Thou who dost pace this cloistered hall, Reflect on death! Thou canst not know If e'er again thy form shall throw Its changeful shadow on the wall. It may be that these very stones Which thou, regardless of the dead, To-day with sandall'd foot dost tread, Shall press to-morrow on thy bones. Life, like a frail, thin plank, conceals Eternity's abyss profound: A gulf yawns suddenly around, The panic-stricken sinner reels: The earth recedes on which he trod, What finds he now? Heaven blue and calm, Or Hell's red blaze? The victor's palm, Or torment? Lucifer or God? Oh! ponder well the thought of dread! And let thy prescient spirit view Thyself, as with cadaverous hue, Thou liest stretched upon a bed, Betwixt two sheets. whereof the one Shall form the shroud to wrap thy clay, Sad raiment all must wear some day, Albeit coveted by none! By fever parched or numbed by cold, Writhing like green wood in the fire, While inarticulate words expire Upon thy lips—thyself behold! Thou pantest, like a stag at bay; Death rattles hoarsely in thy throat, Foreboding with sepulchral note The soul's desertion of the clay; Dark-vestured priests in silence steal Within thy room, with oil and pyx, And bearing each a crucifix, Around thy lowly pallet kneel. Behold too praying for thy soul Thy wife and children, loved so well! The ringer of the passing-bell Hangs on the rope thy knell to toll. The sexton hollows with his spade A narrow bed thy bones to hold, And soon the fresh brown crumbling mould Shall fill the pit where thou art laid. Thy flesh so delicate and fair, Shall serve the charnel-worms to feed, And brightly tint each flower and weed Upon thy grave with verdure rare. Fit then, thy soul that hour to meet When thou shalt draw thy latest breath! My brother! bitter is the death Of him whose life hath been too sweet! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH: FOR MY GRANDMOTHER by COUNTEE CULLEN PUTTIN' THE BABY AWAY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR CONTINENT'S END by ROBINSON JEFFERS LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID by MATTHEW PRIOR HOLYHEAD, SEPTEMBER 25, 1727 by JONATHAN SWIFT |