190

DEATH S DOINGS.

Mingled the sauce; and then—ah! then,Sad destiny of mortal men,Whose hopes, while yet they blossom, die ;Whose joys like rainbow colours fly;Whose expectations, still, appearLike shadows of things coming nearWhich ne'er arrive, an airy trainPictured by Fancy on the brain.—Ah! then—what means that vacant stare ?Why sinks Tom backwards in his chair?Why start his eyeballs from his head?His face with purple is o'erspread!That snorting sound! is he asleep!Those gurgles in his bosom deep;That sob convulsive ; that long pause;That deep-fetched breath, the last he draws,And those contortions, all declareA deed of Death is doing there.

A. T. T.