To rest. Joy reign’d supreme; but with the morn
(Ah! where the rose, there also thrives the thorn.)
Came grief; for then the sadful news was borne
Of Andrew Hodge’s death!—the dear old man
Had swoon’d, and died just at the hour of one;
Death, monster evil, seem’d to ’ve long’d the hour
For his dark deed, and forced life’s chamber-door:
His awful mandate found n’ opposing force
So in an instant Hodge was fell’d a corse.
No longer would the poor old man relate