Page:Poems and extracts - Wordsworth.djvu/95

 Of mould'ring urns (their ashes blown away, Dust of the mighty) the same story tell; And at its base, from whence the serpent glides Down the green desart street, yon' hoary monk Laments the same, the vision as he views The solitary, silent, solemn scene, Where Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits, lie, Blended in dust together; where the slave Rests from his labours; where the insulting proud Resigns his power; the miser drops his hoard; Where human folly sleeps.—There is a mood, (I sing not to the vacant and the young) There is a kindly mood of melancholy That wings the soul, and points her to the skies; When tribulation clothes the child of man. When age descends with sorrow to the grave, 'Tis sweetly-soothing sympathy to pain, A gently-wak'ning call to health and ease. How musical, when all-composing Time, Here sits upon his throne of ruins hoar While Avinds and tempests sweep his various lyre, How sweet the diapason ! . . ..

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