AROUND his bed the saddened mourners stand,
And nearby, the doctor, with watch in hand.
With strength born of despair, the dying man
Leans upon his elbow, around the room to scan
The luxury, purchased by the riches he had sought
(His soul for wealth the devil long had bought),
But now grim death―sin’s wage―the day had won;
In spite of all his gold, the rich man’s race was run.
Then flashed across his weary, aching brain,
To beg from death a respite― ‘twere in vain.
“Naught to this world I brought, naught I take away;
Oh, why, why this taunting thought at my last day?
(Ah, Satan, cruel, cruel foe, ‘tis ever thy delight,
To taunt one whom thy chains have bound so tight)
Oh, for one brief hour my thousands I would give―
Oh, one, one brief hour, oh, doctor, make me live.
“Speak, man!”― “I cannot,” comes the low reply;
“In less than that, sir, you must prepare to die.”
Prepare, prepare, PREPARE, it echoes round the room;
Prepare―an echo seemed to say―prepare to meet thy doom.
“No, no, oh, no, I must not die: I am, not yet prepared:
God’s warnings I’ve unheeded, the’ so often heard.”
Back on his pillow―a shudder―then ‘tis o’er;
A painful silence―then the doctor speaks, “He is no more!”