Page:Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets.pdf/50



HOU, the stern monarch of dismay, Whom nature trembles to survey, Oh Death! to me, the child of grief, Thy welcome power would bring relief, Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. And though thy stroke may thrill with pain Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; The pangs that bid existence close, Ah! sure are far less keen than those, Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.