DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,

The lyre of prophet bards was strung, To Thee, at last, in every clime,

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Shall temples rise and praise be sung. PIERPONT.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate: Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still.

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds,