O let us in thy kindness share, Evils beset us ev'ry hour! Thy kind protection we implore: GOD THE ETERNAL SOVEREIGN. This earthly globe, the creature of a day, Tho' built by God's right hand, must pass away; And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, The fate of empires, and the pride of kings: Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, And drop the curtain o'er all human glory. The sun himself, with gath'ring clouds opprest, His golden urn shall break, and useless lie, The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, But fix'd, O God! for ever stands thy throne: Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame, He dwells within his own unfathom'd essence, But oh! our highest notes the theme debase, Revere him in the stillness of the soul: With silent duty meekly bend before him, THE GRAVE. The house appointed for all living." JOB. Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage, Their aims as various as the roads they take In journeying thro' life; the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb; Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all These trav'llers meet. Thy succours I implore, Eternal King, whose potent arms sustains The keys of hell and death. The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd: nature appall'd Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes; Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had tried its beams Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly taper, By glimm'ring thro' thy low brow'd misty vaults, Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime, Lets fall a supernumerary horror, And only serves to make thy night more irksome. Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, Cheerless, unsocial plant! That loves to dwell 'Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms; Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Embodied thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree! is thine. See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were: There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark! how it howls! methinks Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary: Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird Rook'd in the spire screams loud; the gloomy aisles Black plaster'd and hung round with shreds of scutcheons, And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, The mansions of the dead. Rous'd from their slumbers, In grim array the grisly spectres rise, Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top, Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs; Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd. Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossipping, When it draws near to witching time of night. Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've seen, By glimpse of moonshine, chequering thro' the trees, The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spy'd The past endearinents of their softer hours, L |