Chapter XVIII

Wise in his day that heathen emperor,
To whom, each morrow, came a slave, and cried--
“Philip, remember thou must die;” no more.
To me such daily voice were misapplied--
Disease guests with me; and each cough, or cramp,
Or aching, like the Macedonian slave,
Is my _memento mori_. ’Tis the stamp
Of God’s true life to be in dying brave.
“I fear not death, but dying”[1]--not the long
Hereafter, sweetened by immortal love;
But the quick, terrible last breath--the strong
Convulsion. Oh, my Lord of breath above!
Grant me a quiet end, in easeful rest--
A sweet removal, on my mother’s breast.