Classic Poem

Say! what is there so terrible in Death;
That dastard Nature shrinks at it's Approach,
And basely trembles at the Dissolution
That parts the heav'nly Particle from Clay?
From that poor ailing Matter, that confines
The Breath of God! from mingling with the Saints?
'Tis want of Love — of that Seraphic Love
Which we should nourish for a blest Redeemer!
'Tis want of Confidence, and inward Light,
To reconcile, and fit us for the Change.
We've not those Longings, that the Chosen have
To be united to, and serve the Lord;
Our blind Affections, like a senseless Steel
By Pleasure's Magnet, quick attracted are;
The unmature Attachment strongly binds,
And hoodwinks Reason, from the blest Pursuit
Of that more durable and pure Delight,
Which merits our best Pains, whose Fruit is Life;
That only Goal, to which our Wish shou'd steer
For everlasting, real Happiness.
While all the Bliss we've here is transient,
And like the Morning Light, at Night's forgot,
Still the unsatiate Appetite pursues
Those fleeting Joys, that do but mock his Toil;
The shadowy Wanton, lures him on to Death,
Then vanishes, and leaves him to his Fate.