 | Poems |  |
201
AN EPITAPH,
Literally transcribed from a Tomb-Stone, in a Church Yard, in Buckinghamshire.
“Ockone, Ockone!”
Tread lightly o'er the mossy turf,
If greatness you revere,
Behold this hillock osier-deck'd,
And bathe it with a tear.
If greatness you revere,
Behold this hillock osier-deck'd,
And bathe it with a tear.
Here lies poor Edmund, turn'd to clay,
At fam'd St. Omer's bred;
Ah me, who has so good a heart,
Or eke so good a head.
At fam'd St. Omer's bred;
Ah me, who has so good a heart,
Or eke so good a head.
His little life was (hapless wight)
To every peril known;
But God corrects, (so Patriarchs sing)
The man he calls his own.
To every peril known;
But God corrects, (so Patriarchs sing)
The man he calls his own.
Then Edmund must be blest indeed,
Whose mark'd with many a blow;
But Faith perverted that to bliss,
His senses felt as woe.
Whose mark'd with many a blow;
But Faith perverted that to bliss,
His senses felt as woe.
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