Wise in his day that heathen emperor, To whom, each morrow, came a slave, and cried-- “Philip, remember thou must die;” no more. To me such daily voice were misapplied-- Disease guests with me; and each cough, or cramp, Or aching, like the Macedonian slave, Is my _memento mori_. ’Tis the stamp Of God’s true life to be in dying brave. “I fear not death, but dying”[1]--not the long Hereafter, sweetened by immortal love; But the quick, terrible last breath--the strong Convulsion. Oh, my Lord of breath above! Grant me a quiet end, in easeful rest-- A sweet removal, on my mother’s breast.