Are cowards; ‘and my veins were never meant
‘To flow with blood like that which nourishes
‘Heroic hearts.’—There’s something in death’s aspect,
Even when he smiles, that human spirits quail at!
‘The foolish skin doth creep—and the frame shudder,
‘At thought of what awaits them—the dusk pall—
‘The narrow house—the clay cold living tenants—’
Matilda.
Holy St. Mary! Are such thoughts as these
Meet for a festival?