The ways of Sexton lead to much that’s grave.
Nor you ye Times, impute to me the fault
And—in fac-simile—your trophies raise,
Where, ’neath the book-stall’d station’s grimy vault,
The steaming engine swells the note that brays.
Can story’d speech or animated bust
Back to their cerements conjure wraiths that lurk;
Can B—kle’s voice avenge the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Burke?
* * * * *