Death
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he winds and waters are in his command,Held as a courser in the rider's hand.He lets them loose, they triumph at his will:He checks their course and all is calm and still.Life's hopes waste all to nothingness awayAs showers at night wash out the steps of day. The tyrant, in his lawless power deterred,Bows before death, tame as a broken sword.One dyeth in his strength and, torn from ease,Groans in death pangs like tempests in the trees.Another from the bitterness of clayFalls calm as storms drop on an autumn day,With noiseless speed as swift as summer lightDeath slays and keeps her weapons out of sight. The tyrants that do act the God in clayAnd for earth's glories throw the heavens away,Whose breath in power did like to thunder sear,When anger hurried on the heels of fear,Whose rage planned hosts of murders at a breath--Here in sound silence sheath their rage in death. Their feet, that crushed down freedom to its graveAnd felt the very earth they trod a slave,How quiet here they lie in death's cold armsWithout the power to crush the feeble wormsWho spite of all the dreadful fears they madeCreep there to conquer and are not afraid.
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