_Death_ levels all things, in his march Nought can resist his mighty strength; The palace proud,--triumphal arch, Shall mete their shadow’s length: The rich, the poor, one common bed Shall find, in the unhonoured grave, Where weeds shall crown alike the head Of tyrant, and of slave. _Andrew Marvell._ The prince, who kept the world in awe, The judge, whose dictate fix’d the law, The rich, the poor, the great, the small, Are levell’d: _death_ confounds them all. _Gay._ There was, ’tis said, and I believe, a time When humble Christians _died_ with views sublime; When all were ready for their faith to bleed, And few to write or wrangle for their creed; When lively faith upheld the sinking heart, And friends assured to meet prepared to part; When love felt hope, when sorrow grew serene, And all felt comfort in the _death_-bed scene. _Crabbe._ On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long-livers, In the world’s hale and degenerate days, Could scarce have leisure for: fools that we are! Never to think of _death_, and of ourselves, At the same time! As if, to learn to _die_, Were no concern of ours! _Blair._ Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Bridal of earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou, alas! must _die_! Sweet rose, in air whose odours wave, And colour charms the eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou, alas! must _die_! Sweet spring, of days and roses made, Whose charms for beauty vie; Thy days depart, thy roses fade-- Thou, too, alas! must _die_! Be wise, then, christian, while you may, For swiftly time is flying; The thoughtless man may laugh to-day, To-morrow may be _dying_! _Bishop Horne._ _Death_ distant!--no alas! he’s ever with us, And shakes the dart at us in all our actings; He lurks within our cup, while we’re in health; Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines; We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel, But _death_ is by to seize us when he lists. _Sir Walter Scott._ Since we can _die_ but once, and after _death_ Our state no alteration knows, But when we have resign’d our breath, Th’ immortal spirit goes To endless joys, or everlasting woes; Wise is the man who labours to secure That mighty and important stake; And by all methods strives to make His passage safe, and his reception sure. _J. Pomfret._