Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 8 by Samuel Richardson
page 97 of 397 (24%)
page 97 of 397 (24%)
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'Tis the last point of many ling-ring years;
But whither then we go, Whither, we fain would know; But human understanding cannot show. This makes US tremble---- Mr. Pomfret, therefore, proceeded I, had such apprehensions of this dark state as you have: and the excellent divine I hinted at last night, who had very little else but human frailties to reproach himself with, and whose miscellanies fell into my hands among my uncle's books in my attendance upon him in his last hours, says, It must be done, my soul: but 'tis a strange, A dismal, and mysterious change, When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay, And to an unknown--somewhere--wing away; When time shall be eternity, and thou Shalt be--thou know'st not what--and live-- thou know'st not how! Amazing state! no wonder that we dread To think of death, or view the dead; Thou'rt all wrapt up in clouds, as if to thee Our very knowledge had antipathy. Then follows, what I repeated, Death could not a more sad retinue find, Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind. Alas! my dear Belford [inferred the unhappy deep-thinker] what poor |
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