Yet death itself is never terrible, But 'tis the thought of what comes after death That wakes the coward in the soul of man-- Of man carnal and unregenerate. In the lone grave the body soon is clothed In vileness, and this most delicate frame Becomes the food of worms, the gorging feast Of those vile particles of putresence We loathe in life to look at--which we spurn And trample on with horror. =Pride=, bend low! And meditate on this, that slimy worms, Gnome-like and insatiate epicures, Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties, When we, like they themselves, become corruption! This is the pang, the poison, that makes dark The brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopes Of all who look no farther than the grave,-- That calms the laughing thought within the heart: This is the weapon that affrights the bold, Makes foolishness of wisdom, and creates The fear of death, because it terminates But in corruption and the feast of worms.
To go into the grave--if that were all, No one would shrink from it; but that the thought That this fair form should formless be, the shape Be shapeless, decomposed, and fall to nought, Preys on the mind, and hinders it from rest. And few there are who seek the saving peace That here can reconcile us to our doom. The soul remains entire, though in the grave The body lies, and slowly wastes away. Then let us strive to find, through God's good grace, That faith by which alone the soul becomes "One perfect Chrysolite," and in Christ's blood, Relieved from stain of guilt, is rendered fit To stand, approved, before a holy God.
THROUGH the wood, through the wood, Warbles the merle! Through the wood, through the wood, Gallops the earl! Yet he heeds not its song As it sinks on his ear, For he lists to a voice Than its music more dear.
Through the wood, through the wood, Once and away, The castle is gained, And the lady is gay: When her smile waxes sad, And her eyes become dim; Her bosom is glad, If she gazes on him!
Through the wood, through the wood, Over the wold, Rides onward a band Of true warriors bold; They stop not for forest, They halt not for water; Their chieftain in sorrow Is seeking his daughter.
Through the wood, through the wood, Warbles the merle; Through the wood, through the wood, Prances the earl; And on a gay palfrey Comes pacing his bride; While an old man sits smiling, In joy, by her side.