Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?
Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid,
Whilst, surfeited upon the damask cheek,

The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,

Riots unscared. For this, was all thy caution?
For this thy painful labors at thy glass?

T improve those charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not. Foul feeder!
Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the sense.

Look how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers:
Honest effusion! the swollen heart in vain
Works hard to put a gloss on its distress.
Strength, too-thou surly, and less gentle boast
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring!
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down,
With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dared thee to th' unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? deep groan indeed!
With anguish heavy laden; let me trace it;
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belabor'd, gasps for breath
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant
To give the lungs full play! what now avail
The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well-spread shoulders?
See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,

Mad with his pain! Eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard,
Just like a creature drowning! hideous sight!
Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly,
Whilst the distemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up.

Heard you that groan?
It was his last. See how the great Goliath,

Just like a child that brawl'd itself to rest,

Lies still.-What! mean'st thou then, O mighty boaster! To vaunt of nerves of thine? What! means the bull, Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward,

And flee before a feeble thing like man;'

That, knowing well the slackness of his arm,
Trusts only in the well-invented knife?

With study pale, and midnight vigils spent,
The star-surveying sage, close to his eye
Applies the sight-invigorating tube;

And travelling thro' the boundless length of space,
Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs,
That roll with regular confusion there,

In ecstasy of thought. But ah! proud man,
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head;
Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails;

And down thou dropp'st into that darksome place,
Where nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Пere the tongue-warrior lies, disabled now,
Disarm'd, dishonor'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd,

And cannot tell his ails to passers by.

Great man of language, whence this mighty change?
This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?

Though strong persuasion hung upon thy lip,
And sly insinuation's softer arts

In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue:

Alas! how chop-fall'n now! Thick mists and silence
Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceasing.-Ah! where is the lifted arm,

The strength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tuned voice,
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?

Ah! fled forever, as they ne'er had been!

Razed from the book of fame; or, more provoking,
Perchance some hackney, hunger-bitten scribbler,
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes,

With heavy halting pace that drawl along;
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage,

And warm with red resentment the wan cheek.
Here the great masters of the healing art,
These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb!
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Resign to fate. Proud Esculapius' son!
Where are thy boasted implements of art,
And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as ship could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook,

Escaped thy rifling hand: from stubborn shrubs
Thou wrung'st their shy retiring virtues out,
And vex'd them in the fire;-nor fly, nor insect,
Nor writhy snake, escaped thy deep research.
But why this apparatus? why this cost?

Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave!
Where are thy recipes and cordials now,

With the long list of vouchers for thy cures?
Alas! thou speak'st not.-The bold impostor
Looks not more silly when the cheat's found out.
Here, the lank-sided miser, worst of felons!
Who meanly stole, (discreditable shift!)

From back and belly too, their proper cheer;
Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay
To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged;
By clam'rous appetites no longer teased,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs.

But, ah! where are his rents, his comings in?
Ay! now you've made the rich man poor indeed:
Robb'd of his goods, what has he left behind?
O cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake
The fool throws up his int'rest 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,

Oh! 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 murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till, 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 were nothing, and nought after death;