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That stecple guides thy doubtful sight
Those graves with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose Where toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name, (The chissel's slender help to fame, Which ere our set of friends decay, Their frequent steps may wear away;) A middle race of mortals own, Men half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, These, all the poor remains of state, Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth, in fame they live,
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
Now from yon black and fun'ral yew
When men my scythe and dart supply,
A port of calms, a state of ease,
Why then thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er th' escutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know, Nor wants the sonl those forms of woe: As men who long in prison dwell, With lamps that glimmer round the cell, Whene'er their suffering years are run, Spring forth to greet the glittring sun: Such joy, though far transcending sense, Have pious-souls at parting hence. On earth, and in the body plac'd, A few and evil' years, they waste; But when their chains are cast aside, See the glad scene unfolding wide, Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away, And mingle with the blaze of day.
YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
Wrapt into future times the bard begun, A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a Son! From Jessé's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flow'r with fragrance fills the skies: Th’ æthereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descend the mystic dove. Ye heav'ns! from high the dewy nectar peur, And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r! The sick and weak, the healing plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. Allcrimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail; Returning justice lift aloft her scale; Peace o'er the world her olive-wand extend, And white-rob’d innocence from heav'n descend.
Swift Ay the years, and rise th' expected morn;