Death is the final principle of life, The culmination of vicissitude, The silent archer, whose unerring shaft Doth pierce at last the most unyielding breast; The reaper after whose fell harvesting, No gleaner bends nor follows in his wake. The gold of Ophir, and the pearls of Ind, The sapphires and the rubies of the East, Or all the treasures, which the fabled Gnomes, In subterranean vaults and passages Have guarded, multiplied by countless sums, With Euclid's most exalted numeral In computation, as the multiple Of least proportion, for the passing breath Can purchase neither respite nor reprieve, Nor can prolong it, by one feeble gasp. Nor fragrant balm, nor sweet preservative, Nor caustic alkaloid, nor bitter herb From Nature's various dispensary, Elixir, lotion, nor restorative, Nor prophylactic nor catholicon Nor pharmacy's most potent stimulant Can long retard the swift but viewless flight, Of that mysterious thing we call the Soul. Nor exorcism, nor the mystic power Of incantation, nor of talisman, Nor words of solemn theurgy pronounced, Can break or dissipate that pallid spell; Nor necromancy, nor phylactery, Nor touch of magic wand, nor subtle force Of conjuration, nor of sorcery, prevails Against the shadows of the tomb; Nor all the baleful arts of witchery, Nor amulet withstand the charm of death. Yea, man who rules the passive elements, Enchaining them to service at his will, Himself to death must yield obedience. Yea, man who, through all disadvantages And obstacles, has hewed his way aloft, From out the labyrinth of ignorance, Who sways the sceptre over conquered realms, Of latent energy and unseen force, Without condition or conceding term, Surrenders to that sombre potentate. Nor can in earth's remotest solitude, In forest depths or undiscovered isle, In dismal cavern or secretive cave Escape the mandate of that grizzly King. Nor wing of eagle, nor the fabled wings Of hippogrif, of such velocity As clothes the lightning and the thunderbolt, Outstrip in speed the shadowy wings of death. We pass along an ever-travelled road, Worn by the silent and continuous tread Of throngs innumerable, of every clime; The countless generations of the past, The uncomputed hosts and multitudes Who trod the earth in ages most remote, And those whose pale emaciated forms The generous earth hath recently received, The myriads of every race and tongue Who have preceded us, have sent no word [Blank Page] Of cheer or comfort from that silent strand, And no directions for our timorous steps. [Illustration: "I love the lake in the mountain's lap." _See page 125._]