174 DEATH DEATH
Come! let the burial rite be read—
The funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead
That ever died so Young—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead
In that she died so young.
Po?—Lenore. St. 1.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
Poe—The Conqueror Worm. St. 5.
Tell me, my soul! can this be death?
| author = Pope
| work = Dying Christian to His Soul. Pope attributes his inspiration to Hadrian and to
a Fragment of Sappho. See Crolt's ed.
of Pope. (1835) Thomas Flatman—
Thoughts on Death, a similar paraphrase,
pub. 1674, before Pope was born.
The world recedes; it disappears;
Heav'n opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
| author = Pope
| work = The Dying Christian to His Soul.
Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame.
| author = Pope
| work = The Dying Christian to His Soul.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
| author = Pope
| work = Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate
Lady. L. 51.
A heap of dust remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
| author = Pope
| work = Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate
Lady. L. 73.
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{{Hoyt quote
| num = 5
| text = See my lips tremble and my eyeballs roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
| author = Pope
| work = Eloisa to Abelard. L. 323.
g
O Death, all eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.
| author = Pope
| work = Eloisa to Abelard. L. 355.
Till tired, he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.
| author = Pope
| work = Essay on Man.
| place = Ep. II. L. 282.
But thousands die without or this or that,
Die, and endow a college or a cat.
| author = Pope
| work = Moral Essays. Ep. III. L. 95.
w Teach him how to live,
And, oh! still harder lesson! how to die.
Bishop Porteus—Death. L. 316.
Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep.
Proverbs. VI. 10; XXIV. 33.
li
I have said ye are gods . . . But ye shall die
like men.
Psalms. LXXXII. 6. 7.
Death aims with fouler spite
At fairer marks.
Quarles—Divine Poems. (Ed. 1669)
| seealso = (See also Young)
| topic =
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{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>It is the lot of man but once to die.
Quarles—Emblems.
| place = Bk. V. Em. 7.
Je m'en vais chercher un grand peut-Stre;
tirez le rideau, la farce est jouee.
I am going to seek a great perhaps; draw the
curtain, the farce is played.
Attributed to Rabelais by tradition. From
Motteux's Life of Rabelais. Quoted: "I
am about to leap into the dark"; also
Notice sur Rabelais in CEuvres de F. Rabelais.
Paris, 1837.
| seealso = (See also Browne, Browning, Carlyle, Flatman, Hobbes)
| topic =
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{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Et l'avare Acheron ne lache pas sa proie.
And greedy Acheron does not relinquish its
prey.
Racine—Phedre. Act II. Sc. 5.
O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom
none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what
none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all
the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast
out of the world and despised: thou hast drawn
together all the far stretched greatness, all the
pride> cruelty and ambition of man, and covered
it ail over with these two narrow words, Hie jacet!
Sir Walter Raleigh—Historie of the World.
Bk.V. Pt. I. Ch.VI.
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death,
Our young Marcellus sleeps.
James R. Randall—John Pelham.
fort Very
belle, Fair,
elle She
dort. Sleeps.
sort Frame
fsele, Frail,
quelle What a
mort! Death!
rose Rose
close, Close,
la The
brise Breeze
l'a Her
prise. Seized.
COMTE DE RESSEGUD2R.
22
Der lange Schlaf des Todes schliesst unsere
Narben zu, und der kutze des Lebens unsere
Wunden.
The long sleep of death closes our scars,
and the short sleep of life our wounds.
Jean Paul Richter—Hesperus. XX.
