This well he knew:-the thought that heart appall'd That fmil'd in pain, defcending to the dead."
O may his fhade revifit oft with joy
Thefe fcenes which once to rapture rais'd his mind: To glad his fhade, your friendly aid employ,
To fuccour thofe he to your care confign'd.
When just about to bid this world adieu-
His laft advice ftill rings upon my ear:
"Thefe dying words, I now impart to you,
"O! might the world with due attention hear.
"In fprightly youth of fyren vice beware:
"Learn from my fate the hapless lot of man;
"With caution learn to fhun each gilded fnare,
"O'erlook my faults and all my beauties fcan."
Confign'd to earth, here refis the lifelefs clay,
Which once a vital fpark from Heav'n infpir'd.
The lamp of Genius fhone full bright its day,
Then left the world to mourn its light retir'd.
While burns that fplendid orb which lights the fpheres,
While mountain ftreams defcend to fwell the main,
While changeful feafons mark the rolling years,
Thy fame, O BURNS! let Scotia ftill retain.
view of
TRUCK with religious awe and folemn dread,
Around me tombs in mixt diforder rife,
And, in mute language, teach me to be wife.
Time was these afhes liv'd; a time must be
When others thus may fland and look at me.
Here, blended, lie the aged and the
young,
The rich and poor, an undistinguish'd throng:
Death conquers all, and time's fubduing hand,
Nor tombs nor marble ftatues can withfland.
Mark yonder afhes, in confufion spread!
Compare earth's living tenants with her dead!
How ftriking the refemblance! yet how juft!
Once life and foul inform'd this mafs of duft:
Around these bones, now broken and decay'd,
The ftreams of life in various channels play'd:
Perhaps that skull, fo horrible to view,
Was fome fair maid's, ye belles, as fair as you;
Thefe hollow fockets two bright orbs contain❜d,
Where the loves fported, and in triumph reign'd:
Here glow'd the lips; there, white as Parian stone,
The teeth, difpos'd in beauteous order, fhone,
This is life's goal-no farther can we view;
Beyond it, all is wonderful and new.
O fay, ye fpirits, in a future state,
Why do ye hide the fecrets of your fate,
And tell your endless pains or joys to none:--
Is it that men may live by faith alone?
The grave has eloquence, its lectures teach,
In filence, louder than divines can preach:
Hear what it fays-ye fons of folly hear ;
It fpeaks to you-lend an attentive ear:
It bids you lay all vanity afide;
A humbling lecture this for human pride.
The clock ftrikes twelve-how folemn is the found! Hark, how the ftrokes from hollow vaults rebound! They bid us haften to be wife, and fhow
How rapid in their course the minutes flow.
Now airy fhapes and hideous spectres dance
Athwart imagination's vivid glance;
The felon now attack's the mifer's door,
And ruthlefs murder prints her steps with gore:
Dull fancy now her dreary path purfues,
'Midft groves of cyprefs, and unhallow'd yews,
Poetic vifions vanifh from my brain,
And my pulse throbs as feebly as my ftrain.
What means this fudden, ftrange, unusual start,
This folemn fomething creeping to my heart?
Why fear to read a gracious God's decree?
Why fear to look on what I foon must be?
Can man be thoughtless of his end? or proud
Of charms that claim the coffin and the shroud?
Come, let him read thefe fculptur'd tomb-ftones o'er,
Here fix his thoughts, and then be vain no more.
Let proud ambition learn this leffon hence,
Howe'er diftinguish'd, dignify'd for sense;
Whate'er the honour'd enfigns of renown,
The cap, the hood, the mitre, or the crown,
Death levels all: nor parts nor pow'rs can fave;
Milton himself muft moulder in the grave,
Who fung and prov'd, with infpiration ftrong,
The foul immortal, in immortal fong.
Hark! thus death fpeaks; ingenious fon of men,
Why boaft the chiffel, pencil, or the pen?
Will fame, who oft denies her children bread,
Deceive the living, difcompofe the dead?
No; fame's a breath, it cannot life supply,
Nor yield you comfort when you come to die;
In my dark realms all oppofites agree,
The heirs of wealth, and fons of poverty.
Whose tomb is this? It fays 'tis Mira's tomb,
Pluck'd from the world in beauty's fairest bloom:
Attend, ye fair, ye thoughtless, and ye gay!
For Mira dy'd upon her nuptial day!
The grave, cold bridegroom! clafp'd her in his arms,
And kindred worms deftroy her pleasing charms.
In yonder tomb the old Avaro lies;
(Once he was rich, the world efteem'd him wife.)
Schemes unaccomplish'd labour'd in his mind,
And all his thoughts were to this world confin'd;
Death came unlook'd for, from his grasping hands
Down dropp'd his bags, and morgages of lands.
Beneath that fculptur'd pompous marble stone,
Lies youthful Florio aged twenty-one :
Cropp'd like a flow'r, he wither'd in his bloom,
Though flatt'ring life had promis'd years to come.
Ye filken fons, ye Florio's of the age!
Who tread, in giddy maze, life's flow'ry stage,
Mark here the end of man! in Florio, fee
What you and all the sons of earth must be.
There low in duft the vain Hortenfio lies,
Whose splendour was beheld with envious eyes ;
Titles and arms his pompous marble grace,
With a long hift'ry of his noble race:
Still after death his vanity furvives,
And on his tomb, all of Hortenfio lives!
Around me, as I turn my wand'ring eyes,
Unnumber'd graves in awful profpect rise,
Whose ftones fay only when their owners dy'd,
If young, or aged, and to whom ally'd;
On others, pompous epitaphs are spread,
In mem❜ry of the virtues of the dead;
Vain wafte of praife! fince, flatt'ring or fincere,
The judgment-day alone will make appear.
How filent is this little spot of ground!
How melancholy looks each object round!
Here man, diffolv'd in fhatter'd ruin lies
So faft afleep-as if no more to rife;
'Tis ftrange to think, how these dead bones can live,
Leap into form, and with new heat revive!
Or how this trodden earth to life shall wake,
Know its own place, its former figure take;
But whence these doubts? when the last trumpet founds
Thro' heav'n's expanse, to earth's remotest bounds,
The dead fhall quit these tenements of clay,
And view again the long-extinguifh'd day:
Cheer'd with this pleafing hope, I safely trust
Th' Almighty's pow'r to raise me from the duft;
On his unfailing promises rely,
And all the horrors of the grave defy ;
Death! where's thy fting? Grave! where's thy victory?
ELCOME, thou Man of Sorrows, to my door!
And, lo! thy guiding DoG my cares implore;
O hafte, and fhelter from th' unfeeling wind!
Alas! fhall MIS'RY feek my cot with fighs,
And humbly fue for piteous alms my ear;
Yet difappointed go with lifted eyes,
And on my threshold leave th' upbraiding tear?
Thou boweft for the pity I bestow:
Bend not to me, because I mourn distress;
I am thy debtor-much to thee I owe ;
For learn the greatest bleffing is to bless.
Thy hoary locks, and wan and pallid cheek,
Ánd quiv'ring lip to fancy feem to say,
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