Tixall Poetry.
249
A Domesday Thought.
Oft when I hear a blustering wind,
With a tempestuous murmur joined,
I fancy, Nature in this blast
Practises how to breathe her last:
Or sighs for poor man's misery,
Or pants for fair eternity.
With a tempestuous murmur joined,
I fancy, Nature in this blast
Practises how to breathe her last:
Or sighs for poor man's misery,
Or pants for fair eternity.
Go to the dull church-yard, and see
Those hillocks of mortality;
Where proudest man is only found
By a small swelling in the ground.
What crouds of carcasses are made
Slaves to the pick-axe and the spade!
Dig but a foot or two, to make
A cold bed for thy dead friend's sake,
Those hillocks of mortality;
Where proudest man is only found
By a small swelling in the ground.
What crouds of carcasses are made
Slaves to the pick-axe and the spade!
Dig but a foot or two, to make
A cold bed for thy dead friend's sake,
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