Classic Poem

After death nothing is, and nothing, death:
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside
His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;
Let slavish souls lay by their fear,
Nor be concern'd which way nor where
After this life they shall be hurl'd.
Dead, we become the lumber of the world,
And to that mass of matter shall be swept
Where things destroy'd with things unborn are kept.
Devouring time swallows us whole;
Imparital death confounds body and soul.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rules
God's everlasting fiery jails
(Devis'd by rogues, dreaded by fools),
With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,
Are senseless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimseys, and no more.