Shall we build to Ambition! Oh, no! Affrighted he shrinketh away: For see, they would pin him below In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. To Beauty! Ah, no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here’s neither dress nor adornment allow’d But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas! ’tis in vain; Who hid, in their turns have been hid: The treasures are squandered again, And here in the grave are all metals forbid But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford? The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah no! they have wither’d and died, Or fled with the spirit above: Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve, Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve: Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watch-word, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known; And here there are trophies enow: Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. The first Tabernacle to HOPE we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to FAITH, which insures it fulfill’d; And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath’d us them both when He rose to the skies!’” “This _is_ poetry,” exclaimed the old man, when I had finished reciting the above beautiful lines,—“and piety as well as poetry. The youth who, with his own death full in view, could give utterance to such holy thoughts, and in the darkness of the night, with the dead of old lying around him and beneath his feet, must surely be gone to heaven!” CHAPTER VII. —As in those days When this low pile a Gospel Teacher knew, Whose good works form’d an endless retinue: Such priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; And tender Goldsmith crown’d with deathless praise!