By J. OAKMAN
How swift the Months and Years roll on!
How soon the Race of Life is run!
Nor Youth, nor Piety, nor Age,
Can charm the Monster ruthless Death;
He points the dart, he stops the Breath,
And drives us off the Stage.
The Prince, the Peasant, and the Slave,
Alike must fill the gaping Grave,
Alike they all must go;
Cocytus they must ferry o’er,
To Earth they can return no more,
But wander in the Shades below.
Thy prattling Babes, thy pleasing Wife,
And every other Joy of Life,
The Rapture of thy Heart,
When the dire Sisters cut the twine,
Must stay behind, no longer thine,
And thou, per Force, must part.
Thy youthful Heir shall laugh away,
And seek where all thy Treasures lay,
And quaff thy generous Store;
Whate’er thou’st been intent to save,
He’ll spend and gamble o’er thy Grave,
Till Death exerts his Power.