Who the spectacle can image,—
How tremendous!—of that day
When the course of life accomplished,
From the trammels of her clay
Writhes the soul to be delivered,
Agonised to pass away!
Sense hath perished, tongue is rigid,
Eyes are filming o'er in death,
Palpitates the breast, and hoarsely
Gasps the rattling throat for breath:
Limbs are torpid, lips are pallid,
Breaking nature quivereth.
All come round him!—cogitation,
Habit, word, and deed are there!
All, though much, and sore he struggle,
Hover o'er him in the air:
Turn he this way, turn he that way,
On his inmost soul they glare.
Conscience self her culprit tortures,
Gnawing him with pangs unknown:
For that now amendment's season
Is for ever past and gone,
And that late repentance findeth
Pardon none for all its moan.
