Death is, no doubt, in every place the same;
Yet nature casts a look towards home, and most,
Who have it in their power, choose to expire
Where first they drew their breath.
Lillo.
’Twas early day, and sunlight streamed
Soft through a quiet room,
That hushed, but not forsaken seemed,
Still, but with nought of gloom.
For there, secure in happy age,