ON A MOUNTAIN TUMULUS.
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Can tyranny command
A sepulchre like this sublime,
Mid ev’ry shock of storm and time,
Still fresh from nature’s hand!
The urn’s proud characters decay,
And truth rebukes the hireling lay—
The venal poet’s moan;
But brighter blooms this artless mound,
Where ev’ry stone that rises round
By sorrow’s hand was thrown!
For earth and heav’n with man combine
To renovate this lonely shrine—
New verdure to impart
To its wild knoll and grassy surge,
That speak upon the mountain’s verge,
The grief of many a heart!
Alas! if ev’ry grave were reft
Of all, except what love has left,
How soon would melt in air
The pond’rous tomb, the sculptured bust,
And leave the king’s, the warrior’s dust—
To these compared how bare!
