Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

453   The Dying Christian to his Soul

   VITAL spark of heav’nly flame!
   Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
   Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
   O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

   Hark! they whisper; angels say,
   Sister Spirit, come away!
   What is this absorbs me quite?
   Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears
   With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
   O Death! where is thy sting?