No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend -
“Call then a priest, and fit him for his end.”
A priest is call’d; ’tis now, alas! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;
Or time allow’d - he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death’s common-place, the train of thought in all.
“True I’m a sinner,” feebly he begins,
“But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:”