[Illustration: THE DOG AND HIS MASTER'S DINNER.]
Pleasant to see them pistoles seize, Filling their purses at their ease! And if, by chance, to one more cool Some scruples come, they call him fool: Then he repents him of the blunder, And is the first to lead the plunder.
Death never yet surprised the sage, Who's always ready for the stage; Knowing each hour that comes may be His passage to eternity. Death's rule embraces every day: Each moment is beneath his sway. We all pay tribute to that lord; We all bow down beneath his sword. The instant the king's child has birth-- And looks forth on this desert earth--- That instant Death may it surprise, And close its scarcely-opened eyes. Beauty, youth, virtue, every day, Death steals so ruthlessly away. One day the world will be his prey: This knowledge is most largely shared; For no event we're less prepared.
A dying man, a century old, Complained to Death, that he was told Too suddenly, before his will Was made; he'd duties to fulfil; "Now, is it just," this was his cry, "To call me, unprepared, to die? No; wait a moment, pray, sir, do; My wife would wish to join me, too. For still one nephew I'd provide: And I have causes to decide. I must enlarge my house, you know. Don't be so pressing, pray, sir, go." "Old man," said Death, "for once be wise; My visit can be no surprise. What! I impatient? In the throng Of Paris who has lived so long? Find me in all France even ten; I should have warned you, you say then? And so your will you would have made, Your grandson settled; basement laid. What! not a warning, when your feet Can scarcely move, and fast retreat Your memory makes, when half your mind And wit is left a league behind? When nearly all fails?--no more hearing-- No taste--all fading, as I'm fearing. The star of day shines now in vain For you: why sigh to view again The pleasures out of reach? Just see Your comrades drop continually, Dead, dying: is no warning there? I put it to you, is this fair? Come, come, old man; what! wrangling still? No matter, you must leave your will; The great republic cares not, sir, For one or no executor."
And Death was right: old men, at least, Should die as people leave a feast, Thanking the host--their luggage trim: Death will not stay to please their whim. You murmur, dotard! look and sigh, To see the young, that daily die; Walk to the grave or run, a name To win of everlasting fame: Death glorious may be, yet how sure, And sometimes cruel to endure. In vain I preach; with foolish zeal, Those most akin to death but feel The more regret in quitting life, And creep reluctant from the strife.