"If dying mortals' dooms they sing aright, No ghosts descend to dwell in dreadful night; No parting souls to grisly Pluto go, Nor seek the dreary, silent shades below: But forth they fly immortal in their kind, And other bodies in new worlds they find. Thus life for ever runs its endless race, And like a line, death but divides the space— A stop which can but for a moment last, A point between the future and the past. Thrice happy they beneath their northern skies, Who that worst fear, the fear of death, despise; Hence they no cares for this frail being feel, But rush undaunted on the pointed steel. Provoke approaching fate, and bravely scorn To spare that life which must so soon return."
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Pharsalia (Nicholas Rowe)
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