Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Epitaphs
Epitaphs.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
What though we wade in wealth or soar in fame?
Earth's highest station ends in "Here he lies
And "Dust to dust" concludes her noblest song.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Here are the Prude severe, and gay Coquette,
The sober Widow, and the young green Virgin,
Cropped like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous Old Age winds up his tale;
And Jovial Youth, of lightsome, vacant heart,
Whose every day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth: the shrill-tongued Shrew,
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the Wise, the Generous, and the Brave;
The Just, the Good, the Worthless, the Profane;
The downright Clown, and perfectly Well-bred;
The Fool, the Churl, the Scoundrel, and the Mean.