Robert Blair

The good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, Not to return; or if it did, in visits Like those of angels, short and far between.

The cup goes round: And who so artful as to put it by! 'T is long since Death had the majority.

Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not:—this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission.

But if there be an hereafter, And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man, Then must it be an awful thing to die; More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweetener of life! and solder of society!

The Schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.

The Grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou 'rt named: Nature, appall'd, Shakes off her wonted firmness.