Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/44

 From dust again to dust. Behold that heap 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 desert street, yon' hoary monk Laments the same, the vision as he views, The solitary, silent, solemn scene, Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits, lie Blended in dust together; where the slave Rests from his labours; where th' insulting proud Resigns his pow'r; 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-devouring Time, Here sitting on his throne of ruins hoar, While winds and tempests sweep his various lyre, How sweet thy diapason, Melancholy! Cool ev'ning comes; the setting sun displays His visible great round between yon tow'rs, As thro' two shady cliffs: away, my Muse! Tho' yet the prospect pleases, ever new In vast variety, and yet delight The many-figur'd sculptures of the path Half beauteous, half effac'd; the traveller Such antique marbles to his native land Oft hence conveys; and ev'ry realm and state With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods, Deck their long galleries and winding groves; Yet miss we not th' innumerable thefts;