The Virginia Gazette

POETS CORNER.

Thoughts on walking in Westminster abbey.

THOU sacred spot! within whose hallow'd deep
The cold remains of Kings and heroes sleep,
Permit the muse, on contemplation's wing,
To take her flight, and with due reverence sing.

Oh! why should mortals at ambition aim?
Why covet honours, grandeur, wealth, and fame?
When life's short course so speedily is run,
And death must end what vanity begun.

The monarch once is monarch now no more,
No flatterers cringe, do subjects now adore;
No pomp attends, no pageantry of state,
No difference 'twixt the Servile and the great;
Death deals alike to all, gives no one place,
But Kings and peasants in the grave embrace.

Here end disputes, all party quarrels cease,
And busy statesmen rest their bones in peace;
Inveterate enemies agree at last,
Regardless of the feuds and tumults past;
Upon one clod their mouldering heads they lay,
While neighbouring worms their friendly visits pay
And those same hearts which once bore mutual spite
Mingle their clay, and in one lump unite,

The hero whom immortal victories grace,
Who oft has look'd bold danger in the face,
Resigns his laurels, and resigns his breath,
And calmly owns the conquering hand of death.

Nay he who, God like, knew great nature's laws,
Explain'd each secret, each mysterious cause,
Like others, finds that human life's a span,
Bows down his neck, and owns himself but man,

The poet, who in lofty numbers sung,
His pipe is stopp'd, his lyre is now unstrung;
No more he lashes, with harmonious rage,
The publick foibles of a vicious age;
His poverty he quits, no more he'll sing,
But is become an equal to a King.

For men, like autumn leaves, promiscuous fall,
One common bed of earth receives them all,
Then let's be just, ambition disdain,
For life's a jest, and all the world is vain.