The left presents a place of graves, Whofe wall the filent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful fight 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, Thofe graves, with bending Ofier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 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;). Men, half ambitious, all unknown.. 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, Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, 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. Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead? 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, A HYMN A HYMN to CONTENTMENT. L OVELY, lafting peace of mind! Heav'nly born, and bred on high, The |