The Life and Death of Tom Careless to which is added, The History of Will Worthy & Nancy Wilmot

Tom was a working carpenter, Yet while he plied his trade, His tongue mov’d faster than his hands, And less was done than said.

He told his tale, he crack’d his joke, He was a perfect droll; And of each jovial drinking set, Was both the life and soul.

On such a character as this, Some did with envy gaze; While others wiser, saw much more To pity than to praise.

For Tom with all his merriment, That made such mighty rout, Had taken vice and folly in, And quite shut wisdom out.

He neither look’d, nor car’d, beyond The present passing hour! Alas! now see his sky o’ercast, And storms begin to lour.

A burning fever seiz’d his frame! Look how he pants for breath; And in his vitals feels transfixt Th’ envenomed dart of death.

He feels and shudders at the stroke, He turns but keeps his pain; He looks with eager eyes for help, But human help is vain.

Now conscience from her slumber wakes, And with a dismal cry, Proclaims the vices of his life, And summons him to die.

To die! to leave the present world, To yield his vital breath! To close his eyes on life, and tread The dark, dark vale of death!

To see th’ uplifted stroke that must His soul and body sever! And then to lose the light of life For ever and for ever!

’Twas more than human strength could bear The agonizing strife, Sunk his distracted spirits down Close to the verge of life.

Then his fellow-workmen came, With Careless to condole; Who talk’d of former scenes of mirth, To cheer his troubl’d soul.

But, ah! when conscience sorely smarts— Whose spirit can endure? When GOD inflicts the mighty wound— What mortal hand can cure?

Outstretch’d, his flesh all trembling lies, He heaves a mournful sigh; Attempts to raise his aching head, And ope’ his languid eye.

On the companions of his life, He casts a dismal look; And, lab’ring with conflicting thoughts, Thus the sad silence broke:—

“Ah! ye do well to see a wretch, Whose peace and health are fled; Ye knew him once in festive scenes, Now on his dying bed.

But, O, for ever from my mind Hide ev’ry guilty joy; Oor they’ve polluted all my life, And will my soul destroy.

In sickness, pain, decay, and death, What agonies ye bring! All pointed with the envenom’d barb, Of sin’s eternal sting.

—But have ye no sweet hope to give? No comfort to supply? Must I still languish and despair, And then—ah! must I die?

How can my naked spirit stand Before a righteous GOD? Who, who, shall hide me from his eye, Or shield me from his rod?

O what a load of guilt I feel! My anguish who can tell? My sins will shut me out of heav’n, And sink me down to hell.

By all the mis’ries which I feel, By all the wrath I dread; By heav’ns just veng’ance soon to fall On my devoted head;

I charge you to forsake your sins, And to the SAVIOUR fly: O may he bless you while you live, And save you when you die.

But as for me, can mercy come, Call’d for with parting breath?”— He said—and straight his quiv’ring lips, For ever clos’d in death!

THE History of Will Worthy and Nancy Wilmot.

IN vain the living soul may strive For happiness below; This world no solid joy can give, Nor lasting peace bestow.

Will Worthy was a sprightly lad As ever trod the mead; He thought no cares could make him sad, While pleasure took the lead.

Dex’trous at all the rustic games, He oft his strength display’d, Now the swift race his breast inflames, By emulation sway’d.

At every country fair and wake, Will was the wonder there: Fair females crowded for his sake, And strove his smiles to share.

Sweet Nancy Wilmot of the vale, Won William’s roving heart; To her he told love’s tender tale, Now nothing could them part.

To church they went, the knot was tied, The day was spent in glee; Inviting all to them allied, To join their jollity.

The self-same eve, when on the green, Will danc’d with Nance his bride; Lo! what a sad reverse of scene, She fainted—droop’d—and died!!!

Dismay and horror seiz’d each soul, When this sad news was known, For her the passing-bell did toll, ETERNITY her home.

Like the weak grass, or tender flow’r, Or vapour’s empty breath; Sweet Nancy wither’d in an hour, Cut down by sudden death.

William bewail’d her early fate, A prey to woe and grief; Pensive, forlorn, and wan he sat, And would have no relief.

The question “if her soul was safe?” Gave poignancy to woe; Should hell have follow’d sudden death, “Would she not thither go?”

From brooding on her doubtful lot, Now fix’d for ever sure; His mind now turn’d its every thought, To his sick soul and cure.

“How shall I flee from wrath to come, Where hide my guilty head? Should I next go to my long home, Where shall I be?” he said.

He bade adieu to sinful joy, And trac’d the moral page; The fine clad sentiment could cloy, But not his grief assuage.

No, he had tried all these in vain, All “empty, void, and waste;” They serv’d but to increase his pain, Involving ruin fast.