Then is there need
To fill his grave;
And, truth to save,
That we should read,—
In Pursy's favor
Here lies the engraver.
This and the following lines appear to be Thoreau's own composition,—suggested, perhaps, by some collection of epitaphs he had found in one of the New York libraries, where he had been industriously reading Donne, Daniel, Quarles, Lovelace, etc., and was soon to read fragments of Ossianic poetry, on which he comments in The Week.
EPITAPH ON THE WORLD
Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul, alas! to hell is hurled.
Its golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
And iron age drew on at last;
'Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell.
What year it died, when 'twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.
Donne was not a poet, but a man of strong sense,—a sturdy English thinker, full of con-
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