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And ev'ry life-string bleeds at thought of parting;
For part they must: Body and soul must part;
Fond couple; link'd more close than wedded pair.
This, wings its way to its almighty Source,
The Witness of its actions, now its Judge;
That, drops into the dark and noisome Grave,
Like a disabled pitcher of no use.

If Death was nothing, and nought after death;
If when men dy'd, at once they ceas'd to be,
Returning to the barren womb of nothing,
Whence first they sprung; then might the Debachee
Untrembling mouth the Heavens:—Then might the Drunkard
Reel over his full bowl, and when 'tis drain'd,
Fill up another to brim, and laugh
At the poor bugbear Death. Then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleas'd,
And by what way; whether by hemp, or steel.
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force
The ill-pleas'd guest to sit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes?— Sure he does well
That helps himself, as timely as he can,
When able.—But if there's an Hereafter,
And that there is, Conscience, uninfluenc'd
And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man;
Then must it be an awful thing to die:
More horrid yet, to die by one's own hand.
Self-murder!—name it not: our island's shame:
That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states:
Shall Nature, swerving from her earliest dictate
Self-preservation, fall by her own act?
Forbid it Heaven!—Let not, upon disgust,
The shameless hand be souly crimson'd o'er
With blood of its own lord.—Dreadful attempt!