"P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let my friends
hear, either directly or indirectly of my illness."

A few weeks afterwards he again directed his mother's hopes to a
tranquil retreat for his family in his parsonage, but said nothing
of his illness; and he told Mr. Haddock, in September,

"I am perfectly well again, and have experienced no recurrence of
the fit: my spirits, too, are better, and I read very moderately.
I hope that God will be pleased to spare his rebellious child;
this stroke has brought me nearer to Him; whom indeed have I for
my comforter but Him? I am still reading, but with moderation, as
I have been during the whole vacation, whatever you may persist
in thinking. My heart turns with more fondness towards the
consolations of religion than it did, and in some degree I have
found consolation."

But notwithstanding these flattering expressions, he appears to
have felt that he had but a short time to live; and it was
probably about this period that he wrote his lines on the
"Prospect of Death," perhaps one of the most beautiful and
affecting compositions in our language:

"On my bed, in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me wearisome; while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;
I only wake to watch the sickly taper
Which lights me to my tomb.--Yes, 'tis the hand
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
Slow sapping the warm current of existence