W. Drummond More oft than once Death whisper'd in mine ear, Grave what thou hears in diämond and gold, I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear, Who hath in dust their far-stretch'd pride uproll'd; All, all is mine beneath moon's silver sphere, And nought, save virtue, can my power withhold: This, not believed, experience true thee told, By danger late when I to thee came near. As bugbear then my visage I did show, That of my horrors thou right use might'st make, And a more sacred path of living take: -- Now still walk arméd for my ruthless blow: Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past, And live each day as if it were thy last. |