The Grave

Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come! In that dread moment how the frantic soul raves round the walls of the clay tenement, runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, but shrieks in vain! how wishfully she looks on all she's leaving, now no longer her's! a little longer, yet a little longer, O might she stay to wash away her stains, and fit her for her passage! mournful sight! her eyes weep blood, and every groan she heaves is big with horror! but the foe, like a stanch murd'rer steady to his purpose, pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on; till forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, at once she sinks to everlasting ruin!

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul, what a strange moment must it be when, near the journeys end, thou hast the gulph in view! that aweful gulph no mortal e'er repass'd to tell whats doing on the other side! nature runs back and shudders at the sight, and every-string bleeds at thoughts of passing.

By Robert Blair.