60 
MISCELLANEA. 
Was ’t from his chest, or from the throat of death 
Exulting in his conquest ? I know not ; 
But if ’twas his, it surely was his last, 
For, see, he scarcely stirs : soft ! does he breathe ? 
Ah, no ; he breathes no more. ’Tis very strange ! 
How still he’s now — how fiery hot — how cold — 
How terrible — how lifeless ! all within 
A few brief moments ! My reason staggers ! 
Philosophy, thou poor enlighten’d dotard, 
Who canst assign for every thing a cause, 
Here take thy stand beside me, and explain 
This hidden mystery. Bring with thee 
The headstrong atheist, who laughs at Heaven, 
And impiously ascribes events to chance, 
To help to solve this wonderful enigma ! 
First tell me, ye proud and haughty reas’ners, 
Where the vast strength this creature late possess’d 
Has fled to ? How the bright sparkling fire 
Which flash’d but now from these dim rayless eyes 
Has been extinguish’d ! — Oh ! he's dead , you say : 
I know it well ; but how, and by what means ? 
Was it the arm of chance which struck him down, 
In height of vigour and in pride of strength, 
To stiffen in the blast ? Come, come, tell me ! 
Nay ; shake not thus the heads that are enrich’d 
With seventy years of wisdom, glean’d from books, 
From nights of study, and the magazines 
Of knowledge which your predecessors left. 
What ! not a word ! — I ask you, once again, 
How comes it that the wond’rous essence, 
Which gave such vigour to these strong-nerved limbs, 
Has leapt from its inclosure, and compell’d 
This noble workmanship of nature thus 
To sink into a cold inactive clod. 
Nay, sneak not off thus cowardly — poor fools ! 
Ye are as destitute of information 
As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts! 
The subject of my thoughts ? — yes, there he lies, 
As free from life as if he ne’er had liv’d. 
Where are his friends, and where his old acquaintance, 
Who borrow’d from his strength, when in the yoke, 
W T ith weary pace, the stepp ascent they climb’d ? 
Where are the gay companions of his prime, 
Who with him ambled o’er the flow’ry turf, 
And, proudly snorting, pass’d the way-worn hack 
W T ith haughty brow, and on his ragged coat 
Look’d with contemptuous scorn ! Oh ! yonder see, 
Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun 
They lie, and heed him not, little thinking, 
While there they triumph in the blaze of noon, 
How soon the dread annihilating hour 
Will come, and Death seal up their eyes, 
Like his, for ever ! Now, moraliser, 
Retire ! yet first proclaim this sacred truth, — 
Chance rules not over Death ; but when a fly 
Falls to the earth, ’tis Heav’n that gives the blow 
