W. Drummond
More oft than once Death whisper'd in mine ear,
Grave what thou hears in diämond and gold,
I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear,
Who hath in dust their far-stretch'd pride uproll'd;
All, all is mine beneath moon's silver sphere,
And nought, save virtue, can my power withhold:
This, not believed, experience true thee told,
By danger late when I to thee came near.
As bugbear then my visage I did show,
That of my horrors thou right use might'st make,
And a more sacred path of living take: --
Now still walk arméd for my ruthless blow:
Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past,
And live each day as if it were thy last.