Poem On Death

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, and 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         Kick 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.         An arrow hurtel'd e'er so high,         With e'en a giant's sinewy strength,         In Time's untraced eternity         Goes but a pigmy length;         Nay, whirring from the tortured string,         With all its pomp of hurried flight,         'T is by the skylark's little wing         Outmeasured in its height.         Just so man's boasted strength and power         Shall fade before Death's lightest stroke,         Laid lower than the meanest flower,         Whose pride o'er-top't the oak;         And he who, like a blighting blast,         Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms         Shall be himself destroyed at last         By poor despised worms.         Tyrants in vain their powers secure,         And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown,         For unawed Death at last is sure         To sap the Babels down.         A stone thrown upward to the skye         Will quickly meet the ground agen;         So men-gods of earth's vanity         Shall drop at last to men;         And Power and Pomp their all resign,         Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls.         Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine         As bare as prison walls,         Where the poor suffering wretch bows down         To laws a lawless power hath passed;         And pride, and power, and king, and clown         Shall be Death's slaves at last.         Time, the prime minister of Death!         There's nought can bribe his honest will.         He stops the richest tyrant's breath         And lays his mischief still.         Each wicked scheme for power all stops,         With grandeurs false and mock display,         As eve's shades from high mountain tops         Fade with the rest away.         Death levels all things in his march;         Nought can resist his mighty strength;         The palace proud, triumphal arch,         Shall mete its shadow's length.         The rich, the poor, one common bed         Shall find in the unhonoured grave,         Where weeds shall grow alike o'er head         Of tyrant and of slave.