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Rh The sick man’s lightning half an hour ere death, When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; Yet so relieving the o’er-tortured clay, To him appears renewal of his breath, And freedom the mere numbness of his chain;— And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirits soaring—albeit weak, And of the fresher air, which he would seek; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, And so the film comes o’er him—and the dizzy Chamber swims round and round—and shadows busy, At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, And all is ice and blackness,—and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth.

There is no hope for nations!—Search the page Of many thousand years—the daily scene,