Attend, ye fair, ye thoughtless, and ye gay! The grave, cold bridegroom! clasp'd her in his arm, (On he was rich, the world esteem'd him wise) Beneath this sculptor d pompous marble stone Cropp'd like a flower he wither'd in his bloom And on his tomb, all of Hortensio lives! Around me, as I turn'd my wand'ring eyes, How silent is this little spot of ground! Tis strange to think, how these dead bones can live, 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, And view again the long extinguish'd day; And all the horrors of the grave defy; Death, where's thy sting? Grave, where's thy vic tory } FINIS HEYDON, PRINTER, DOCK, 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 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 |