With all the lesser ornaments of phrase? 310 Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been; Razed from the book of fame; or, more provoking, Perchance some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes, With heavy halting pace that drawl along; Enough to rouse a dead man into rage, And warm with red resentment the wan cheek. Here the great masters of the healing art, These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb, 320 Spite of their juleps and catholicons, Resign to fate.--Proud Æsculapius' son! Where are thy boasted implements of art, And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health? Nor hill nor vale, as far as ship could go, Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook, Escaped thy rifling hand;--from stubborn shrubs Thou wrung'st their shy retiring virtues out, And vex'd them in the fire: nor fly, nor insect, Nor writhy snake, escaped thy deep research. 330 But why this apparatus Why this cost? Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave, Where are thy recipes and cordials now, With the long list of vouchers for thy cures? Alas! thou speakest not.--The bold impostor Looks not more silly when the cheat's found out. Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons, Who meanly stole (discreditable shift!) From back, and belly too, their proper cheer, Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay 340 To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged. By clamorous appetites no longer teased, Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. But, ah! where are his rents, his comings-in? Ay! now you've made the rich man poor indeed; Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind? O cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake The fool throws up his interest in both worlds; First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come. How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! 350 To him that is at ease in his possessions; Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain!--How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer her's! A little longer, yet a little longer, Oh! might she stay, to wash away her stains, 360 And fit her for her passage.--Mournful sight! Her very eyes weep blood;--and every groan She heaves is big with horror: but the foe, Like a staunch murderer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on; Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul, What a strange moment it must be, when near 370 Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view!