Chapter_9

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Not in that mood, in which the insensate crowd

Of wealthy folly hail their natal day⁠—

With riot throng, and feast, and greetings loud,

Chasing all thoughts of God and heaven away.

Poor insect! feebly daring, madly gay,

What! joy because the fulness of the year

Marks thee for greedy death a riper prey?

Is not the silence of the grave too near?

Viewest thou the end with glee, meet scene for harrowing fear?