And trample on with horror. Pride, bend low!
And meditate on this, that slimy worms,
Gnome-like and insatiate epicures,
Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties,
When we, like they themselves, become corruption!
This is the pang, the poison, that makes dark
The brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopes
Of all who look no farther than the grave,—
That calms the laughing thought within the heart:
This is the weapon that affrights the bold,