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GR A V E,
А PoE м,
IN A COUNTRY CHURCH.YARD,
By Bishop Porteus.
. IN A COUNTRY CHURCH.YARD,
When self-esteem, or others' adulation,
Vide Blair's Grave,
W HILST some affect the sun, and some the shade;
Cheerless, unsocial plant! ihat loves to dwell
See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious.work
. The wind is up; hark! how it howls! methinks,
The mansions of the dead.' Rous'd from their slumberg * In grim array the grizly spectres rise, Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. Again! the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms, Cozval near with all that ragged shew, Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down Their branchless trunks: others so thin a-top That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here, Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs; Dead men have come again and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd.