Of that stern lot, which all who live must see?
The worm, the clay, the dark and narrow bed,—
Have these such awe for me?
Can I not summon pride
To fold my decent mantle round my breast,
And lay me down at Nature’s Eventide,
Calm to my dreamless rest?
As nears my soul the verge
Of this dim continent of woe and crime,
Shrinks she to hear Eternity’s long surge