Classic Poem

TO DEATH.

Avaunt! grim spectre of terrific mien!
Nor touch with icy wand, nor dim his eyes
Who here on the sad couch of sickness lies!
Ah! cease to hover o'er this tranquil scene;
With all thy doubts, and fears, and agonies!
Go! where to smooth thy path Despair hath been;
Where thou art oft invok'd with tears and sighs;
Or pious age may greet with smile serene!
Go! to the darksome cell where maniacs rave;
To the low cradle where pale infants weep!
They have no joys to rescue from the grave,
They cannot dread thy long mysterious sleep:
But spare the pulse of life! in pity save,
While Youth and Hope enlivening measure keep.