. The English dance of death, from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson;. his ghastly grin,The knowing ones are taken in.—The lucky Phantom s sure to enters,—when the fearful shoutEchoes around, of—turn him , he replies—that Gold is mine:—Gamester, that Gold you must resign.—Now Life s the Main, the Spectre cries :He throws—and lo !—The Gamester dies. 230 ENGLISH DANCE OF DEATH THE BATTLE Lifes frail and perishable hourHas oft been likend to a flower,Which first a verdant leaf displaysAmid the showrs of vernal days,And Summer opens to the Sun;But Autumn sees its beauty gone:Chilld by
. The English dance of death, from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson;. his ghastly grin,The knowing ones are taken in.—The lucky Phantom s sure to enters,—when the fearful shoutEchoes around, of—turn him , he replies—that Gold is mine:—Gamester, that Gold you must resign.—Now Life s the Main, the Spectre cries :He throws—and lo !—The Gamester dies. 230 ENGLISH DANCE OF DEATH THE BATTLE Lifes frail and perishable hourHas oft been likend to a flower,Which first a verdant leaf displaysAmid the showrs of vernal days,And Summer opens to the Sun;But Autumn sees its beauty gone:Chilld by Winter cold it lies,To be renewd neath milder is the whole progressive spanThat marks the longest life of Man :But, by experience, we are taughtThe various means that make it , with its destructive Train,And all the Family of Pain ;These are the Ministers that waitUpon the dread commands of Fate.—Fevers fierce and burning heatWhich makes each pulse with fury beat;Pallid Ague that, by turns,Shakes with tremors cold, or burns. ENGLISH DANCE OF DEATH 231 With parching pain ;—the Stone,That parent of the heaving groan ;The Gout, and all its racking pains,Or Frenzy, writhing in its chains,And many an ill of doubtful nameThat harrasses the human these alone : Heart-breaking Care \With pining Love, and fell despair;Or Passions unreflecting rage,Which Reason trembles to assuage;—They, in their various natures, paveMans passage to the gloomy grave,His mortal destiny : but theseWaste mankind by slow degrees,While Natures all-prolific powerSupplies such losses every hour.—No, tis the vast, ensanguind plainCoverd with thousands of the slain,Where the fell Deity of WarDrives onward in his fatal Car : ,Tis there th affrighted eye can traceThe power that thins the human race. The Sun his early beams displaysAnd tips the hills with golden rays; 232 ENGLISH DANCE OF DEATH Then glitters on the martial show, That covers all the vale below;
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