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Is the last hour of thousands—they retire From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire; As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect's little world of cares, Descends in silence—while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! Such is man's doom—and, ere an hour be flown, —Start not, thou trifler!—such may be thine own.

But, as life's current in its ebb draws near The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, A thrilling thought, which haply mock'd before, We fain would stifle—but it sleeps no more! There are who fly its murmurs 'midst the throng, That join the masque of revelry and song; Yet still Death's image, by its power restored, Frowns 'midst the roses of the festal board, And when deep shades o'er earth and ocean brood, And the heart owns the might of solitude, Is its low whisper heard?—a note profound, But wild and startling as the trumpet sound, That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose Of some proud city, storm'd by midnight foes!

Oh! vainly Reason's scornful voice would prove That life had nought to claim such lingering love, And ask if e'er the captive, half unchain'd, Clung to the links which yet his step restrain'd? In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, Call up the countless armies of the dead, Point to the pathway beaten by their tread,