2.
“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
How terrible and deep is this repose!
There is no stillness like the calm of death
That stops the beating heart and stills the breath;
For so hath God ordained, that at the close
Sad Meditation veil'd in silent woes
Beneath the shadow of eternity
May sit, in silence like the evening sky.
But this, though companied with dying throes,
Is not as other deaths; for Death that seems
Upon the still cold limbs and hanging head
To sit as victor, while he little deems,
Himself is by his conquest vanquishèd:
Hope in despair is planted; and the beams
Of morning are on day's departing shed.
