Triumph of Old Age. AN ELEGIAC POEM. CANTO VIII. The Funeral. BEHOLD Yon' Ash majestically tall, 1 Whose branches overlook these heaving heaps, Which while we tread, at ev'ry step recall, This mould had life thro' which the earthworm creeps. When spring returns, each renovated germ Is soon expanded into freshest leaves, Which flourish gaily till their fated term, When Autumn ripens them, and earth receives. Thus with that Mansion's tenants it has far'd, Oft have they loiter'd by that stately trunk, As it laments not those deceas'd, but shoots Long after we are gone, as it does now, Yet tho' it sees the generations pass, As if immortal, 'mid those doom'd to death, Ev'n earth is mortal like that mighty Ash, From which shall rise yet uncreated orbs. These were the thoughts that came with sorrow mixt, Meanwhile I walk on slowly, then retrace My footsteps winding thro' the Church-yard ways, So near the Mansion, that at ev'ry pace, The lawn its verdure and its Tree displays. A gath'ring crowd, whom the same impulse draws The morning was so clouded, that it seem'd The Spring still loiter'd thro' a baffling train Check'd vegetation on the delug'd ground. L -Ah! what is that which now is carry'd forth, Welcome, O Daughter, whom we see once more, Tho' clos'd thy limbs within this sable bier! Welcome, whom now there's leisure to deplore With the warm drops of many a gushing tear! Welcome!-Among the mourners let me go, Which men believe fictitious, when they see. In slow procession as we move along, How on the gale the solemn summons rolls! And is there one, the stoutest hearts among, Who is unmov'd? for hark! again-it tolls. There are, whose only object is to gaze, |