But what to those can bring relief, 

 Who pine in endless sorrow. 

 —EMMA TUCKER. 

  

  

  LINES WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.  

 Sad solitary thought! that keeps thy vigils, 

 Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind; 

 Communing lonely with his sinking soul, 

 And musing on the dim obscurity around him! 

 Thee! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call 

 At this still midnight hour, this awful season, 

 When on my bed in wakeful restlessness, 

 I turn me, weary: while all around, 

 All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness, 

 I only wake to watch the sickly taper that lights, 

 Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death 

 I feel press heavy on my vitals; 

 Slow sapping the warm current of existence; 

 My moments now are few! e'en now 

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