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 succours 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 reuful wastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and Night, dark Night,
Dark as was Chaos, are the infant sun
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams
Athwart the gloom profound.—The sickly taper,
By glimmering through the low-brow'd misty vaults,
(Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime.)
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
