O KING of Terrors, whose unbounded sway All that have life, must certainly obey, The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine, Nor would even God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must Encrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust. My soul at this no apprehension feels, But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels; Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense, And snatch us raving, unprepar'd from hence; At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds. Spare these, and let thy time be when it will; My business is to die, and thine to kill. Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay, And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86 by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL LOVE'S PHANTOM by MATHILDE BLIND GRATITUDE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: IMR EL KAIS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A MORNING WALK by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN AN EPITAPH ON MR.WM. HOPTON by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |