Classic Poem

What do I hear — or fancy that I hear?
(As long accustom'd to the doleful sound)
The tolling of yon melancholy bell!
Which has for weeks and months, incessantly,
Some dreadful story in my ears proclaim'd,
And with repeated strokes alarm'd the town!

Alas! tis more than fancy — — Hark! it strikes!
Yea more, in language most emphatical,
It speaks! — My inmost soul with horror fills,
What does the dread but true informer say?
What doth it intimate or what declare?
Not that some valiant chief, mighty in arms,
Returns, with honour and with conquest crown'd:
Nor that a noble heir is lately born,
Whose birth makes joyful his glad parents hearts,
And proves perhaps a bliss to future days:
Nor that the nuptial knot has just been ty'd,
Between some happy pair, who mutually
Agree to spend their future days in love's
Embrace — Nor is it what wou'd be less pleasing,
That some intolerable woe is near,
If an expedient be not quickly found
T' avert, or dissipate th' impending stroke;
For were it thus, each may allay his grief,
And with a peradventure quell the sigh.
But ah! it leaves us not one glimpse of hope,
More than portention in its voice is heard.
It tells us that the fatal dart is fled,
Lodg'd in the vitals, in the heart, or head,
Of some one of the race of fallen Adam:
And that an awful separation's made,
The spirit forc'd from her clay tenement,
Prepar'd, or unprepar'd, away she's fled,
To stand before the heart rein-trying God .
And now her die eternally is cast
In sad perdition, or in endless bliss.
In vain ten thousand arts would now combine,
Ten thousand briny show'rs be pour'd in vain,
Or all the treasures of the Indies brought,
To make the soul resume her wonted seat,
Or actuate the inanimated clay.
Such is the conquest, such the pow'r of death,
Who daily some new trophy doth erect,
To shew how universally he reigns.
O thou inimitable King of Terrors!
Shall none escape from thy voracious jaws,
But wilt thou still continue to destroy,
Nor heed what age, what quality, or sex?
The tender babe, the great, the wise, the good,
The hoary head, the mean, the weak, the vile,
Are all by thee, alike, reduc'd to dust!
Destruction is essential to thy nature,
And formidable to thy very name.

But oh! my soul, why ragest thou at death?
He is but the vicegerent of his God ,
Nor did he ever give the mortal wound,
Until the fatal mandate had been seal'd,
And sent from the tremendous court of heav'n:
And then, indeed, obsequious to his God ,
And deaf to all the cries of sinful man,
At once he executes his dread command.
Tis heav'n's decree, since thy first parents sinn'd,
And dost thou at the just decree repine?)
That ev'ry soul of man should pass through death.
Though, if thou tracest matters to their source,
That monster sin, was the efficient cause
Of all calamities, of ev'ry death;
Of that for which I now hear yonder knell,
Which brings this secret horror o'er my heart.

Sinner awake, the deathly signal hear,
Regard it as a monitor to thee!
A gracious call, a special voice from heav'n!
But ah! death's visits now so frequent are;
Men laugh at death, and lightly of him deem!
Though dead in fin, and enemies to God ,
They think to meet him with an air of triumph;
Nor ever dream, that at his dread approach,
Ten thousand horrors will at once awake!
Conscience, though stifl'd till that very moment,
Will, like some potent prince, victorious rise,
And act the part for which it was design'd.
Open the book of records, and arrange
In dread array before the sinner's mind,
Ten thousand times ten thousand past transgressions!
Which had for years as in oblivion lain,
(Then blacken'd with the love of slighted grace,)
Will all appear — distract the guilty mind,
And drive the frantic soul to deep despair.

Then with a fearful looking for of death,
She dies — and sinks into the dark abyss,
Nor ever knows a period to her pains.
For still, and still, and still, 'tis " wrath to come!
O then vain man, " work while 'tis call'd to-day, "
Bethink thyself, before it be too late,
Fall quickly to soliloquy, and say, —
Am I not immortal, like my fellow-creature?
And can I call one inch of time my own,
Or boast myself in the approaching hour?
With great celerity my moments fly,
Surely my days will shortly find a period!

Suppose it now! — Bring death's pale aspect near,
See him and his concomitants advance!
Fancy the well-aim'd arrow on the wing, —
Sev'ring thy soul from all terrestrial things!
To stand before the great tremendous Judge,
Whose piercing eye hath taken cognizance
Of ev'ry thought, and word, and act unjust,
By thee committed, but by thee forgot!
Lo! the minutest has not miss'd his notice,
Nor slipt the mind of the E TERNAL A LL .

How stands thy soul affected at the thought?
Ah! is there not a something that recoils
And wishes to postpone the fatal hour?
This argues all is not aright within;
And that if death should find thee as thou art,
Thou wouldst not die, as doth a bird, or beast,
Who are annihilated at their death,
But dying, die, and die, and never die.
O then redeem thy time, to J ESUS fly,
With speed take shelter in his bleeding wounds,
Who only takes away death's poignant sting,
And turns the ghastly monster to a friend.
Make sure thy int'rest in the bleeding Lamb,
Nor let him rest, until he speaks thee peace:
Then come whatever may, come life or death,
To live will then be C HRIST , to die be gain.
Death will be more desired by thy soul,
Than all the honours that the world bestows:
For by his friendly hand thou'lt part with sin,
And from a world of sorrow, grief, and pain,
To the immediate presence of thy God ,
There bask in seas of uncreated bliss!
In exstasies to worms on earth unknown!
With angels and arch-angels, sweetly join,
To sing the praises of a T RIUNE -God .