But, ah! can youth dwell on the tragic part?
Can I describe the trembling, panting heart?
In Fancy's frolic age can I relate
The pangs, the terrors of a dying state?
Yes — tho' unskill'd, I'll the grim shade pursue,
And bring the distant terror to my view;
Dwell on the horrors of that gloomy hour;
Death, made familiar, loses half his power.
Peace then, ye passions of ungovern'd youth,
Foes to reflection, enemies to truth!
Let me, unruffled by your clamorous voice,
Make the drear regions of the tomb my choice;
And while sad Fancy paints the dismal scene,
Where restless ghosts by midnight moons are seen
Stalk o'er the gloomy grave, Muse! be it thine
To rouse the vain, the giddy, and supine,
Who Pleasure's rounds pursue; while young Desire
Wakes the gay dream, and feeds the dangerous fire:
From these I fly — and now, my pensive soul,
Mark the harsh scream of yon death-boding owl;
Perhaps she calls some lingering, tardy ghost
To smell the world, ere the dread hour be lost
That parts the night from morn. Come, restless souls,
Relax from torture; you whom Fate controuls
To purge your earthly crimes in liquid fire,
In anguish plung'd, till ages shall expire;
(This,  grand tenet) sin thus wash'd away,
Pure, bright, and cleans'd, you'll wing to endless day.
Presumption, hold! Lo, o'er yon misty tomb
Leans a sad spectre, and bemoans the doom
Of never-erring Justice; heavenly power!
Support and guard me in this gloomy hour
Of dread inquiry! — "Say, thou wretched soul,
O teach a young, rash, inexperienced fool,
What 'tis to die, and where thou wing'dst thy way,
When turn'd a wanderer from thy house of clay?
Did'st tread soft lawns, or seek Elysian groves,
Where Poets feign the lover's spirit roves?
Or, on light pinions cut the closing air,
And to each planetary world repair?
Or, guideless, stray where dismal groans resound,
And forked lightnings quiver on the ground?
Or did sad fiends thy unhous'd spirit meet,
And with shrill yellings the poor trembler greet
To the dark world? Describe that scene of woe
Which thou hast felt, and may I never know!"
"Thou'lt know, indeed," it answers with a groan,
"The pangs of death too sure shall be thy own;
Pains yet unfelt must seize thy every part,
And Death's cold horrors hover round thy heart;
Thy dying eyes fix'd on some darling friend,
While strong convulsions their wild orbs extend;
One gasp, and deep eternity in view,
The soul shoots forth, and groans a last adieu.
I dare no more — but Oh! too curious maid,
Seek not to pierce th'impenetrable shade
Which wraps futurity; thou 'rt sure to die;
Rest there, nor farther search, nor question why;
Scan not Omnipotence — of that beware;
Oft the too curious eye is dimm'd by blank despair."