Written with a pencil on the Grave-stone of a Departed Friend.
STOP, passenger,—here muse awhile :Think on his darksome, lone abode,
Who late, like thee, did jocund smile,
Now lies beneath this cold green sod.
Art thou to vicious ways inclin'd,
Pursuing pleasure's flow'ry road ?
Know—fell remorse shall rack thy mind,
When tott'ring to thy cold green sod.
If thou a friend to Virtue art,
Oft pitying burthen'd Mis'ry's load ;
Like thee, he had a feeling heart
Who lies beneath this cold green sod.
With studious, philosophic eye,
He look'd thro Nature up to God,—
His future hope, his greatest joy,
Who lies beneath this cold green sod.
Go, passenger—revere this truth :
A life well spent in doing good
Soothes joyless age, and sprightly youth,
When drooping o'er the cold green sod.
[Semple 12]