Written in the Church yard at
This seems a spot to pensive sorrow dear,
Gloomy the shade which yields this sombre yew
Sacred the seat of Death! sooth'd while I view
Thy hills Oh Malvern! proudly rising near,
I bless the peaceful mound, the mouldering cross,5
And every stone, whose rudely-sculptur'd form
Hath brav'd the rage of many a winter's storm.
Pleas'd with the melancholy scene, each loss
Once more I weep: and wish this grave were thine
Poor, lost, lamented friend! that o'er this silent clay10
For once this last sad tribute I might pay,
And, with my tears, to the cold tomb resign
Each hope of bliss, each vanity of life,
And all the passions' agonizing strife.