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ON VIEWING THE GRAVES OF JAMES AND SARAH EASTON,
  
  
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46

ON VIEWING THE GRAVES OF JAMES AND SARAH EASTON,

In Fairlight Church-Yard, Sussex.

Ye, who beneath this cold earth sleep
In Nature's second womb;
With you my vigils here I keep,
Beside the turf-rais'd tomb.
Here mark the husband, here the wife,
Beneath the neighb'ring sod;
In death united as in life,
Still near is their abode.
And scanty as this bank of green
Which parts their kindred clay,
So scanty was the space between
Their mortal-setting day.

47

And yet perhaps—(for fancy here
Must take her dubious flight,
Since only dates and ages rear
Their records to the sight.)
Perhaps, in tend'rest truth they dwelt
For many a circling year,
And every soul-born rapture selt
That flows from love sincere.
Each was to each a dearer self,
A charm 'gainst worldly care,
A gem more worth than worldly pelf,
A treasure far more rare.
Think then, ye minds of fellow mould,
The suffering how severe,
When one to fill this clay-bed cold,
First press'd a timeless bier.

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Did not the lonely, widow'd heart,
Its anguish here deplore;
And, priz'd thro' life its wedded part,
Then seem to prize it more?
Did it not deem the fatal shaft
In tender mercy sped,
Which gave the spirit soon to waft
Beyond this earthy bed?—
So reads the Swain, whose pitying thought
This lowly grave detain'd;
Whose breast, with faithful passion fraught,
Can heave the sigh unfeign'd.
And thus, reviewing human fate
In Death's dread mirror shewn;
Would learn more fondly still to rate
The bliss he boasts his own.