Prejudged by foes determined not to spare,
An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside,
Laud,“in the painful art of dying” tried,
( Like a poor bird entangled in a snare
Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear
To stir in useless struggle ) hath relied
On hope that conscious innocence supplied,
And in his prison breathescelestial air.
Why tarries then thy chariot?Wherefore stay,
O Death! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels,
Which thou prepar'st, full often, to convey
( What time a State with madding faction reels )
The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals
All wounds, all perturbations doth allay?