_Death_ comes with irrespective feet And beats upon the door, That shuts the palace of the great, The cabin of the poor. _Howell, from Horace._ And since ’tis certain then that we must _die_, No hope, no chance, no prospect of redress; Be it our constant aim, unswervingly, To tread God’s narrow path of holiness: For He is first, last, midst--O, let us press Onwards--and when _death’s_ monitory glance Shall summon us to join his mortal dance, Even then shall hope and joy our footsteps bless. _From the Spanish of R. de Carrion._ I fled and cried out _Death_-- Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed From all her caves, and back resounded _Death_. _Milton._ Thou dost, O _Death_, a peaceful harbour lie Upon the margin of Eternity; Where the rough waves of Time’s impetuous tide Their motion lose, and quietly subside. Weary, they roll their drowsy heads asleep At the dark entrance of Duration’s deep. Hither our vessels in their turn retreat; Here still they find a safe untroubled seat, When worn with adverse passions, furious strife, And the hard passage of tempestuous life. _Blackmore._ Dear, beauteous _Death_, the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere but in the dark, What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair field or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. _Henry Vaughan._ The man, how wise, who, sick of gaudy scenes, Is led by choice to take his favourite walk Beneath _death’s_ gloomy, silent cypress shades, Unpierced by vanity’s fantastic ray! To read his monuments, to weigh his dust, Visit his vaults, and dwell among the tombs! _Young._ Why should man’s high aspiring mind Burn in him, with so proud a breath: When all his haughty views can find In this world, yields to _death_; The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, The rich, the poor, the great, and small, Are each, but worm’s anatomies, To strew his quiet hall. Power may make many earthly gods, Where gold, and bribery’s guilt, prevails; But _death’s_ unwelcome honest odds, Kicks o’er the unequal scales. The flatter’d great, may clamours raise Of power,--and their own weakness hide; But _death_ shall find unlooked-for ways To end the farce of pride.