That, by his periods eloquent and grave; This, by responses, and a well-set stave: 'These for the Living; but when Life be fled, 'I toll myself the Requiem for the Dead.'

"Tis to this Church I call thee, and that Place, Where slept our Fathers when they'd run their race: We too shall rest, and then our Children keep Their road in Life, and then, forgotten, sleep; Meanwhile the Building slowly falls away, And, like the Builders, will in time decay.

The old Foundation-but it is not clear When it was laid-you care not for the Year; On this, as Parts decay'd by Time and Storms, Arose these various disproportion'd Forms; Yet Gothic, all the Learn'd who visit us (And our small Wonders) have decided thus: "Yon noble Gothic Arch,” “That Gothic Door;" So have they said; of proof you'll need no more. Here large plain Columns rise in solemn style, You'd love the Gloom they make in either Aile; When the Sun's Rays, enfeebled as they pass (And shorn of splendour) through the storied Glass, Faintly display the Figures on the Floor, Which pleas'd distinctly in their place before. But ere you enter, yon bold Tower survey,

Tall and entire, and venerably grey,

For Time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the Stains are all of sober hue;
The living Stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of Life, pours forth upon the Stone;
For ever growing; where the common Eye
Can but the bare and rocky Bed descry:
There Science loves to trace her Tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless Fruit;

There she perceives them round the surface creep,
And while they meet, their due distinction keep;
Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,
And these are Nature's ever-during Stains.

And wouldst thou, Artist! with thy Tints and Brush,
Form Shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?
In three short Hours shall thy presuming Hand
Th' effect of three slow centuries command* ?
Thou may'st thy various Greens and Greys contrive,
They are not Lichens, nor like aught alive;-
But yet proceed, and when thy Tints are lost,
Fled in the Shower, or crumbled by the Frost;
When all thy Work is done away as clean
As if thou never spread'st thy Grey and Green;
Then may'st thou see how Nature's Work is done,
How slowly true she lays her colours on;
When her least Speck upon the hardest Flint
Has Mark and Form and is a living Tint;
And so embodied with the Rock, that few
Can the small Germ upon the Substance view t.

* If it should be objected, that Centuries are not slower than Hours, because the speed of Time must be uniform; I would answer, that I understand so much, and mean that they are slower in no other sense, than because they are not finished so

soon.

+ This kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the Flint. The Byssus Jolithus of Linnæus (Lepraria Jolithus of the present System), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the substance on which it spread. A great variety of these minute vegetables are to be found in some parts of the coast, where the beach, formed of stones of various kinds, is undisturbed, and exposed to every change of weather; in this situation, the different species of Lichen, in their different stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and agreeable even to those who are ignorant of, and indifferent to the cause.

Seeds, to our Eye invisible, will find

On the rude Rock the Bed that fits their kind;
There, in the rugged Soil, they safely dwell,
Till Showers and Snows the subtile Atoms swell,
And spread th' enduring Foliage ;—then we trace
The freckled Flower upon the flinty base;
These all increase, till in unnotic'd Years
The stony Tower as grey with Age appears;
With coats of Vegetation, thinly spread,
Coat above coat, the Living on the Dead:
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way
For bolder Foliage, nurs'd by their decay:
The long-enduring Ferns in time will all
Die and depose their dust upon the Wall;
Where the wing'd Seed may rest, till many a Flower
Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling Tower.

But ours yet stands, and has its Bells renown'd
For size magnificent and solemn sound;

Each has its motto: some contriv'd to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a Bell* ;

Such wondrous good, as few conceive could spring
From ten loud Coppers when their Clappers swing.
Enter'd the Church; we to a Tomb proceed,
Whose Names and Titles few attempt to read;
Old English Letters, and those half pick'd out,
Leave us, unskilful Readers, much in doubt;
Our Sons shall see its more degraded state;
The Tomb of Grandeur hastens to its fate;
That marble Arch our Sexton's favourite show,
With all those ruff'd and painted Pairs below;

* The several purposes for which bells are used, are expressed in two Latin verses of this kind.

The noble Lady and the Lord who rest
Supine, as courtly Dame and Warrior drest;
All are departed from their state sublime,
Mangled and wounded in their war with Time
Colleagued with Mischief; here a leg is fled,
And lo! the Baron with but half a head;
Midway is cleft the Arch; the very Base
Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.
Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick decay—
See! Men of Marble piece-meal melt away;
When whose the Image we no longer read,
But Monuments themselves Memorials need*.
With few such stately proofs of Grief or Pride
By Wealth erected, is our Church supplied;
But we have mural Tablets, every size,
That Woe could wish, or Vanity devise.

Death levels Man,-the Wicked and the Just,
The Wise, the Weak, lie blended in the dust;
And by the Honours dealt to every name,
The King of Terrors seems to level Fame.
-See! here lamented Wives, and every Wife
The pride and comfort of her Husband's life;
Here, to her Spouse, with every virtue grac'd,
His mournful Widow has a trophy plac'd;

And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous Son,
Or the good Father, be in praise outdone.
This may be Nature; when our Friends we lose,
Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;
What in their tempers teaz'd us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the Dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
For that impatience which we then display'd;

* Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.
Juvenal. Sat. x. I. 14G

Now to their Love and Worth of every kind,
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted Mind;
Virtues neglected then, ador'd become,
And Graces slighted, blossom on the Tomb.

"Tis well; but let not Love nor Grief believe, That we assent (who neither lov❜d nor grieve) To all that Praise, which on the Tomb is read, To all that Passion dictates for the Dead; But more indignant, we the Tomb deride, Whose bold Inscription Flattery sells to Pride. Read of this Burgess-on the Stone appear How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear! What wailing was there when his Spirit fled, How mourn'd his Lady for her Lord when dead, And tears abundant through the Town were shed; See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise, And free from all disgrace and all disguise; His sterling worth, which words cannot express, Lives with his Friends, their pride and their distress. All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name; He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?—Shame! What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice; He dealt in Coals, and Av'rice was his vice; He rul'd the Borough when his Year came on, And some forget, and some are glad he's gone; For never yet with Shilling could he part, But when it left his hand, it struck his heart.

Yet, here will Love its last attentions pay, And place Memorials on these Beds of Clay. Large level Stones lie flat upon the Grave, And half a Century's Sun and Tempest brave; But many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh, Have follow'd those who now unnotic'd lie;