The Borough | Page 5

bell;
Such wond'rous good, as few
conceive could spring
From ten loud coppers when their clampers
swing.
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 drest;
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.
Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick decay -
See! men of marble
piecemeal melt away;
When whose the image we no longer read,

But monuments themselves memorials need.
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.
Death levels man--the wicked and the just,
The wise, the weak, lie
blended in the dust;
And by the honours dealt to every name,
The
King of Terrors seems to level fame.
- 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 mourned 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;

For never yet with shilling could he part,
But when it left his hand it
struck his heart.
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 unquestioned truth;
In
ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,
And sadly sacred held
the parting scene;
Where last for sea he took his leave--that place

With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship
was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd,--"This once, and then the
day:
Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,
He drew from
pitying love a full consent.
Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took
That he should softly
sleep and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check

Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at
sea can know
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow?
For he to
Greenland sail'd, and much she told
How he should guard against the
climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor
could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smiled at
flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;

For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous
symptoms he