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The left presents a place of graves,

Whofe wall the filent water laves.

That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pafs with melancholy ftate,

By all the folemn heaps of fate,

And think, as foftly-fad you

Above the venerable dead,.

tread

Time was, like thee they life poffeft,
And time fhall be, that thou fbalt reft.

Thofe graves, with bending Ofier bound,

That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repofe.

The flat smooth ftones that bear a name,

The chiffel's flender help to fame,

(Which ere our fet of friends decay

Their frequent. fteps may wear away;).
A middle race of mortals own,

Men, half ambitious, all unknown..

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The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lye,

Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd stones,

Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,

Thefe, all the poor remains of ftate,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the fhades!

All flow, and wan, and wrap'd with shrouds, They rise in visionary crouds,

And all with fober accent cry,

Think, mortal, what it is to dye.

Now from yon black and fun'ral yew,

That bathes the charnel-house with dew,

Methinks, I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens, ceafe your croaking din,

Ye tolling clocks, no time refound

O'er the long lake and midnight ground)

It fends a peal of hollow groans,

Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

When men my scythe and darts supply,

How great a King of Fears am I !

They view me like the laft of things;

They make, and then they dread my ftings.
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man wou'd ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a ftate of ease
From the rough rage of fwelling feas.
Why then thy flowing fable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herfes, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that as they tread,

Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead?

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Nor can the parted body know,

Nor wants the foul, thefe forms of woe:

As

As men who long in prifon dwell,

With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
When-e'er their fuff'ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun :
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years, they wafte :
But when their chains are caft afide,
See the glad fcene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

A HYMN

A HYMN to CONTENTMENT.

L

OVELY, lafting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!

Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
To make the feat of calms and ease?
Ambition fearches all its sphere
Of pomp and ftate, to meet thee there.
Encreasing avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold infhrin'd..
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way,
Thro' rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.

The

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