3®rak 3Uabje5. 217 
Dead Leaves.. ..Death. 
A more appropriate emblem of death than the re¬ 
mains of the forest’s refreshing verdure could not be 
selected. Withered by the chill breath of ruthless 
Winter, the leaves strew the earth; and, in time, min¬ 
gle with the dust, like ourselves. The eye cannot help 
watching how the winds pursue, scatter, whirl, and 
drive these remnants of departed life. 
No longer mourn for me when I am dead. 
Then you shall hear the surly, sullen bell 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
The hand that writ it, for’l love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
If thinking of me then should work you wo I 
Shakspeare. 
Now shall my verse, which thou in life didst grace. 
Not leave thee in the grave, that ugly place, 
That few regard, or have respect unto: 
Where all attendance and observance ends; 
Where all the sunshine of our favour sets; 
Where what was ill no countenance defends, 
And what was good the unthankful world forgets. 
Daniel. 
