For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay: 
The long-enduring Ferns in time will all
Die and depose their dust upon the wall;
Where the wing’d seed may rest, till many a flower
Show Flora’s triumph o’er the falling tower. 
   But ours yet stands, and has its Bells renown’d
For size magnificent and solemn sound;
Each has its motto:  some contrived to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell;
Such wond’rous good, as few conceive could spring
From ten loud coppers when their clampers swing. 
   Enter’d the Church—­we to a tomb proceed,
Whose names and titles few attempt to read;
Old English letters, and those half pick’d out,
Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt;
Our sons shall see its more degraded state;
The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;
That marble arch, our sexton’s favourite show,
With all those ruff’d and painted pairs below;
The noble Lady and the Lord who rest
Supine, as courtly dame and warrior drest;
All are departed from their state sublime,
Mangled and wounded in their war with Time,
Colleagued with mischief:  here a leg is fled,
And lo! the Baron with but half a head: 
Midway is cleft the arch; the very base
Is batter’d round and shifted from its place. 
   Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick decay —
See! men of marble piecemeal melt away;
When whose the image we no longer read,
But monuments themselves memorials need. 
   With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,
By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;
But we have mural tablets, every size,
That woe could wish, or vanity devise. 
   Death levels man—­the wicked and the just,
The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;
And by the honours dealt to every name,
The King of Terrors seems to level fame.
- See! here lamented wives, and every wife
The pride and comfort of her husband’s life;
Here, to her spouse, with every virtue graced,
His mournful widow has a trophy placed;
And here ’tis doubtful if the duteous son,
Or the good father, be in praise outdone. 
   This may be Nature:  when our friends we lose,
Our alter’d feelings alter too our views;
What in their tempers teased us or distress’d,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
For that impatience which we then display’d;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th’ afflicted mind;
Virtues neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb. 
   ’Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe
That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)
To all that praise which on the tomb is read,
To all that passion dictates for the dead;
But more indignant, we the tomb deride,
Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride. 
   Read of this Burgess—­on the stone appear
How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!