He feels and shudders at the stroke,
He turns but keeps his pain;
He looks with eager eyes for help,
But human help is vain.
Now conscience from her slumber wakes,
And with a dismal cry,
Proclaims the vices of his life,
And summons him to die.
To die! to leave the present world,
To yield his vital breath!
To close his eyes on life, and tread
The dark, dark vale of death!
To see th’ uplifted stroke that must
His soul and body sever!
And then to lose the light of life
For ever and for ever!
’Twas more than human strength could bear
The agonizing strife,
Sunk his distracted spirits down
Close to the verge of life.
Then his fellow-workmen came,
With Careless to condole;
Who talk’d of former scenes of mirth,
To cheer his troubl’d soul.
But, ah! when conscience sorely smarts—
Whose spirit can endure?
When God inflicts the mighty wound—
What mortal hand can cure?
Outstretch’d, his flesh all trembling lies,
He heaves a mournful sigh;
Attempts to raise his aching head,
And ope’ his languid eye.
On the companions of his life,
He casts a dismal look;
And, lab’ring with conflicting thoughts,
Thus the sad silence broke:—
“Ah! ye do well to see a wretch,
Whose peace and health are fled;
Ye knew him once in festive scenes,
Now on his dying bed.