A SOLILOQU Y.

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

BY THE REV. MR. MOORE, OF CORNWALL.

Truck with religious awe, and folemn dread,

ST

I view these gloomy mansions of the dead; Around me tombs in mix'd disorder rise, And in mute language teach me to be wife. Time was, thefe afhes liv'd-a time must be When others thus fhall ftand-and look at me; Alarming thought! no wonder 'tis we dread O'er these uncomfortable vaults to tread; Where blended lie the aged and the young, The rich and poor, an undistinguish'd throng: Death conquers all, and time's fubduing hand Nor tombs, nor marble-ftatues can withstand. Mark yonder afhes in confufion fpread! Compare earth's living tenants with her dead! How ftriking the refemblance, yet how juft! Once life and foul informed this mass of duft; Around these bones, now broken and decay'd, The streams of life in various channels play'd: Perhaps that skull, fo horrible to view!

Was fome fair maid's, ye belles, as fair as you;

VOL. II.

E

These

Thefe hollow fockets two bright orbs contain❜d,
Where the loves fported, and in triumph reign'd;
Here glow'd the lips; there white, as Parian ftone,
The teeth difpos'd in beauteous order shone.
This is life's goal-no farther can we view,
Beyond it, all is wonderful and new:

O deign, fome courteous ghoft! to let us know
What we must shortly be, and you are now!
Sometimes you warn us of approaching fate;
Why hide the knowledge of your present state ?
With joy behold us tremblingly explore
Th' unknown gulph, that you can fear no more?
The grave has eloquence-its lectures teach
In filence, louder than divines can preach;
Hear what it fays-ye fons of folly hear!
It speaks to you-O give it then your ear!
It bids you lay all vanity afide,

O what a lecture this for human pride!

[found!

The clock ftrikes twelve-how folemn is the Hark, how the strokes from hollow vaults rebound! They bid us haften to be wife, and show, How rapid in their course the minutes flow. See yonder yew-how high it lifts its head! Around, the gloomy fhade their branches fpread! Old and decay'd it ftill retains a grace, And adds more folemn horror to the place. Whofe tomb is this? it fays, 'tis Myra's tomb, Pluck'd from the world in beauty's faireft bloom,

Attend

Attend ye fair! ye thoughtlefs, and ye gay!
For Myra dy'd upon her nuptial day!

[arms, The grave, cold bridegroom! clasp'd her in its And the worm rioted upon her charms.

In yonder tomb the old Avaro lies;

Once he was rich — the world esteemed him wife:
Schemes unaccomplish'd labour'd in his mind,
And all his thoughts were to the world confin'd;
Death came unlook'd for-from his grasping hands
Down dropt his bags, and mortgages of lands.
Beneath that sculptur'd pompous marble-stone,
Lies youthful Florio, aged twenty-one ;
Cropt like a flower, he wither'd in his bloom,
Tho' flatt'ring life had promis'd years to come:
Ye filken fons! ye Florios of the age,
Who tread in giddy maze life's flowery stage!
Mark here the end of man, in Florio fee
What you, and all the fons of earth fhall be!
There low in duft the vain Hortenfio lies,
Whose splendour once we view'd with envious eyes:
Titles and arms his pompous marble grace,
With a long history of his noble race :
Still after death his vanity furvives,
And on his tomb all of Hortenfio lives.
Around me as I turn my wandering eyes,
Unnumber'd graves in awful prospect rise,
Whofe ftones 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! fince, flattering or fincere,
The judgment-day alone will make appear.
How filent is this little fpot of ground!
How melancholy looks each object round!
Here man diffolv'd in fhatter'd ruin lies
So faft afleep-as if no more to rife;

"Tis ftrange to think how these dead bones can live,
Leap into form, and with new heat revive!
Or how this trodden earth to life fhall wake,
Know its own place, its former figure take!
But whence these fears? when the last trumpet founds
Thro' heaven's expanse to earth's remotest bounds,
The dead fhall quit these tenements of clay,
And view again the long extinguish'd day:
It must be fo the fame Almighty power
From duft who form'd us, can from dust restore.
Cheer'd with this pleafing hope, I safely trust
Jehovah's power to raise me from the dust,
On his unfailing promises rely,

And all the horrors of the

grave

defy..

THE

THE SHEPHERD'S INVITATION. A SONG.

BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOE.

C

Ome live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, or hill, or field,
Or wood, or steepy mountain yield.

There will we fit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By fhallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds fing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of rofes,
With a thousand fragrant pofies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown, made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the pureft gold.

A belt of ftraw, and ivy buds,
With coral clafps, and amber ftuds;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.