The time-worn burden of the song
That Life is short—but Art is long.
Plate 2. The Antiquarian and Death.
Fungus, at length, contrives to get
Death's Dart into his Cabinet.
The second plate introduces us to the apartment of an elderly antiquary, who, nightcap on head, is propped up on his couch, with learned tomes littered around him, trying to peer into the pages, with the light of a candle held in a gilt sconce. The chamber of the invalid is surrounded by trophies and relics, and apparatus implying a diversity of tastes, and the means of humouring them. Suits of armour, suits of costume, weapons, busts, ancient plate, musical instruments, vases, urns, idols, &c., are mixed up with sketches, folios of prints, palettes, books, architectural instruments, mortars, retorts, chemicals, and other appliances. A bull-dog is chasing rats, which are invading these richly lumbered domains. Wine, and a flask of vain 'elixir,' are at the antiquary's elbow; but his candle is flickering, and he is already sinking into stupefaction, while the grim King of Terrors,—to the horrent affright of a cat perched on the invalid's bed,—has stealthily stolen into the chamber; and the last unique curiosity, 'Death's dart,' is about to become the property of the semi-conscious collector.
Plate 3. The Last Chase.
Such mortal sport the chase attends.
At Break-neck Hill the hunting ends.
The chase is a stag, the dogs have just run the noble beast down; the hunters are making alarming efforts to come in 'at the death,' and accordingly they are piloted by the grim hunter in person, mounted on a skeleton steed, over the edge of a cliff which they perceive too late. The frightened horses rear and plunge, and dash themselves and their riders headlong to destruction.
Death follow'd on his courser pale,
Up the steep hill, or through the dale:
But, 'till the fatal hour drew nigh,
He veil'd himself from ev'ry eye.
'Twas then his horrid shape appear'd,
And his shrill voice the hunters heard:
With his fell dart he points the way,
Til' astonish'd hunters all obey;
Nor can they stop the courser's speed,
Nor can they shun the deadly deed;
But follow with impetuous force,
The potent phantom's mortal course,
Down the steep cliff—the Chase is o'er—
The hunters fall—to rise no more!