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For JOHN THORNTON of Clapham, Esq. who died at Bath, November 7. 1791.

Know, solemn visitant of the remains
Of Thornton, what high respect is due
The sacred cemetery that contains

What seen brought every virtue into view.

Say not, ye busy! that your cares exclude
Philanthropy's exertions and its joys:
The eminently active, and the good,
An unremitting industry employs.

Success sooths vanity; but he remains
Modest and pious, while his stores increase:
To generous views he consecrates his gains;
And, when these fail, his riches never cease.

Not by the poet's verse, or sculptor's art,
His name shall live, respected and revered :
He ever lives, upon the feeling heart,

And, as more known, is ever more endeared.

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When time shall cease to run, and every bust
Resign its charge, his memory shall endure:
Dear to the Saviour is his servant's dust.

His first renowned, the patron of the poor.


Rev. Dr Martin.


Upon yon dial-stone

Behold the shade of time,

For ever circling on and on,

In silence more sublime

Than if the thunders of the spheres

Pealed forth its march to mortal ears.

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Reveals a pre sence and a power

Felt and confessed by man;—
The drop of moments, day by day,
That rock of ages wear away.


Woven by a hand unseen,

Upon that stone survey

A robe of dark-sepulchral green,
The mantle of decay-

The fold of chill oblivion's pall,

That falleth with yon shadow's fall.

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Stars have their vigils, seas awhile

Will sink to peaceful rest;

But round and round the shadow creeps

Of that which slumbers not-nor sleeps!


Effacing all that's fair

Hushing the voice of mirth Into the silence of despair

Around the lonesome hearth,And training ivy garlands green O'er the once gay and social scene.


In beauty fading fast,

Its silent trace appears,

And-where, a phantom of the past

Dim in the mist of


Gleams Tadmor o'er oblivion's waves,

Like wrecks above their ocean graves.—


Before the ceaseless shade

That round the world doth sail

Its towers and temples bow the head-
The pyramids look pale:

The festal halls grow hushed and cold,
The everlasting hills wax old.


Coeval with the sun

Its silent course began—
And still its phantom race shall run,
Till worlds with age grow wan;-
Till darkness spread her funeral pall,

And one vast shadow circle all.

John Malcolm, Esq.


Where are you with whom in life I started,
Dear companions of my golden days?

Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted,
-Flown, like morning clouds, a thousand ways.

Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother, Yea, in soul my friend and brother still ?

Heaven received thee, and on earth none other

Can the void in my lorn bosom fill.

Where is she, whose looks were love and gladness?
-Love and gladness I no longer see!"

She is gone; and since that hour of sadness,
Nature seems her sepulchre to me.

Where am I?-life's current faintly flowing,
Brings the welcome warning of release;
Struck with death, ah! whither am I going?
All is well, my spirit parts in peace.


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A poor wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,

Who sued so humble for relief,


That I could never answer Nay :'

I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,

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