ON SEEING A SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCHYARD
Grey dial-stone, I fain would know
What motive placed thee here,
Where darkly opes the frequent grave,
And rests the frequent bier.
Ah! bootless creeps the dusky shade,
Slow o'er thy figured plain:
When mortal life has passed away,
Time counts his hours in vain.
As sweeps the clouds o'er ocean's breast,