The Borough | Page 5

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 could not explain;?Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,?But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh?A lover's message--"Thomas, I must die:?Would I could see my Sally, and could rest?My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,?And gazing go!--if not, this trifle take,?And say, till death I wore it for her sake:?Yes! I must die--blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!?Give me one look before my life be gone,?Oh!