The Borough by George Crabbe
page 16 of 298 (05%)
page 16 of 298 (05%)
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Coat above coat, the living on the dead;
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way For bolder foliage, nursed 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 contrived to tell, In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell; Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring From ten loud coppers when their clampers 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 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 - |
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