Saw life receding from their grasp;
And some, with stoic countenance,
Maintained a stern indifference,
For what are death's abstruse alarms,
When life is shorn of all its charms;
As zealots, when they come to die,
Lift their enraptured gaze on high,
And clasp to the expiring breast
Some crucifix or icon blest,
And mutter with stertorious breath