The Funeral, X

O death! thou art a fearful thing, Although ’tis said relief thou’lt bring, The wretch without a friend or home, Condemn’d in hungry rags to roam, Will life’s last bitter chalice drain, Sooner than mingle with thy train! Thou strik’st the hermit in his cell, Who long has bid the world farewell; Thou strik’st the warrior in the field, While charging squadrons round him yield; And rosy youth, and wrinkled age, And motley fool, and cunning sage, Alike before thy arrows fall, Whose quiver has a barb for all.