Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain,
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain;
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe
Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe,
Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried,
We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet
In glory’s arms exultingly to meet—
A closing triumph, a majestic scene,
Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien,