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Death's Hireling, who scoops out his Neighbour's grave,
Or wraps an old Acquaintance up in clay,
As unconcerned as when he plants a tree?
I was abruptly summoned by his voice
From some affecting images and thoughts
And from the company of serious words.
Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes
For future states of Being; and the wings
Of speculation, joyfully outspread,
Hovered above our destiny on earth;
But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul
In sober contrast with reality
And Man's substantial life. If this mute earth
Of what it holds could speak, and every grave
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable
Of yielding its contents to eye and ear,
We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame,
To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill
That which is done accords with what is known
To reason, and by conscience is enjoined;
How idly, how perversely, Life's whole course,
To this conclusion, deviates from the line,
