Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/199

Rh

Oh stranger, pause! So shall thy graces die, Thy talents, birth, and fortune all decay; Thus, low in dust, thy lifeless form shall lie, And power, and wealth, and honor pass away.

Love not too well the empty breath of fame, Nor wrap thy heart in hoards of glittering store; Death spares not for the tinkling of a name, He points his shaft, and greatness is no more.

No arms escutcheoned on the lowly stone Reveal the titled greatness of the dead, To proud ambition, and to fame unknown, Was she who slumbers in this mouldering bed.

No weeping Muses consecrate the ground, No pensive bards, in tuneful requiem sigh, Nor genius here, breathed inspiration round, The hallowed spot where these cold relics lie.

Heaven has to few the envied gift assigned Of Wit's enchanting, but deceptive light, Nor gleamed its magic o'er her humble mind, Who slumbers here in deep oblivion's night.

What though no gathering crowds assembled round Her final home, or graced the funeral bier, Believe not, that this undistinguished ground Was never moistened by affection's tear.

For who so vile, so unbeloved can live, So unlamented to the grave descend, That sympathy no tribute has to give, Nor sad remembrance moves one mournful friend.