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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 shiv'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 ly 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 babbling 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 feuds.
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 fun,
Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Here is the mother with her sons and daughters;