The Pass of Death

The Pass of Death

Another's gone; and who comes next,

Of all the sons of Pride?

And is humanity perplex'd,

"Because this one hath died?"

The sons of men did raise their voice,

And cry'd out in despair -

"We will not come - we will not come,

Whilst thou art waiting there."

But time wen forth, and dragg'd them on

By one, by two, by three;

Nay, sometimes thousands fell as one,

So merciless was he:

And still they go, and still they go,

The Slave, the Lord, the King;

And disappear, like flakes of snow

Before the sun of spring.

For Death stood in the path of Time,

And slew them as they came,

And not a soul escap'd his hand,

So certain was his aim.

The beggar fell across his staff,

The soldier on his sword,

The king sunk down beneath his crown,

The priest beside "the word."

And Youth came with his blush of health,

And in a moment fell;

And Avarice, griping still at wealth,

Was rolied into ****.

And Age stood trembling at the pass,

And would have turn'd again;

But Time said, "No, 'tis never so -

Thou canst not here remain."

The bride came in her wedding robe;

But that did nought avail;

For her ruby lips went cold and blue,

And her rosy cheek turn'd pale.

And some were hurried from the ball,

And some came from the play;

And some were eating to the last,

And some with wine were gay.

And some were ravenous for food,

And rais'd "seditious cries;"

But being a "legitimate,"

Death quickly stopped their noise;

The father left his infant brood

Amid the world to weep;

And the mother died, whilst her babe

Was smiling in its sleep.

And some did offer bribes of gold,

If they might but survive;

But he drew his arrow to the head,

And none were left alive.

And some were plighting vows of love

When their very hearts were torn;

And eyes that look'd so bright at eve,

Were closed ere the morn.

And one had just attained to power,

And wist not he should die,

Till the arrow smote the stream of life,

And left the cistern dry.

Another's gone; and who comes next

Of all the sons of Pride?

And is humanity perplex'd.

Because this one hath died?

And still they come, and still they go,

And still there is no end;

And the hungry grave is yawning yet,

And who shall next descend?

Oh, shall it be a crowned head,

Or one of noble line;

Or, doth the slayer turn to smite

A life so frail as mine?

Unattributed

1:30, p. 120

1827.10.05