Such
hail the end of their existence as a port of refuge, and speak of the
grave as of some soft arms in which they may slumber as on a pillow.
Some have wooed death--but 'Out upon thee,' I say, 'thou foul, ugly
phantom! I detest, abhor, execrate thee, as in no instance to be
excused or tolerated, but shunned as a universal viper, to be branded,
proscribed, and spoken evil of! In no way can I be brought to digest
thee, thou thin, melancholy _Privation_. Those antidotes prescribed
against the fear of thee are altogether frigid and insulting, like
thyself.'"
Poor Charles's wild humour flickers over this page like lambent flame;
yet he was serious at heart without a doubt, and his whirling words
rouse an echo in many a breast to this day. But both Shakspere and
Lamb had their higher moments. Turn to "Cymbeline," and observe the
glorious triumph of the dirge which rings like the magnificent
exultation of Beethoven's Funeral March--
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
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