IBtak HUafcfjff. 217 
Dead Leaves....-D eatfA. 
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 I love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
If thinking of me then should work you wo! 
Skakspeare. 
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. 
19 
