He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.
Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, The mighty soul how small a body holds.
To die is landing on some distant shore.
Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
Dead men tell no tales.