March 13, 1726-7

This day, whate'er the Fates decree,Shall still be kept with joy by me:This day then let us not be told,That you are sick, and I grown old;Nor think on our approaching ills,And talk of spectacles and pills;To-morrow will be time enoughTo hear such mortifying stuff.Yet, since from reason may be broughtA better and more pleasing thought,Which can, in spite of all decays,Support a few remaining days;From not the gravest of divinesAccept for once some serious lines.Although we now can form no moreLong schemes of life, as heretofore;Yet you, while time is running fast,Can look with joy on what is past.Were future happiness and painA mere contrivance of the brain;As atheists argue, to enticeAnd fit their proselytes for vice;(The only comfort they propose,To have companions in their woes;)Grant this the case; yet sure 'tis hardThat virtue, styled its own reward,And by all sages understoodTo be the chief of human good,Should acting die; nor leave behindSome lasting pleasure in the mind,Which, by remembrance, will assuageGrief, sickness, poverty, and age;And strongly shoot a radiant dartTo shine through life's declining part.Say, Stella, feel you no content,Reflecting on a life well spent?Your skilful hand employ'd to saveDespairing wretches from the grave;And then supporting with your storeThose whom you dragg'd from death before?So Providence on mortals waits,Preserving what it first creates.Your generous boldness to defendAn innocent and absent friend;That courage which can make you justTo merit humbled in the dust;The detestation you expressFor vice in all its glittering dress;That patience under torturing pain,Where stubborn stoics would complain:Must these like empty shadows pass,Or forms reflected from a glass?Or mere chimeras in the mind,That fly, and leave no marks behind?Does not the body thrive and growBy food of twenty years ago?And, had it not been still supplied,It must a thousand times have died.Then who with reason can maintainThat no effects of food remain?And is not virtue in mankindThe nutriment that feeds the mind;Upheld by each good action past,And still continued by the last?Then, who with reason can pretendThat all effects of virtue end?Believe me, Stella, when you showThat true contempt for things below,Nor prize your life for other ends,Than merely to oblige your friends;Your former actions claim their part,And join to fortify your heart.For Virtue, in her daily race,Like Janus, bears a double face;Looks back with joy where she has goneAnd therefore goes with courage on:She at your sickly couch will wait,And guide you to a better state.O then, whatever Heaven intends,Take pity on your pitying friends!Nor let your ills affect your mind,To fancy they can be unkind.Me, surely me, you ought to spare,Who gladly would your suffering share;Or give my scrap of life to you,And think it far beneath your due;You, to whose care so oft I oweThat I'm alive to tell you so.