Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.
Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,
And faded black coat, once the minister's best?
The mattock and shovel support him like staves,
As he totters familiarly over the graves.
'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,
Since the days of his boyhood—and now he is sere;
These mounds are his world—he can name all the lairs,
As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.
Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,