How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions!
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnished for the world to come.
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement;
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help;
But shrieks in vain.
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Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother’s, when she feels
For the first time her first-born’s breath! Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke!
Come in consumption’s ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm!
Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet song, and dance, and wine!
And thou art terrible!—the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know or dream or fear Of agony are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s word;
And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be.
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