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A death-bed's a detector of the heart:

Here tired dissimulation drops her mask,

Through life's grimace that mistress of the scene;
Here real and apparent are the same.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

O death, all eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 't is man we love.

POPE'S Eloisa.

Death, when unmask'd, shows us a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance.

The prince, who kept the world in awe,
The judge, whose dictate fix'd the law,
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Are levell'd: death confounds them all.

GOLDSMITH.

GAY's Fables.

There shall the yew her sable branches spread,
And mournful cypress rear her fringed head;
From thence shall thyme and myrtle send perfume,
And laurel evergreen o'ershade the tomb.

Leaves have their times to fall,

GAY'S Dione.

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set - but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!

MRS. HEMANS.

Let him who crawls, enamour'd of decay,

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away,
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ;-
Ours the fresh turf, and not the fev'rish bed;
While, gasp by gasp, he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes control.

BYRON'S Corsair.

How peaceful and how powerful is the grave!

BYRON.

178

DEATH-GRAVE.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest, when Autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay wither'd and strown!

And dull the film along his dim eye grew.

BYRON.

Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall;

BYRON'S Lara.

The dome of thought-the palace of the soul.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet.

BYRON'S Don Juan.

At times, both wish'd for and implor'd,

At times sought with self-pointed sword,
And welcome in no shape.

BYRON'S Mazeppa.

What shall he be ere night?-Perchance a thing
O'er which the raven flaps his funeral wing!

BYRON'S CO1 sair

Oh God! it is a fearful thing

To see the human soul take wing!

BYRON'S Prisoner of Chillon.

How sweetly could I lay my head
Within the cold grave's silent breast,
Where sorrow's tears no more are shed,
No more the ills of life molest!

O, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate,
In the wide world, without that only tie,
For which it wish'd to live, or fear'd to die!

MOORE.

MOORE'S Lalla Rookh.

Like one who draws the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

W. C. BRYANT.

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