Aye! now you've made the rich man poor indeed :
Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind?
O cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake

The fool throws up his interest in both worlds,
First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.
How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! how wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,

O might she stay to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror: but the foe,
Like a staunch murderer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on:
All forced at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul!
What a strange moment must it be, when near
Thy journey's end thou hast the gulf in view!
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd
To tell what's doing on the other side!
Nature runs back and shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting!
For part they must: body and soul must part;
Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair.
This wings its way to its Almighty Source,

The witness of its actions, now its judge;
That drops into the dark and noisome grave,
Like a disabled pitcher, of no use.

If death was nothing, and naught after death; If, when men died, at once they ceased to be, Returning to the barren womb of nothing,

Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee

Untrembling mouth the heavens; then might the drunkard

Reel over his full bowl, and when 'tis drain'd,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

At the poor bug-bear Death; then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tired of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way; whether by hemp or steel:
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force
The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes? Sure! he does well
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there is an hereafter,
And that there is, conscience uninfluenced,
And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man,
Then must it be an awful thing to die;
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.
Self-murder! name it not; our island's shame,
That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states.
Shall Nature, swerving from her earliest dictate,
Self-preservation, fall by her own act?
Forbid it, Heaven! let not, upon disgust,
The shameless hand be foully crimson'd o'er
With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt!
Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage

To rush into the presence of our Judge!

As if we challenged him to do his worst,

And matter'd not his wrath. Unheard-of tortures
Must be reserved for such: these herd together;
The common damn'd shun their society,

And look upon themselves as fiends less foul..
Our time is fix'd, and all our days are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not: this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission:
Like sentries, that must keep their destined stand,
And wait the appointed hour, till they're relieved.
Those only are the brave who keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away

Is but a coward's trick: to run away

From this world's ills, that at the very worst
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
By boldly venturing on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark! 'tis mad:
No frenzy half so desperate as this.

Tell us, ye dead! will none of you in pity
To those you left behind, disclose the secret ?
O! that some courteous ghost would blab it out,
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !
I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes
Forewarn❜d men of their death: 'twas kindly done
To knock and give the alarm. But what means
This stinted charity? "Tis but lame kindness
That does its work by halves. Why might you not
Tell us what 'tis to die? Do the strict laws
Of your society forbid your speaking

Upon a point so nice? I'll ask no more;
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine
Enlightens but yourselves: well-'tis no matter :

A very little time will clear up all,

And make us learn'd as you are, and as close. Death's shafts fly thick! Here falls the village swain,

And there his pamper'd lord! The cup goes round, And who so artful as to put it by?

'Tis long since death had the majority;

Yet, strange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle!

Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand

Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance
By far his juniors! Scarce a scull 's cast up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some passage of his life. Thus, hand in hand,
The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a smuttier tale: when drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds not
That soon some trusty brother of the trade
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.

On this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegenerate days
Could scarce have leisure for; fools that we are!
Never to think of death and of ourselves
At the same time; as if to learn to die

Were no concern of ours. O more than sottish!
For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood
To frolic on eternity's dread brink,

Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,

The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, Time hurries on
With a resistless, unremitting stream,

Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief,
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow,
And carries off his prize. What is this world?
What but a spacious burial-field unwall'd,
Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals,
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones?
The very turf on which we tread once lived;
And we that live must lend our carcasses
To cover our own offspring: in their turns
They too must cover theirs. "Tis here all meet!
The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;

And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash'd
The great negotiators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,
Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts:
Now vain their treaty-skill! Death scorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden
From his gall'd shoulders; and when the cruel tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm, and quick as thought escapes
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the bubbling stream,
Time out of mind the favourite seats of love,
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down
Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes