DEATH’S FINAL CONQUEST.
[Among the poetic legacies that will “never grow old, nor change, nor pass away,” is the noble dirge of Shirley, in his Contention of Ajax and Ulysses. Doubtless it was by the fall, if not by the death, of Charles I., that the mind of the royalist poet was solemnized to the creation of these imperishable stanzas. Oliver Cromwell is said, on the recital of them, to have been seized with great terror and agitation of mind.]
The glories of our mortal state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death’s purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:—
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.