Who knows how soon in this sepulchral spot,
Shall heaven to me the drear abode assign!
How soon the past irrevocable lot
Of these, that rest beneath me, shall be mine.
Haply, when Zephyr to thy native bourn
Shall waft thee o'er the storm'd Hibernian wave,
Thy gentle breast, my Tavistock, shall mourn
To find me sleeping in the senseless grave.
No more the social leisure to divide,
In the sweet intercourse of soul and soul,
Blithe or of graver brow; no more to chide
The ling'ring years impatient as they roll,
Till all thy cultur'd virtues shall display,
Full blossom'd, their bright honours to the gazing day.