Some avocation deeming it—to die,
Unbit by rage canine of dying rich;
Guilt’s blunder! and the loudest laugh of hell.
O my coevals! remnants of yourselves!
Poor human ruins, tottering o’er the grave! 110
Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees,
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour’d of this wretched soil?
Shall our pale, wither’d hands, be still stretch’d out,
Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age?