Heaven! what enormous strength does death possess! 
  How muscular the giant’s arm must be
  To grasp that strong boned horse, and, spite of all
  His furious efforts, fix him to the earth! 
  Yet, hold, he rises!—­no—­the struggle’s vain;
  His strength avails him not.  Beneath the gripe
  Of the remorseless monster, stretched at length
  He lies with neck extended; head hard pressed
  Upon the very turf where late he fed. 
  His writhing fibres speak his inward pain! 
  His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire! 
  Oh! how he glares! and hark! methinks I hear
  His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins. 
  Amazement!  Horror!  What a desperate plunge,
  See! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod
  With the velocity of lightning.  Ah!—­
  He rises,—­triumphs;—­yes, the victory’s his! 
  No—­the wrestler Death again has thrown him
  And—­oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall! 
  Soft!—­he is quiet.  Yet whence came that groan,
  Was’t from his chest, or from the throat of death
  Exulting in his conquest!  I know not,
  But if ’twas his, it surely was his last;
  For see, he scarcely stirs!  Soft!  Does he breathe? 
  Ah no! he breathes no more.  ’Tis very strange!

  How still he’s now! how fiery hot—­how cold
  How terrible!  How lifeless! all within
  A few brief moments!—­My reason staggers! 
  Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard,
  Who canst for every thing assign a cause,
  Here take thy stand beside me, and explain
  This hidden mystery.  Bring with thee
  The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven
  And impiously ascribes events to chance,
  To help to solve this wonderful enigma! 
  First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners,
  Where the vast strength this creature late possessed
  Has fled to? how the bright sparkling fire,
  Which flashed but now from those dim rayless eyes
  Has been extinguished?  Oh—­he’s dead you say. 
  I know it well:—­but how, and by what means? 
  Was it the arm of chance that struck him down,
  In height of vigor, and in pride of strength,
  To stiffen in the blast?  Come, come, tell me: 
  Nay shake not thus the head’s that are enriched
  With eighty years of wisdom, gleaned from books,
  From nights of study, and the magazines
  Of knowledge, which your predecessors left. 
  What! not a word!—­I ask you, once again,
  How comes it that the wond’rous essence,
  Which gave such vigour to these strong nerved limbs
  Has leaped from its enclosure, and compelled
  This noble workmanship of nature, thus
  To sink Into a cold inactive clod? 
  Nay sneak not off thus cowardly—­poor fools
  Ye are as destitute of information
  As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts!