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See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pains! 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 bawl'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 trav'ling 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.

Here the tongue-warrior lies disabled now, Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd, And cannot tell his ails to passers by. [change, Great men of language! - Whence this mighty This dumb despair, and drooping of the head? Tho' strong persuasion hung upon thy lip, And sly insinuation's softer arts

In ambush lay upon 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-tun'd voice,
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?

Ah! fled for ever as they ne'er had been;
Raz'd 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.

Here the great masters of the healing art, These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb,

Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Resign their 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 ships could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook,
Escap'd 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, escap'd 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 lists 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, Eas'd of a task it irk'd the wretch to pay To his own carcass, now lies cheaply lodg'd, By clam'rous appetites no longer teaz'd, Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. But, ah! where are his rents, his comings-in? Aye, now you've made the rich man poor indeed! Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind?

Oh, cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake,
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds:
First starv'd 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 our 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 ev'ry 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 forc'd 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 ev'ry 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 nought after death; If when men dy'd, at once they ceas'd to be, Returning to the barren womb of nothing,

Whence first they sprang; then might the debauchee Untrembling mouthe 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 bugbear, Death: then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,

By stealing out of being when he pleas'd,

And by what way; whether by hemp or steel. Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force

The ill-pleas'd guest to sit out his full time,

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