Pause for awhile, and murmur “all must die;”
Then rush to pleasure, action, sin, once more,
Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the shore.
Sir E. B. Lytton.
Oh! for a heart that seeks the sacred gloom
That hovers round the precincts of the tomb!
While fancy, musing there, sees visions bright,—
In death discovering life, in darkness, light.
What though the chilling blasts of winter’s day
Forbid the garden longer to be gay?