Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown,
—Start not, thou trifler!—such may be thine own.
But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear,
A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before,
We fain would stifle—but it sleeps no more!
There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng
That join the masque of revelry and song:
Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored,
Frowns midst the roses of the festal board;