majestic frame must die —
This active soul must hence depart.

Unwelcome truth to Beauty's ear,
Elate with praise, the lively mind
Employs its fondest wishes here,
To gaiety and love inclin'd.

Ah! since his will who being gave,
Foredoom'd his creatures here to die,
Let us, ere buried in the grave,
In virtuous acts our time employ.

Let us our appetites restrain,
And crave Religion's pow'rful aid;
Then after Death, in Heav'n serene,
Our souls shall live, in light array'd.