The Pass Of Death Poem by Samuel Bamford

Another's gone, and who comes next,
Of all the sons of pride?
And is humanity perplex'd
Because this man hath died?
The sons of men did raise their voice
And crièd in despair,
'We will not come, we will not come,
Whilst Death is waiting there!'

But Time went forth and dragg'd them on,
By one, by two, by three;
Nay, sometimes thousands came as one,
So merciless was he!
And still they go, and still they go,
The slave, the lord, the king;
And disappear, like flakes of snow,
Before the sun of spring!

For Death stood in the path of Time,
And slew them as they came,
And not a soul escap'd his hand,
So certain was his aim.
The beggar fell across his staff,
The soldier on his sword,
The king sank down beneath his crown,
The priest beside the Word.

And Youth came in his blush of health,
And in a moment fell;
And Avarice, grasping still at wealth,
Was rollèd into hell;
And Age stood trembling at the pass,
And would have turned again;
But Time said, 'No, 'tis never so,
Thou canst not here remain.'

The bride came in her wedding robe—
But that did nought avail;
Her ruby lips went cold and blue,
Her rosy cheek turn'd pale!
And some were hurried from the ball,
And some came from the play;
And some were eating to the last,
And some with wine were gay.

And some were ravenous for food,
And rais'd seditious cries;
But, being a 'legitimate,'
Death quickly stopp'd their noise!
The father left his infant brood
Amid the world to weep;
The mother died whilst her babe
Lay smiling in its sleep!

And some did offer bribes of gold,
If they might but survive;
But he drew his arrow to the head,
And left them not alive!
And some were plighting vows of love,
When their very hearts were torn;
And eyes that shone so bright at eve
Were closèd ere the morn!

And one had just attained to pow'r,
He wist not he should die;
Till the arrow smote his stream of life,
And left the cistern dry!—
Another's gone, and who comes next,
Of all the sons of pride?
And is humanity perplexed
Because this man hath died?

And still they come, and still they go,
And still there is no end,—
The hungry grave is yawning yet,
And who shall next descend?
Oh! shall it be a crownèd head,
Or one of noble line?
Or doth the slayer turn to smite
A life so frail as mine?