Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think or bravely die?
At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.
Of fight or fly, This choice is left ye, to resist or die.
Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; dies before thy uncreating word: thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; and universal darkness buries all.