Sonnet. To Matthew Barnard.

SONNET.

TO MATTHEW BARNARD.

BY THE SAME.

MATTHEW, whose skilful hand and well-worn spade Shall soon be call'd to make the humble bed, Where I at last shall rest my weary head, And form'd of dust again in dust be laid;

Near, but not in the Church of God, be made My clay-cold cell, and near the common tread Of passing friends; when number'd with the dead, We're equall all, and vain distinctions fade:

The cowslip, violet, or the pale primrose Perhaps may chance to deck the verdant sweard; Which twisted briar or hasle-bands entwine; Symbols of life's soon-fading glories those — Do thou the monumental hillock guard From trampling cattle, and the routing swine.