Impromptu.
Written on viewing the body of a young man who was killed by lightning, at Charlbury, Oxfordshire, July 19, 1844,
And he is dead; aye, dead and cold, and motionless, who but an hour agone was full of lusty life, of youth and vigour; whose warm heart's blood ran gaily dancing through a giant frame ; whose stalwart build might almost mock at Time, and, in its seeming strength, defy disease. And now, behold! a few brief moments gone, a clammy, ghastly corpse is all remains!
Look on, I pray you all, and ponder well, this “stern monument” of life’s uncertainty!
There are some dispositions so palpably and really superior to others, as to induce the belief, that Nature, in her manufacture of them, had thrown in a dash of the angel by way of a finish; while, in contradistinction, others there are, which seem to be made up of the mere sweepings and scrapings of the manufactory.
Virtue in a woman, as the kernel to the nut, gives value, without which both are worthless.
