One meal, or shelter for one moment there.
My record ends:—But hark! e'en now I hear
The bell of death, and know not whose to fear.
Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well;
In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell;—
Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes,
For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times.
"Go; of my sexton seek, Whose days are sped?—
"What! he, himself!—and is old Dibble dead?"
His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay'd,