Written
in
the
Church-Yard
at
Malvern
.
THIS
seems
a
spot
to
pensive
sorrow
dear
,
Gloomy
the
shade
which
yields
this
ancient
yew
,
Sacred
the
seat
of
Death
!
soothed
while
I
view
Thy
hills
,
O
Malvern
,
proudly
rising
near
,
I
bless
the
peaceful
mound
,
the
mouldering
cross
,
And
every
stone
whose
rudely
sculptured
form
Hath
braved
the
rage
of
many
a
winter's
storm
.
Pleased
with
the
melancholy
scene
,
each
loss
Once
more
I
weep
;
and
wish
this
grave
were
thine
,
Poor
,
lost
,
lamented
friend
!
that
o'er
thy
clay
For
once
this
last
,
sad
tribute
I
might
pay
,
And
,
with
my
tears
,
to
the
cold
tomb
resign
Each
hope
of
bliss
,
each
vanity
of
life
,
And
all
the
passions
agonizing
strife
.