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Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses, of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful, rests without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame,
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue,
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want, the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart
Life's idle bus'ness at one grasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!


Where shade yon yews the church-yard's lonely bourn,

With faultering step, absorb'd in thought pro found,

Philemon wends in solitude to mourn,

While evening pours her deep'ning glooms around.

Loud shrieks the blast, the sleety torrent drives, Wide spreads the tempest's desolating power; To grief alone Philemon reckless lives,

No rolling peal he heeds, cold blast, nor shower.

For this the date that stampt his partner's doom;
His trembling lips received her latest breath.
"Ah! wilt thou drop one tear on Emma's tomb?”
She cried and clos'd each wistful eye in death.


No sighs he breath'd, for anguish rived his breast;
Her clay-cold hand he grasp'd, no tears he shed,
Till fainting nature sunk by grief oppress'd,
And ere distraction came all sense was fled.

Now time has calm'd, not cur'd Philemon's woe,
For grief like his, life-woven, never dies;
And still each year's collected sorrows flow,
As drooping o'er his Emma's tomb he sighs

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O lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!

When peace and joy no more remain,

And gathering glooms the scene o'ercast;

When hope is heard, alas! in vain ;
The bitterness of death is past!

O! lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!



What art thou Life? the shadow of a dream; The past and future dwell in thought alone; The present, ere we note its flight, is gone! And all ideal, vain, fantastic seem.

Whence is thy source? and whether dost thou tend?

So short thy period, and thy form so frail; Poor pris'ners, pent in death's surrounding vale, Born but to breathe, to suffer, and to end.

Why shadow! bring'st thou, on thy raven wing,
Dark trains of grief, and visions of the night,
Rather than graces rob'd in purple light,
Elysian flow'rs, and love's unclouded spring?
Since sad or gay, whatever be thy theme,
Death surely ends, at once, the dreamer and the


By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie;
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire;
The left presents a place of gravés,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night:


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