XVII.

"Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, In the deep dungeon of some gothic dome, Where night and desolation ever frown. Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrown, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.