Comes to the prison door, and turns the key,
And tells the soul it has its freedom now.
But O, the pangs! the parting agony!
The clammy sweat that beads the suff’rer’s brow
Doth a sad evidence of nature’s anguish show.
V.
Man lives to die, as flowers bloom to fade;
Expanded bloom is but incipient death;
The rose that with the morning zephyr played,
At eve lies scattered on the ground beneath;