Already at the door? He knocks, we hear,
And yet we will not hear. What mail defends 620
Our untouch’d hearts? what miracle turns off
The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers
Is daily darted, and is daily shunn’d?
We stand, as in a battle, throngs on throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;
Though bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!
We see Time’s furrows on another’s brow,
And Death intrench’d, preparing his assault; 628