Fearless of danger, he, twelve days before,
Went to the field to share the common lot,
With the sharp scythe to cut the grass or flower,
But, ah, the secret lesson he forgot!
“All flesh is grass, or like the flowery field,
So soon ’tis faded, wither’d, or cut down;
To time’s embrace its charms are forc’d to yield,
The winds pass over it, and it is gone!”
When heated by the sun’s meridian ray,
And parch’d with thirst, to drink he felt inclin’d,
Dropping his scythe, poor Morley took his way,
In hopes some cool, refreshing stream to find!
To yonder river to receive his death,
With sweat, like dewdrops, hanging on his brow,
He hastes—nor thinks he must resign his breath,
And to the lonely church-yard shortly go!
Thus bathed in sweat the river’s bank he gains,
And drinks, and washes in the crystal flood;
When lo! an icy coldness chills his veins,
Affects his senses, and inflames his blood!
He medical assistance quickly sought,
Excessive pain depriv’d his eyes of sleep;
Physicians soon their powerful medicines brought,
But ah! the fatal dart had pierc’d too deep!
The fever rages, not a limb is free,
It mocks the power of remedies applied;
Friends weep, and wish for his recovery;—
Alas! their warmest wishes are denied.
His fate seems hard, but yet Heav’n sees it fit,
And Heaven’s will is best, we must agree;—
Sooner or later we must all submit
To Death’s loud call,—to nature’s stern decree!
The surgeon blushes while his patient bleeds,
All hope soon vanishes of life below;
With hasty step the monster Death proceeds,
Lifts his fell dart, and strikes the fatal blow!
His wife distracted doth her loss deplore,
His children weep as though their hearts would break;
They shrieking cry, “Our father is no more!
O where shall we our lonely refuge seek?