Classic Poem

  A . Who , save Man,
E'er reckons on to-morrow! or dreads death?
  B . Death! what is death,—at whose pale picture men
Shake, and the blood grows cold? Is he one thing?
Dream? Substance? Shadow? or is Death more vague,—
Made up of many fears, which band together
And overthrow the soul?—Give me reply!
Is Death so terrible? Why, we do know
Philosophy, Religion, Fame, Revenge,
Despair, Ambition, Shame, all conquer it.
The Soldier who doth face it every day,—
The feathered Savage, and the Sailor, tossing
All night upon the loose uncertain deep,
Laugh it to scorn. The fish, the bird, the brute,
(Though each doth apprehend the sense of pain,)
Never dread death. It is a weakness bred
Only in man. Methinks, if we build up
Our proud Distinction, sole supremacy,
Upon so slight foundation as our fears,
Our fame may totter.