DEATH.
“————’Tis thy delight to make us sad;
To blast our joys, and mock our every hope;
To wretched man new miseries to add,
And sling fresh gall into life’s bitter cup.”
W. Townsend.
None are exempt from thy stroke, O thou lawless power! thou stretchest out thine hand and levellest alike, the rich, the poor, the brave, and the base. When thou givest the sign they are forced to obey—to prepare for the awful moment. Some thou layest on a languishing bed of sickness; and again some, who are, to all appearance, in the full enjoyment of health, thou called hence in a moment unexpected, when they, perhaps, are planning a way for future life. In an instant all that in imagination they have been erecting is brought to nought; and, for the first time, they behold themselves creatures of a moment.
The gentle, the amiable, the accomplished Elmira was forced to obey thy stern mandate while yet in the bloom of youth. Methought thou didst a little relent of thy savage cruelty, when thou sawest the victim thou hadst sought out for the purpose of wreaking thy fury on. The thought was illusive, although for a few minutes after thou hadst first aimed the dart, the finishing of thy work seemed suspended---yet it proved too sure.
In idea I have figured out thy portrait. Thou art of a pale visage, thine eyes dry, and the balls glaring like fire; they never dropped one pitying tear, and are therefore strangers to moisture. Thy cheeks are dry and hard; and thy teeth grinning a ghastly smile, as if pleased that the life of man is in thy power. In thy hand is grasped a barbed weapon, which thou aimest at the heart, and playest at thy will, and which none can withstand.——I must stop; for what I have pourtrayed fills me with horror.
L. B.
New-York, Aug. 13th, 1796.
