And some sad morn may gild thy bier,
Long, long before another year!
‘Another year! another year!
Oh! who shall see another year?
Shall you, ye young? or you, ye fair?
Ah! the presumptuous thought forbear!
Beside this church-yard’s peaceful bounds,
Pause ye, and ponder o’er the mounds:
Here beauty sleeps; that verdant length
Of grave contains what once was strength;