Chatterton, Thomas: On the Immortality of the Soul

Say, O my soul, if not allow'd to be

Immortal, whence the mystery we see

Day after day, and hour after hour,

But to proclaim its never-ceasing power?

If not immortal, then our thoughts of thee

Are visions but of non-futurity.

Why do we live to feel of pain on pain,

lf, in the midst of hope, we hope in vain?

Perish the thought in night's eternal shade:

To live, then die, man was not only made.

There's yet an awful something else remains

Either to lessen or increase our pains.

Whate'er it be, whate'er man's future fate,

Nature proclaims there is another state

Of woe, or bliss. But who is he can tell?

None hut the good, and they that have done well.

Oh! may that happiness be ours, my friend,

The little we have now will shortly end;

When joy and bliss more lasting will appear,

Or all our hopes translated into fear.

Oh! may our portion in that world above,

Eternal fountain of eternal love,

Be crown'd with peace that bids the sinner live;

With praise to Him who only can forgive –

Blot out the stains and errors of our youth;

Whose smile is mercy, and whose word is thuth.