KIRKDALE CHURCH-YARD. 159 



But thelong winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. 



To riches ? alas ! 'tis in vain ; 

 Who hid, in their turns, have been hid : 



The treasures are squandered again ; 

 And here in the grave are all metals forbid ; 

 But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin lid. 



To the pleasure's which mirth can afford, 

 The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 



Ah ! here is a plentiful board ; 

 But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 

 And none but the worm is a reveller here. 



Shall we build to affection and love ? 

 Ah, no ! they have withered and died ; 



Or fled with the spirit above 



Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side ; 

 Yet, none have saluted, and none have replied. 



Unto sorrow ? the dead cannot grieve ; 

 Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear, 



Which compassion itself could reliev e 

 Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love or fear. 

 Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here ! 



Unto death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 

 Ah, no ! for his empire is known ; 



And here there are trophies enow ! 

 Beneath, the cold dead ! and around the dark stone! 

 Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 



The first tabernacle to HOPE we will build, 

 And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 



The second to FAITH, which ensures it fulfilled ; 

 And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, 

 Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies ! 



Richmond, Oct. 7th, 1816, KNOWLES. 



