To
Death
.
O
THOU
most
terrible
,
most
dreaded
power
,
In
whatsoever
form
thou
meetest
the
eye
!
Whether
thou
biddest
thy
sudden
arrow
fly
In
the
dread
silence
of
the
midnight
hour
;
Or
whether
,
hovering
o'er
the
lingering
wretch
Thy
sad
cold
javelin
hangs
suspended
long
,
While
round
the
couch
the
weeping
kindred
throng
With
hope
and
fear
alternately
on
stretch
;
Oh
,
say
,
for
me
what
horrors
are
prepared
?
Am
I
now
doomed
to
meet
thy
fatal
arm
?
Or
wilt
thou
first
from
life
steal
every
charm
,
And
bear
away
each
good
my
soul
would
guard
?
That
thus
,
deprived
of
all
it
loved
,
my
heart
From
life
itself
contentedly
may
part
.