“Here peaceful sleep the aged and the young,
The rich and poor, an undistinguished throng.
Time was these ashes lived; a time must be
When others thus shall stand and look at thee.”
I had at first written,—
“Time was these ashes lov’d.”
His wife, Mary, who died at fifty-five in 1755, is hard by under an arch of ancient ivy against the wall. She speaks from the tomb,—
“How lov’d, how valu’d once avails thee not:
To whom related, or by whom begot.
A heap of dust alone remains of thee.