The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Can storied urn, or animated bust.
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?
GRAVE. Of the renowned.
When, to the grave, we follow the renown'd
For valour, virtue, science, all we love,
And all we praise; for worth, whose noontide beam
Mends our ideas of ethereal powr's
Dream we, that lustre of the moral world
Goes out in stench, and rottenness the close?
Why was he wise to know, and warm to praise,
And strenuous to transcribe, in human life,
The mind almighty? could it be that fate,
Just when the lineaments began to shine,
Should snatch the draught, and blot it out for ever. Young.
GRAVITY. Affected.
There are a set of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.
O, my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing.
GREATNESS. Subject to Censure.
O place and greatness, millions of false
Are stuck upon thee! volumes of report
Run with those false and most contrarious guests
Upon thy doings! thousand 'scapes of wit
Make thee the father of their idle dream,
And rack thee in their fancies.
ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture-the love of the turtle-
Now melt into sorrow-now madden to crime?—
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine?
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine,
Where the light wings of zephyr, oppress'd with perfume
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in their bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?—
'Tis the clime of the East-'tis the land of the Sun-
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And, but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality
And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Her's is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth.
HAMLET. Churchyard of the.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
HAPPINESS. A sad sight.
How sad a sight is human happiness
To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour!
Oh thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults!
Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate?
I know thou wouldst: thy pride demands it from me
Let thy pride pardon what thy nature needs,
The salutary censure of a friend;
Thou happy wretch; by blindness art thou blest;
By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles.
Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise, that hast surviv'd the fall:
Though few, now taste thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or tasting, long enjoy thee! too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup;
Thou art the nurse of virtue, in thine arms
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heaven-born, and destin'd to the skies against
Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle, frail support;
For thou art meek and constant, hating change,
Aud finding in the calm of truth-tried love
Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.
Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made
Of honour dignity, and fair renown!
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life,
He pitied man: and much he pitied those
Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means
To dissipate their days in quest of joy.
Our aim is happiness: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,
He said; tis the pursuit of all that live;
Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd.
But they the widest wander from the mark,
Who through the flow'ry paths of saunt'ring joy
Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage
invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.
For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings
To counterpoise itself, relentless fate
Forbids that we through gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam; and were the fates more kind,
Our narrow luxuries would soon be stale.
Were these exhaustless, Nature would grow sick;
And cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream,
Let nature rest: be busy for yourself,
And for your friend; be busy ev'n in vain,
Rather than tease her sated appetites.
Who never fasts, no banquet e'er enjoys;
Who never toils or watches, never sleeps.
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