Epitaph I

BEneath, the PROPHET lays his rev'rend Head,
Amid, these awful Mansions of the Dead.
No more the PATRIOT shall assert the Laws,
Nor its the Senate plead his Country's Cause:
Around the CHURCH, no more the lift'ning Throng,
Gaze on his Eyes, and hang upon his Tongue:
No more his healing Hand shall Health restore,
Elude the Grave, and baffle Death no more.
In Eden's flow'ry Vales the Spirit roves,
Where Streams of Life roll thro' immortal Groves:
Fix'd in deep Slumbers, here the DUST is giv'n,
'Till the last Trumpet shake the Frame of Heav'n:
Then fresh to Life the waking Saint shall rise,
And in new Triumphs glitter up the Skies;
With smiling Joys, and heav'nly Honours crown'd,
Bid endless Ages wheel their mighty Round.