Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in. Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun, From his meridian height, endeavours vainly To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd. Come, I will sit me down and meditate, For I am wearied with my summer's walk; And here I may repose in silent ease; And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find The haven of its rest--beneath this sod Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. I would not have my corpse cemented down With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters. Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave; But there at eve may some congenial soul Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, The good man's benison--no more I ask. And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, Upon this little dim-discover'd spot, The earth,) then will I cast a glance below On him who thus my ashes shall embalm; And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.