250 SAMUEL JOHNSON

His virtues walk'd their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void;

And sure the Eternal Master found His single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm, his powers were bright,

Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,

No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain,

And freed his soul the nearest way.

�� �