We come upon a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
Think now, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
Time was, like thee they life possessed,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs and bones,
These (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
And while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow and wan, and wrapped with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,
Now comes a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones.
And all with sober accent cry:
"Think, mortal, what it is to die."
"When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a King of Fears am I!
They view me like the last of things:
They make, and then they dread, my stings.
For if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectral form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God."
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