Mere slumber will the night from day divide, And brush life’s merriment and cares aside. Death has infinite force to put asleep Body and Mind, and how can men then keep From craving the fuller, they being one? Is not Death Sleep, but a sleep going on, On eternally—more complete again, While it lasts, than the sleep of living men? Sleep in its own true nature does not quit Its hold so far of sense as to unfit A wakened subject to collect his powers For the due service of his working hours. Much less—if nought with something may compare— Than busy life’s in slumber, is Death’s care For Self! Death owes no duty unto life, Its joys and griefs, its harmony and strife; Dissolves as if intent to negative The utmost art of builder to revive. Did ever man re-tread his native land On whom Death once has laid his icy hand? Yet living men will counterfeit a woe For loss that in their graves they cannot know! Well Nature losing patience might express Herself in plain reproof of fussiness: “What ails the man? Why all this waste of breath In fond anger at the approach of Death? Did all thy days in unmixed misery pass? No drop of pleasure moisten the cracked glass? If satiety the fault, better, Guest, Fly a feast too hospitable, and rest. Since the offence a glut of life, the waste Is the worse the longer the life shall last. Why live, when, as each hour is born, and dies, You read its curses in lack-lustre eyes? Off with yourself; nought fresh can I invent; You’ve sampled my whole stock; my wits are spent!” You object: “Your years few; body not chill Or withered with age; your joints supple still?” True, I dare say: yet though you should defy Whole centuries to kill—nay, never die— Nature endures; all would be stale to you!— Plead guilty; for you know the charge is true. Call next appellant—one advanced in years, Who meets Death’s advent with protesting tears. Would not Nature have reason on her side, If high She raised her voice to scold and chide: “Begone! bad jester, peak and pule elsewhere! I will not stand your sickly groanings here. What if, when, as your head you laid just now On the pillow, thinking nought else than how Empty you were, hungering for rich fare, Death entered, bidding you forthwith prepare To follow! You may call it hard, unkind Of the many years which left you behind, Drift-weed, ashore cast by the downward flow, Unsatisfied, forlorn, —But wherefore so? Did I not range careers for you to choose— This, that—a crowd—while you, from fear to lose A better, let all go? At last be sage; And cut ambition short to suit your age; Accept complacently the golden rule— What must be must be— kick; and die a fool!”