Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/44

From dust again to dust. Behold that heap
Of mould'ring urns (their ashes blown away,
Dust of the mighty!) the same story tell; 335
And at its base, from whence the serpent glides
Down the green desert street, yon' hoary monk
Laments the same, the vision as he views,
The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits, lie 340
Blended in dust together; where the slave
Rests from his labours; where th' insulting proud
Resigns his pow'r; the miser drops his hoard;
Where human folly sleeps. There is a mood
(I sing not to the vacant and the young),345
There is a kindly mood of melancholy
That wings the soul, and points her to the skies:
When tribulation clothes the child of man,
When age descends with sorrow to the grave,
'Tis sweetly-soothing sympathy to pain,350
A gently-wak'ning call to health and ease.
How musical! when all-devouring Time,
Here sitting on his throne of ruins hoar,
While winds and tempests sweep his various lyre,
How sweet thy diapason, Melancholy!355
Cool ev'ning comes; the setting sun displays
His visible great round between yon tow'rs,
As thro' two shady cliffs: away, my Muse!
Tho' yet the prospect pleases, ever new
In vast variety, and yet delight360
The many-figur'd sculptures of the path
Half beauteous, half effac'd; the traveller
Such antique marbles to his native land
Oft hence conveys; and ev'ry realm and state
With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods,365
Deck their long galleries and winding groves;
Yet miss we not th' innumerable thefts;