Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body, Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze! Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond His narrow verge of being, and provide A decent residence for its clayey shell, Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay His body in the city burial-place, To be thrown up again by some rude sexton, And yield its narrow house another tenant, Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness? No, I will lay me in the village ground; There are the dead respected. The poor hind, Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade The silent resting place of death. I've seen The labourer, returning from his toil, Here stay his steps, and call his children round, And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, And, in his rustic manner, moralize. I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, And all the honours which he paid the grave, And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries, Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, Are not protected from the drunken insolence Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close! Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones May lie--or in the city's crowded bounds, Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, Or left a prey on some deserted shore To the rapacious cormorant,--yet still, (For why should sober reason cast away A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit Shall wing its way to these my native regions, And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew In solemn rumination; and will smile With joy that I have got my long'd release. VERSES. Thou base repiner at another's joy, Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. Away, away, it shall not be, Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; The truly generous heart disdains Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed-- Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall. * * * * *