On Recovery from Sickness

Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spotWhich I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in.Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,From his meridian height, endeavours vainlyTo pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyrComes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nookMost pleasant. Such a one perchance did GrayFrequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.

Come, I will sit me down and meditate,For I am wearied with my summer's walk;And here I may repose in silent ease;And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may findThe haven of its rest--beneath this sodPerchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented downWith brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthwormOf its predestined dues; no, I would lieBeneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown,Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters.Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;But there at eve may some congenial soulDuly resort, and shed a pious tear,The good man's benison--no more I ask.And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look downFrom where, with cherubim, inspired they sit,Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,The earth,) then will I cast a glance belowOn him who thus my ashes shall embalm;And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pineIn this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.

Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body,Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,And, spite of reason, bids it look beyondHis narrow verge of being, and provideA decent residence for its clayey shell,Endear'd to it by time. And who would layHis body in the city burial-place,To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,And yield its narrow house another tenant,Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?No, I will lay me in the village ground;There are the dead respected. The poor hind,Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invadeThe silent resting place of death. I've seenThe labourer, returning from his toil,Here stay his steps, and call his children round,And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,And, in his rustic manner, moralize.I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,And all the honours which he paid the grave,And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries,Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,Are not protected from the drunken insolenceOf wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bonesMay lie--or in the city's crowded bounds,Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,Or left a prey on some deserted shoreTo the rapacious cormorant,--yet still,(For why should sober reason cast awayA thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spiritShall wing its way to these my native regions,And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll thinkOf times when I was seated 'neath this yewIn solemn rumination; and will smileWith joy that I have got my long'd release.