A just precedence in the grave. 110

But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,

Beats my approach, tells thee I come;

And slow howe’er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on, 115

And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive

The crime) I am content to live

Divided, with but half a heart,