[From “The Sleeping Bard,” by Elis Wynn.]

Leave land and house we must some day,
For human sway not long doth bide;
Leave pleasures and festivities,
And pedigrees, our boast and pride.

Leave strength and loveliness of mien,
Wit sharp and keen, experience dear;
Leave learning deep, and much-lov’d friends,
And all that tends our life to cheer.

From Death then is there no relief?
That ruthless thief and murderer fell,
Who to his shambles beareth down
All, all we own, and us as well.

Ye monied men, ye who would fain
Your wealth retain eternally,
How brave ’twould be a sum to raise,
And the good grace of Death to buy!

How brave! ye who with beauty beam,
On rank supreme who fix your mind,
Should ye your captivations muster,
And with their lustre King Death blind.

O ye who are of foot most light,
Who are in the height now of your spring,
Fly, fly, and ye will make us gape,
If ye can scape Death’s cruel fling.

The song and dance afford, I ween,
Relief from spleen and sorrow’s grave;
How very strange there is no dance,
Nor tune of France, from Death can save!

Ye travellers of sea and land,
Who know each strand below the sky;
Declare if ye have seen a place
Where Adam’s race can Death defy!

Ye scholars, and ye lawyer crowds,
Who are as gods reputed wise;
Can ye from all the lore ye know,
’Gainst death bestow some good advice?

The world, the flesh, and Devil, compose
The direst foes of mortals poor;
But take good heed of Death the Great,
From the Lost Gate, Destruction o’er.

’Tis not worth while of Death to prate,
Of his Lost Gate and courts so wide;
But O reflect! it much imports,
Of the two courts in which ye’re tried.

It here can little signify
If the street high we cross, or low;
Each lofty thought doth rise, be sure,
The soul to lure to deepest woe.

But by the wall that’s ne’er re-pass’d,
To gripe thee fast when Death prepares,
Heed, heed thy steps, for thou may’st mourn
The slightest turn for endless years.

When opes the door, and swiftly hence
To its residence eternal flies
The soul, it matters much, which side
Of the gulf wide its journey lies.

Deep penitence, amended life,
A bosom rife of zeal and faith,
Can help to man alone impart,
Against the smart and sting of Death.

These things to thee seem worthless now,
But not so low will they appear
When thou art come, O thoughtless friend!
Just to the end of thy career.

Thou’lt deem, when thou hast done with earth,
These things of worth unspeakable,
Beside the gulf so black and drear,
The gulf of Fear, ’twixt Heaven and Hell.