We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And, like the builders, will in time decay.

The old Foundation-but it is not clear When it was laid—you care not for the year; On this, as parts decayed by time and storms, Arose these various disproportion'd forms; Yet Gothic all-the learn'd who visit us (And our small wonders) have decided thus:"Yon noble Gothic arch," "That Gothic door;" So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.

:

Here large plain columns rise in solemn style, You'd love the gloom they make in either aisle ; When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass (And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass, Faintly display the figures on the floor,

Which pleased distinctly in their place before.

But ere you enter, yon bold Tower survey, Tall and entire, and venerably grey,

For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the stains are all of sober hue;

The living stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone:
For ever growing; where the common eye
Can but the bare and rocky bed descry;
There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;
There she perceives them round the surface creep,
And while they meet, their due distinction keep;

Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,
And these are Nature's ever-during stains.

And wouldst thou, Artist! with thy tints and brush, Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush? In three short hours shall thy presuming hand Th' effect of three slow centuries command ? Thou may'st thy various greens and greys contrive, They are not Lichens, nor like aught alive;But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost, Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost; When all thy work is done away as clean As if thou never spread'st thy grey and green; Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done, How slowly true she lays her colours on; When her least speck upon the hardest flint Has mark and form and is a living tint; And so embodied with the rock, that few Can the small germ upon the substance view.

Seeds, to our eye invisible, will find

On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind;
There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,
Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,
And spread th' enduring foliage;-then we trace
The freckled flower upon the flinty base;
These all increase, till in unnoticed years
The stony tower as grey with age appears;
With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,
Coat above coat, the living on the dead:
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way
For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay:

The long-enduring Ferns in time will all
Die and depose their dust upon the wall;
Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower
Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.

But ours yet stands, and has its Bells renown'd For size magnificent and solemn sound; Each has its motto: some contrived to tell, In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell.

Enter'd the Church—we to a tomb proceed,
Whose names and titles few attempt to read;
Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,
Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt;
Our sons shall see its more degraded state;
The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;
That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,
With all those ruff'd and painted pairs below;
The noble Lady and the Lord who rest
Supine, as courtly dame and warrior dress'd;
All are departed from their state sublime,
Mangled and wounded in their war with Time
Colleagued with mischief; here a leg is fled,
And lo! the Baron with but half a head ;
Midway is cleft the arch; the very base
Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.

With few such stately proofs of grief or pride
By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;
But we have mural tablets, every size,
That woe could wish, or vanity devise.

-See! here lamented wives, and every wife
The pride and comfort of her husband's life;
Here, to her spouse, with every virtue graced,
His mournful widow has a trophy placed;
And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son,
Or the good father, be in praise outdone.

This may be Nature: when our friends we lose,
Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;
What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
For that impatience which we then display'd;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;
Virtues neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.

'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe
That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)
To all that praise which on the tomb is read,
To all that passion dictates for the dead;
But more indignant, we the tomb deride,
Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.

Read of this Burgess-on the stone appear How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear! What wailing was there when his spirit fled, How mourn'd his lady for her lord when dead, And tears abundant through the town were shed; See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise, And free from all disgrace and all disguise; His sterling worth, which words cannot express, Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.

All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name;
He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?—Shame!
What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;
He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;
He ruled the Borough when his year came on,
And some forget, and some are glad he's gone.

Yet, here will Love its last attentions pay, And place memorials on these beds of clay. Large level stones lie flat upon the grave, And half a century's sun and tempest brave; But many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie; Of these what numbers rest on every side! Without one token left by grief or pride; Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then Will other hillocks rise o'er other men ; Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust, And generations follow, "dust to dust.'

Yes! there are real Mourners-I have seen A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd, And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd: Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep: Then to her mind was all the past display'd, That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid: For then she thought on one regretted Youth, Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;