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Mark how the ready hands of death prepare; His bow is bent, and he hath notch'd his dart; He aims, he levels at thy slumb'ring heart. The wound is posting; O be wise, beware! What, has the voice of danger lost the art To raise the spirit of neglected care?
He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notch'd all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there; he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap.
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