Wherever it may hap, however spring,1
Under whatever covert or disguise,2
Even unto the judgment of the wise,3
Death is an awful, a terrific thing !—4
The tempests beat on time’s ungentle shore,5
Who would not rather risk his shuddering form6
Within a fragile bark, and brave the storm,7
Than sink beneath the waves, and be no more ?8
Cold, cold and clammy, is the hand of death,9
And dark the mansion that it leads us to !10
Where, as the night-wind sighs, its baleful breath11
Disturbs the sombrous, melancholy yew12
But, is not death the omega of care ?13
Aye, but we die, and go we know not where !14