The Borough by George Crabbe
page 17 of 298 (05%)
page 17 of 298 (05%)
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See! men of marble piecemeal 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 graced, His mournful widow has a trophy placed; 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 teased 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; Now to their love and worth of every kind A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind; Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb. 'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve) To all that praise which on the tomb is read, |
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