With the velocity of lightning. Ah!— 

 He rises,—triumphs;—yes, the victory's his! 

 No—the wrestler Death again has thrown him 

 And—oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall! 

 Soft!—he is quiet. Yet whence came that groan, 

 Was't from his chest, or from the throat of death 

 Exulting in his conquest! I know not, 

 But if 'twas his, it surely was his last; 

 For see, he scarcely stirs! Soft! Does he breathe? 

 Ah no! he breathes no more. 'Tis very strange! 

 How still he's now! how fiery hot—how cold 

 How terrible! How lifeless! all within 

 A few brief moments!—My reason staggers! 

 Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard, 

 Who canst for every thing assign a cause, 

 Here take thy stand beside me, and explain 

 This hidden mystery. Bring with thee 

 The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven 

 And impiously ascribes events to chance, 

 To help to solve this wonderful enigma! 

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