 | Miscellanies in Prose and Verse |  |
68
REFLECTIONS
On a Grave digging in Westminster Abbey.
Fatigu'd with noisy crouds and pompous show,
To gloomy isles, and scenes of death I go,
Where mouldering trophies hang, while falling dust
Confutes the warrior's hope, the proud man's trust.
Where marble statues bending seem to mourn,
And point to flattery on the sculptur'd urn;
Detain with useless praise the wand'ring eye,
To tell where learning, greatness, beauty lye.
These all the hapless state of mortals show,
The sad vicissitude of things below.
To gloomy isles, and scenes of death I go,
Where mouldering trophies hang, while falling dust
Confutes the warrior's hope, the proud man's trust.
Where marble statues bending seem to mourn,
And point to flattery on the sculptur'd urn;
Detain with useless praise the wand'ring eye,
To tell where learning, greatness, beauty lye.
These all the hapless state of mortals show,
The sad vicissitude of things below.
Reflection dwells on images like these,
And sober thought creeps on by slow degrees;
A solemn stilness purifies my breast,
Calms all my thought, and bids my passions rest;
In contemplation deep, I seem to see
What now I am, what shortly I shall be;
Till by the noise of the descending spade
From studious thought recall'd, I turn my head.
Behold the gaping earth, and view beneath
Thy boasted victories, resistless death.
The sable chest that holds the mouldering dust,
No longer able to retain its trust,
To pieces fall'n, displays the dismal scene,
And shews the loathsome sceleton within.
Behold that eyeless scull, with ghastly stare,
And learn to estimate your charms, ye Fair.
Here once the curious palate; here a tongue,
On which perhaps persuasive language hung;
Here once was plac'd the sound-discerning ear;
The seat of mem'ry and of judgment here;
Here low'r'd the scornful look, the haughty brow,
Alas! how alter'd, how neglected now?
Now on the naked bones is left no trace,
Where every feature shew'd its proper grace;
Fragments of limbs disjointed strew the floor,
Scarce can the eye discern the form they wore;
These once with ligaments were firmly strung,
Their veins and arteries in order hung,
Each part adapted well, complete the whole,
A dwelling suited to th'ethereal soul.
And sober thought creeps on by slow degrees;
A solemn stilness purifies my breast,
Calms all my thought, and bids my passions rest;
69
What now I am, what shortly I shall be;
Till by the noise of the descending spade
From studious thought recall'd, I turn my head.
Behold the gaping earth, and view beneath
Thy boasted victories, resistless death.
The sable chest that holds the mouldering dust,
No longer able to retain its trust,
To pieces fall'n, displays the dismal scene,
And shews the loathsome sceleton within.
Behold that eyeless scull, with ghastly stare,
And learn to estimate your charms, ye Fair.
Here once the curious palate; here a tongue,
On which perhaps persuasive language hung;
Here once was plac'd the sound-discerning ear;
The seat of mem'ry and of judgment here;
Here low'r'd the scornful look, the haughty brow,
Alas! how alter'd, how neglected now?
Now on the naked bones is left no trace,
Where every feature shew'd its proper grace;
70
Scarce can the eye discern the form they wore;
These once with ligaments were firmly strung,
Their veins and arteries in order hung,
Each part adapted well, complete the whole,
A dwelling suited to th'ethereal soul.
This monitory vault awhile survey,
Ye great, ye rich, ye giddy, proud, or gay;
Not flatter'd beauty, nor commanding state,
Can shun the general lot, or baffle fate:
The shatter'd body's ruin to survive
Is sacred virtue's great prerogative,
A life well spent dispels the dreadful gloom,
And cheers the terrors of the dreary tomb;
The marble dome, the sculptur'd bust shall fail,
And virtue only over time prevail.
Ye great, ye rich, ye giddy, proud, or gay;
Not flatter'd beauty, nor commanding state,
Can shun the general lot, or baffle fate:
The shatter'd body's ruin to survive
Is sacred virtue's great prerogative,
A life well spent dispels the dreadful gloom,
And cheers the terrors of the dreary tomb;
The marble dome, the sculptur'd bust shall fail,
And virtue only over time prevail.
| Miscellanies in Prose and Verse | |