Attend, ye fair, ye thoughtless, and ye gay!
For Mira dy'd upon the nuptial day!

The grave, cold bridegroom! clasp'd her in his arm,
And kindred worms destroy'd her pleasing charms.
In yonder tomb the old Avare lies;

(On he was rich, the world esteem'd him wise)
Schemes unaccomplish'd labour'd in his mind,
And all his thoughts were to this world confin'd;
Death came unlook'd for, from his gasping hand,
Down dropt his bags, and mortgages of lands.

Beneath this sculptor d pompous marble stone
Lies youthful Florio aged twenty-one :

Cropp'd like a flower he wither'd in his bloom
Tho' flatt'ring life had promis'd years to come.
Ye silken sons, ye Florio's of the age!
Who tread in giddy maze, life's flow'ry stage,
Mark here the end of man, in Florio see,
What you and all the sons of mirth must be.
There low in dust the vain Hortensio lies,
Whose splendor, was beheld with envious eyes;
Titles and arms his pompous marble grace,
With a long hist'ry of his noble race:
Still after death his vanity survives,

And on his tomb, all of Hortensio lives!

Around me, as I turn'd my wand'ring eyes,
Unnumber'd gravés in awful prospect rise,
Whose stones say only when their owners dy'd,
If young or aged, and to whom ally'd;
On others, pompous epitaphs are spread,
In memory of the virtues of the dead;
Vain waste of praise! since flatt'ring or sincere.
The judgment day alone will make appear.

How silent is this little spot of ground!
How melancholy looks each object round!
Here man dissolv'd, in scatter'd ruin lies
So fast asleep-as if no more to rise;

Tis strange to think, how these dead bones can live,
Leap into form, and with new heat revive!

Or how this trodden earth to life shall wake,

Know its own pláce, its former figure take;

But whence these doubts? when the last trumpet sounds,
Thro' heav'n's expanse, to earth's remotest bounds,
The dead shall quit these tenements of clay,

And view again the long extinguish'd day;
Cheer'd with this pleasing hope, I safely trust
Th' Almighty's pow'r to raise me from the dust;
On his unfailing promises rely,

And all the horrors of the grave defy;

Death, where's thy sting? Grave, where's thy vic

tory

}

FINIS

HEYDON, PRINTER, DOCK,

T

THE

G R A V E.

A N

A POEM,

By Robert Blair.

TO WHICH ARE ADDED

ELE GY

IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD,

By Gray.

D

E A T

H,

Dar

W

A POEM,

By Bishop Porteus.

EVENING REFLECTIONS
Written in Westminster Abbey
AND

A SOLILOQU

IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD,

By the Rev. Mr. Moore,

OF CORNWALL.

Plymouth Dock:

Printed and Sold by J. HEYDON, No. 80, James-Street.

Constance Davies Bout

27