WHEN , by a sudden act of guilt,
The hands of men their blood have spilt,
We pierce with stakes the murder'd frame,
And cover it with marks of shame;
But overlook the Suicide
Of a miscalculated pride,
Which courts the mist that clouds the day,
And throws the light of joy away;
Nor deem the character impair'd,
Of lingering death-beds ill-prepar'd;
Nor brand the dissipated mind,
Which is to all reflection blind;
And, as if piqued at life's delay,
Kills with impertinence the day!
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