Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 1.djvu/125

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Dash down the loathly bowl! poor outcast slaveStamp'd with the brand of Vice and InfamyWhy should the villain Frederic shrink from Death?
Death! where the magic in that empty nameThat chills my inmost heart? why at the thoughtStarts the cold dew of fear on every limb?There are no terrors to surround the Grave,When the calm Mind collected in itselfSurveys that narrow house: the ghastly trainThat haunt the midnight of delirious GuiltThen vanish; in that home of endless restAll sorrows cease.—Would I might slumber there!
Why then this panting of the fearful heart?This miser love of life that dreads to loseIts cherish'd torment? shall the diseased manYield up his members to the surgeon's knife,Doubtful of succour, but to ease his frameOf fleshly anguish, and the coward wretch,
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