THE
GRAVE,
A
POEM.
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 travellers meet.—Thy fuccours I implore,
Eternal King! whoſe potent arm ſuſtains
The keys of hell and death—The Grave, dread thing!
Men ſhiver, when thou art 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 try'd his beams
Athwart the gloom profound.—The ſickly taper,
By glimmering thro' the low-brow'd miſty vaults,
(Furr'd round with moulds damps, and ropy ſlime,)
Lets fall a ſupernumerary horror!
And only ſerves to make thy night more irkſome.
