By wealth erected, is our Church supplied; But we have mural tablets, every size, That woe could wish, or vanity devise. Death levels man--the wicked and the just, The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust; And by the honours dealt to every name, The King of Terrors seems to level fame. - See! here lamented wives, and every wife The pride and comfort of her husband's life; Here, to her spouse, with every virtue graced, His mournful widow has a trophy placed; And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son, Or the good father, be in praise outdone. This may be Nature: when our friends we lose, Our alter'd feelings alter too our views; What in their tempers teased us or distress'd, Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest; And much we grieve, no longer trial made, For that impatience which we then display'd; Now to their love and worth of every kind A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind; Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb. 'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve) To all that praise which on the tomb is read, To all that passion dictates for the dead; But more indignant, we the tomb deride, Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride. Read of this Burgess--on the stone appear How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear! What wailing was there when his spirit fled, How mourned his lady for her lord when dead, And tears abundant through the town were shed; See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise, And free from all disgrace and all disguise; His sterling worth, which words cannot express, Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress. All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name: He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?--Shame! What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice; He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice; He ruled the Borough when his year came on, And some forget, and some are glad he's gone; For never yet with shilling could he part, But when it left his hand it struck his heart. Yet, here will Love its last attentions pay, And place memorials on these beds of clay; Large level stones lie flat upon the grave, And half a century's sun and tempest brave; But many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie; Of these what numbers rest on every side! Without one token left by grief or pride; Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then Will other hillocks rise o'er other men; Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust, And generations follow, "dust to dust." Yes! there are real Mourners--I have seen A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd, And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd: Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t'expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep: Then to her mind was all the past display'd,