Death conquers all, and Time's subduing hand, Was some fair maid's, ye belles! as fair as you. O say, ye spirits, in a future state The grave has eloquence, its lectures teach, A humbling lecture this for human pride. The clock strikes twelve-how solemn is the sound! Hark how the strokes from hollow vaults rebound! They bid us hasten to be wise, and show How rapid in their course our minutes flow. Now fairy shapes, and hideous spectres dance Athwart imagination's vivid glance; The felon now attacks the miser's door, And my pulse throbs as feebly as my strain. What means this sudden, strange, unusual start, This solemn something creeping to my heart? Why fear to read a gracious God's decree? Why fear to look on that I soon must be? Can man be thoughtless of his end? or proud Of charms that claim the coffin and the shroud? Come let him read these sculptur'd tombstones o'er, Here fix his thoughts, and then be vain no more. Let proud ambition learn this lesson hence, Howe'er distinguish'd, dignify'd for sense; Whate'er the honour'd ensigns of renown, The cap, the hood, the mitre or the crown, Death levels all; nor parts our pow'rs can save, Milton himself must moulder in the grave, Who sung and prov'd with inspiration strong, The soul immortal, in immortal song. Hark! thus death speaks; ingenious sons of men, Why boast the chissel, pencil, or the pen? Will fame, who oft denies her children bread, Deceive the living, discompose the dead? No; fame's a breath, it cannot worth supply, Nor yield you comfort when you come to die; In my dark realms all opposites agree, The heirs of wealth and sons of poverty. Whose tomb is this? It says, 'tis Mira's, tomb, Huck'd from the world in beauty's fairest bloom; Attend, ye fair, ye thoughtless, and ye gay! The grave, cold bridegroom! clasp'd her in his arm, (Once he was rich, the world esteem'd him wise) Beneath this sculptor'd pompous marble stone Around me, as I turn'd my wand'ring eyes, Vain waste of praise! since flatt'ring or sincere, How silent is this little spot of ground! How melancholy looks each object round! Here man dissolv'd, in scatter'd ruin lies So fast asleep as if no more to rise; 'Tis strange 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; And all the horrors of the grave defy; Death, where's thy sting? Grave, where's thy victory? } FINIS HEYDON, PRINTER, DOCK |