ELEGIAC REFLECTIONS, Wrote in the VAULT of ST NICHOLAS' CHURCH, NEWCASTLE

Here, CONTEMPLATION! to thy Vot'ry's Aid, Propitious, sooth the moralizing Soul; While Melancholy, from the sacred Shade, Bids mournf'ly slow, the sullen Moments roll.

As pensive thro' the scutcheon'd Iles I stray, That high o'er-arch'd this hallow'd Temple bound, Oft lead me on the long-untrodden Way, Where sleeps fall'n Grandeur on the gloom-wrapt Ground.

Pride's Look elated, and her lofty Mien, That Sight shall sadden from th'exulting Soar; And Envy soften'd o'er the solemn Scene, Shall drop a Tear from plaintive Pity's Lore.

Pale Terror trembles thro' each curdling Vein, While harshly opes the iron-bolted Door; While timid Fancy from the teeming Brain, Glides fear-form'd Phantoms 'long the letter'd Floor.

How dread lowr's Darkness o'er the low-brow'd Cell! Where listless Silence unmolested reigns; Save when slow-sounding from the echoed Bell, Time knells his Hours in mournf'ly pleasing Strains.

Save Meditation! when thy moral Muse, From the shrin'd Porches of St Nicholas' Dome, This Vault's illustrious Records would peruse, And sigh her Speculations o'er the Tomb.

Here sable Solitude has fix'd her Seat, Sequester'd from the social Scenes of Day; And mild Humil'ty from this hoar Retreat, Pours on the tear-thaw'd Soul her lev'ling Lay.

DEATH, vengef'ly trampling on the Neck of Pride, Here grins terrific o'er his triumph'd Spoil; And Horror guards, with dread-imposing Stride, Th'unnotic'd Tenants of this lonely Soil.

Ah how unnotic'd! since the Pomp of Pow'r No more shall wait them, on attendant Wing; Nor more convey them to the scented Bow'r, Where wantons Pleasure on the Lap of Spring.

Nor pamper'd LUXURY, Fiend of Hell! That wilef'ly poisons as she-pleasures Sense; Nor Memry's Wail, nor wild-ey'd Sorrow's Yell, Shall rouse the Lethe-drench'd Slumberers hence.

The moulder'd Bones this loos'ning Lead unbares, Wore once, perhaps, the purple Robe of State; E'er Time had silver'd o'er their honour'd Hairs, Or weeping Elegy bemoan'd their Fate.

Or mov'd some softer Female's fair Machinc, Vibrated sweetly to the Springs of Thought; Tho' low lies now that lofty-bearing Mien, Vain Value once and prideful Passion taught.

Ah me! how fall'n thy vermeil-tinted Cheek, Where Beauty bid her blushing Roses glow; Where Joy in dimpled Smiles had learnt to speak, Or salt Tears trickled to the Plaint of Woe.

E'en back retorted from the crumbling Clay, To Silence now, and sullen Darkness doom'd: Loath'd Vision shrinks,—nor heeds the blasted Spray, Where vivid once soul-thrilling Charms have bloom'd.

Say, fashion'd Heav'n her featur'd Form in vain, To sleep the Victim of eternal Death; Or, settled on her Soul's etherial Train, The short-liv'd Tenure of moment'ry Breath?

Not so Intuition, from th'unbias'd Mind Shallows the Sapience of omniscient Love; Nor e'er rapt Revelation thus confin'd Th' illimitable Bounty from above.

His;—who, from Chaos and the Climes of Night, Where crude Confusion's jarring Atoms howl'd, Hail'd new-born Beauty to the radiant Light, That glitter'd from the bright Sun's beamy Gold.

Whose cloud-wrapt Ways, unsearchably secure, None may unfold, or cast a Glance so high; Nor pierce th'unbounded Prospect of his Pow'r, Save rapturing FAITH's perspicient Eye.

What then avails vain Sophistry's Debate, That proudly soars 'bove boasted Reason's Ken; That impiously intrudes the Realms of Fate, To pour Deception on the SONS OF MEN.