96
ODE TO DEATH.
Sharp goading Indigence who would not fly,
That urges toil the exhausted strength above?
Or shun the once fond friend's averted eye?
Or who to thy asylum not remove,
To lose the wasting anguish of ungrateful love?
Can then the wounded wretch, who must deplore
What most she loved, to thy cold arms consign'd,
Who hears the voice that sooth'd her soul no more,
Fear thee, O Death!—Or hug the chains that bind
To joyless, cheerless life, her sick, reluctant mind?
