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What? but a ſpacious burial-field unwall'd,
Strew'd with death's ſpoils, the ſpoils of animals,
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones!
The very turf on which we tread, once liv'd;
And we that live must lend our carcaſes
To cover our own off-ſpring ——In their turns,
They too must cover theirs. ——'Tis here all meet:
The thiv'ring Icelander, and ſun-burnt Moor:
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, and Chriſtian.
Here the proud Prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His ſov'reign's keeper, and the people's ſcourge,
Are huddled out of ſight. ——Here lie abaſh'd
The great negotiators of the earth,
And celebrated maſters of the balance,
Deep-read in ſtratagems and wiles of courts,
Now vain their treaty-ſkill ——Death ſcorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded ſlave ſlings down his burden
From his gall'd ſhoulders ——and when the cruel tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of pow'r about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his ſhort arm ——and quick as thought eſcapes
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary reſt:
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool ſhade,
The tell-tale echo, and the bubbling ſtream,
(Time out of mind the fav'rite ſeats of love)
Fast by his gentle mistreſs lays him down
Unblaſted by foul tongue. ——Here friends and foes
Lie close, unmindful of their former ſcuds.
The lawn-rob'd Prelate, and the plain Preſbyter,
E'er while that ſtood aloof, as ſhy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like ſister ſtreams
That some rude interpoſing rock had ſplit.
Here is the large-limb'd peaſant ——Here the child
Of a ſpan long, that never ſaw the ſun,
Nor preſs'd the nipple, ſtrangled in life's porch.
