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216 In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist

Thy image. Earth that nourish'd thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again;

And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to th' insensible rock,

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thy eternal resting place

Shalt thou retire alone—nor could'st thou wish

Couch more magnificent: Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,—the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between

The venerable woods—rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green—and, poured round all,

Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,