Our fathers grace, or rather haunt the scene. Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead. Profest diversions! cannot these escape?Far from it: these present us with a shroud; And talk of death, like garlands o'er a grave. As some bold plunderers, for buried wealth, We ransack tombs for pastime; from the dust Call up the sleeping hero; bid him tread The scene for our amusement. How like gods We sit; and wrapt in immortality, Shed generous tears on wretches born to die ; Their fate deploring, to forget our own! END OF VOL. III. |