O, could all the misery that was extant in the village have been
presented to the thoughtless revellers, could they have danced on?
Would not the tear of sympathy have moistened the cheek, and the still
small voice whispered of a solemn time that must come to them? O, it
is wise to receive the admonition, "Be ye also ready, for in such an
hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh."
Faint, indeed, are the delineations from Memory's tablet, upon this
little map, but enough, perchance, to lead the contemplative mind to
reflect upon the vicissitudes and changes of its little day, and teach
us to prepare for a better world, "where change comes not."
Contemplations in a Grave Yard.
'Twas on one pensive even tide,
When restless toil and day had fled;
I laid all airy scenes aside,
To wander o'er the silent dead.
The rising moon from eastern sky,
O'er the lone heath shed languid light,
And boding owls with fearful cry
Heightened the solemn gloom of night.
With pensive steps I reach'd the pile,
Where well wrought limbs return to clay;
And tow'ring marble's pompous style
Points out the great, the rich, the gay.
But where's ambition's piercing eye,
His restless look, his haughty air?
They're vanish'd all, and near him lie
Frames that once fed on black despair.
What though the marble's rais'd o'er one,
To tell his former wealth or worth,
While a green turf, or mossy stone,
Denote the man of humbler birth.
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