 | Metrical essays |  |
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THE VILLAGE CHURCH.
It stands within a solitary valeShadow'd by ancient trees, which year on year
Still live—as relics Time and Death revere—
Unhurt by lightning's scathe—by winter-gale;—
Around each low calm grave the wild flower pale,
Like Pity, bends with many a balmy tear
There, too, pride's 'scutcheon'd monuments appear,
With high ancestral name and lofty tale!
Dull is the mind—oh, more than cold the breast
That lonely Village Church may not incline
To deep and holy musings—from its rest
A warning spirit speaks with voice divine:—
Pass thou few days—few months perhaps at best—
A shroud—a grave—an epitaph is thine!
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