The starting Sexton his short sorrow chid When the earth murmur'd on the coffin lid, And falling bones and sighs of holy dread Sounded a requiem to the silent dead! 'Why tell us tales of woe, thou who didst give Thy soul to rural themes, and bade them live? What means this zeal of thine, this kindling fire? The rescu'd infant and the dying sire.' Kind heart, who o'er the pictur'd Seasons glow'd, When smiles approv'd the verse, or tears have flow'd, Was then the lowly minstrel dear to thee? Himself appeals--What, if _that child_ were HE! [Illustration: men digging a grave?] What, if those midnight sighs a farewel gave, While hands, all trembling, clos'd his father's grave! Though love enjoin'd not infant eyes to weep, In manhood's zenith shall his feelings sleep? Sleep not my soul! indulge a nobler flame; _Still_ the destroyer persecutes thy name. Seven winter's cannot pluck from memory's store That mark'd affliction which a brother bore; That storm of trouble bursting on his head, When the fiend came, and left _two children_ dead! Yet, still superior to domestic woes, The native vigour of his mind arose, And, as new summers teem'd with brighter views, He trac'd the wand'rings of his darling Muse, And all was joy--this instant all is pain, The foe implacable returns again, And claims a sacrifice; the deed is done-- _Another child_ has fall'n, another son [4]! [Footnote 4: I had proceeded thus far with the Poem, when the above fact became a powerfull stimulus to my feelings, and to the earnestness of my exhortations.]