Death and Mourning

Once a man’s thirty, he’s already old, He is indeed as good as dead. It’s best to kill him right away.

A useless life is an early death.

No voice divine the storm allayed, When, snatched from all effectual aid, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

Toll for the brave— The brave! that are no more; All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore!

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is—to die.

This piercing cold I feel: my dead wife’s comb, in our bedroom under my heel… 1

He 2 pass’d the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

Mindful of th’ unhonor’d dead.

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Here closed in death th’ attentive eyes That saw the manners in the face.

“Enlarge my life with multitude of days!” In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know That life protracted is protracted woe.

Vain was the chief’s, the sage’s pride! They had no poet, and they died. 7

But thousands die, without or this or that, Die, and endow a college, or a cat.

Vital spark of heav’nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.

All men think all men mortal but themselves.

Creation sleeps! ’Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she’s at rest, and so am I.

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And welt’ring in his blood; Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth expos’d he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes.

The trumpet shall be heard on high The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky!

All human things are subject to decay, And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.