The soul’s dark prison gates, and send afar
Th’ unfetter’d spirit to its endless home
Of joy or woe, ere sounds discordant jar
Upon the ear, and fill the heart with gloom,
When wailing voices sound from mourners round the tomb.
VII.
We know that we must die. O, then, how strange
That he, whose life is but a passing day,
Should live regardless of his last great change!
All earthly brightness soon must fade away;