XXIII.
IN A COUNTRY GRAVEYARD.[38]

Man dreads the tomb, but dreads oblivion more;
He fears, when death has loosed the load of years,
His name shall cease to sound in mortal ears,
And, in the dusty darkness, all be o'er.
Some o'er the scrolls of ample science pore,
Tome after tome the nimble authors write,
And gain a meed of glory: soon the night
Comes: the author with his laurel disappears,
The painting fades, the marble busts decay,
The kingly structures fall in ruin down,
Devouring Time consumes the artist's prize,
The centuries like lightning pass away,
Or hurrying billows: emperor and clown
Sink with the myriads in impartial clay.

XXIV.
NO PLACE LIKE HOME.

Where'er these wandering footsteps lead me to,
Peak-dominated glen, hill where the sheep
Graze in the sun, mountains that ever keep
A solemn guard o'er lakes profound and blue,
Or undulating tracts of treeless view;
No matter if the rain and whirlwind sweep
The landscape, or the gladdening sunshine peep
Through muffled vapours that the winds undo;
Let it be night speckled with myriad fires,
Clear dawn, hot noon, or cool of dying day;
Be it in cities with their chiming spires,
Or country fields with fragrant ricks of hay;
Ever the voices of my hearth I hear,
And muse on those to me for ever dear.

INDEX
(Chiefly of Proper Names).