And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.

Blair.

Dull grave! thou spoil’st the dance of youthful blood,

Strik’st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,

And every smirking feature from the face;

Branding out laughter with the name of madness.

Blair.

All at rest now—all dust!—wave flows on wave,

But the sea dries not! What to us the grave?

It brings no real homily; we sigh,