  How awful is that hour, when conscience stings The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, And screaming like a vulture in his ears, Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame; How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack, the wrestling of his frame! J. G. Percival. |
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