 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
218
Written on the GRAVE of a beautiful young LADY.
Deeply interr'd beneath this sod is
A piece of Dirt, once call'd a Goddess;
Cou'd you the Goddess now survey,
You'd turn disgustfully away:
Here Putrefaction's Brood appears,
And the proud Maggot domineers;
Those Eyes, than Phœbus' beams more bright,
Now darker than the darkest night!
Those Cheeks where Nature's pencil drew
Teints fair as Saints, unbodied, view;
Those Lips, that Neck, that Angel Form!
A cottage for the bat'ning worm.
A piece of Dirt, once call'd a Goddess;
Cou'd you the Goddess now survey,
You'd turn disgustfully away:
Here Putrefaction's Brood appears,
And the proud Maggot domineers;
Those Eyes, than Phœbus' beams more bright,
Now darker than the darkest night!
Those Cheeks where Nature's pencil drew
Teints fair as Saints, unbodied, view;
Those Lips, that Neck, that Angel Form!
A cottage for the bat'ning worm.
How near to Beauty's 'witching pride
Is foul Deformity ally'd!
From Putrefaction's fertile bed
The Rose uprears his fragrant head;
From the same parent dunghill too,
The fetid Henbane starts to view;
All earthly things beneath the skies,
From Putrefaction's source arise;
A while they flourish and are vain,
And then to Dirt revert again;
Ev'n Beauty, quick in its decay,
Is but a Crust of mould'ring Clay.
Is foul Deformity ally'd!
From Putrefaction's fertile bed
The Rose uprears his fragrant head;
From the same parent dunghill too,
The fetid Henbane starts to view;
All earthly things beneath the skies,
From Putrefaction's source arise;
A while they flourish and are vain,
And then to Dirt revert again;
Ev'n Beauty, quick in its decay,
Is but a Crust of mould'ring Clay.
What changes Nature's Monades wear!
Now Fair is Foul—now Foul is Fair:
The Reliques of a sordid Clown
May rise again, and wear a Crown;
And he who myriads commands,
May—“Whistle o'er the furrow'd lands.”
Now Fair is Foul—now Foul is Fair:
219
May rise again, and wear a Crown;
And he who myriads commands,
May—“Whistle o'er the furrow'd lands.”
Death spreads a feast, where all are fed;
“Death furnishes our daily bread.”
A while we feast upon our brothers,
And soon are serv'd a dish for others.
“Death furnishes our daily bread.”
A while we feast upon our brothers,
And soon are serv'd a dish for others.
Ye Mortal Goddesses, be wise,
Beauty just shews itself and dies;
Hither, O hither come—and see
What ev'ry Goddess soon must be.
Beauty just shews itself and dies;
Hither, O hither come—and see
What ev'ry Goddess soon must be.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |