In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride,
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide,
Call up the countless armies of the dead,
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread,
And say—“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree,
Made for creation, be reversed for thee?”
Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why—
It is enough that nature shrinks to die.
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid,
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid!