Lines, On The Death Of My Friend, Joseph Taylor, Of Oldham. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Oh Death, how placid is thy sleep!
The seal of a long dreamless rest;
No breath to sigh, no tear to weep,
No trouble to disturb that breast:
The music of thy voice is o'er,
Thine eye shall wake to light no more!

Death comes, and none may linger then;
The great one from his throne descends,
And mingles with his fellow men,
And all his pomp and splendour ends;
And with the lowest lieth he,
Forgetful of his dignity.

And he, who in a low estate
Hath mourn'd beside that guilty throne,
Is on a level with the great,
Whose grave shall be as dark and lone;
For when a tyrant bows the head,
What tears of grief are ever shed?

O! may we live a worthy life,
And may we die a worthy death;
Whether we fall in freedom's strife,
Or calmly we resign our breath,
There is a voice of truth to tell,
Of him who hath deserved well.