Page:The lives of the poets of Great Britain and Ireland to the time of Dean Swift - Volume 4.djvu/348

338 :Hark! they whiſper; Angels ſay,
 * Sifter ſpirit, come away!
 * What is this abſorbs me quite,
 * Steals my ſenſes, ſhuts my ſight,
 * Drowns my ſpirits, draws my breath?

Tell me, my ſoul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it diſappears! Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears
 * With ſounds ſeraphic ring;

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
 * O grave! where is thy victory?
 * O death! where is thy ſting?

She repeated the above, with an air of intenſe pleaſure. She felt all the elevated ſentiments of pious extaſy and triumph, which breath in that exquiſite piece of ſacred poetry. After this threatning illneſs ſhe recovered her uſual good ſtate of health; and though at the time of her deceaſe ſhe was pretty far advanced in years, yet her exact temperance, and the calmneſs of her mind, undiſturbed with uneaſy cares, and turbulent paſſions, encouraged her friends to hope a much longer enjoyment of ſo valuable a life, than it pleaſed heaven to allow them. On the day when ſhe was ſeized with that diſtemper, which in a few hours proved mortal, ſhe ſeemed to thoſe about her to be in perfect health and vigour. In the evening about eight o’clock ſhe converſed with a friend, with her uſual vivacity, mixed with an extraordinary chearfulneſs, and then retired to her chamber. About 10 her ſervant hearing