Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play
Within your eyeless sockets forth shall stray,
To feast upon your rottenness, your hair
Shall drip the sick’ning grave-damps, and the gray,
Dry dust of the rank sepulchre, for air,
Fill up your nostrils—then by the cold grave forbear!
Think on your last dark hour, when a gaunt form,
Spectral and shadowy, shall stoop and set
A mystic seal upon you; when the storm
Of conscience rages, till its spray has wet