Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/82

Rh Perchance to swell the hoard, which Death shall sweep Like driven chaff away, 'mid stranger hands, Perchance by Pleasure's deadening opiate lulled To false security—or by the fear Of man constrained—or moved to give your sins A little longer scope, beware!—beware!— Lest that dread "almost" shut you out from Heaven.