188

DEATH S DOINGS.

And, often, been within the walls

Of many famous hospitals.

He could a nervous fibril prick

To sap life's citadel with tick;

Rupture a vessel in the brain

The apoplectical to gain;

And cherish the bright crimson streak

That paints the hectic maiden's cheek,

Like the wild rose-bud's vermil bloom

Warming the marble of the tomb.

With these acquirements Death stood by,

And watch'd Tom's doings eagerly.

'Twas near the close of a bright day,

In infancy of lovely May,

Tom sat, half dozing, in his chair,

Alike devoid of thought and care;

Dreaming of what he had designed,

A dinner suited to his mind,

A cod's head dressed as head should be,

Chef-d'ouvre of good cookery.

He, too, expected, as his guest,

A friend of kindred soul and taste.

A man exact,—Tom eyed the door;—

He gave two minutes and no more: