The poetical works of James Thomson ...

MEMIOIR OF THOMISON. lxix
compassion for the departed, without a return upon
themselves, they envisage them in the article of death,
and under the pains both real and imagined thereof;
that is to say, they grieve for them whilst they were
alive. Death is a limit which human passions ought
not, but with great caution and reverence, to pass.
Nor, indeed, can they easily pass that limit; since
beyond it things are not clearly and distinctly enough
perceived formally to excite them. This, I think, we
may be sure of, that a future state must be better than
this; and so on through the never-ceasing succession
of future states; every one rising upon the last, an
everlasting new display of infinite goodness. But
hereby hangs a system, not calculated perhaps for the
meridian in which you live, though for that of your
own mind, and too long to be explained in a letter. I
will conclude these thoughts by giving you some lines
of a copy of verses I wrote on my friend, Mr. Talbot's
death, and designed at first to be prefixed to' Liberty,'
but afterwards reduced to those you see stand there.
Perhaps some time or other I may publish the whole.' Be then the startling tear,
Or selfish, or mistaken, wiped away.
By death the good, from reptile matter raised,
And upward soaring to superior day,
With pity hear our plaints, with pity see
Our ignorance of tears; if e'er indeed,
Amid the woes of life, they quench their joys.
Why should we cloud a friend's exalted state
With idle grief, tenaciously prolonged
Beyond the lonely drops that frailty sheds,
Surprised? No, rather thence less fond of life,
Yet still the lot enjoying heaven allows,
Attend we, cheerful, the rejoining hour.
Children of nature! let us not reject,