Dolgorukov.

When time’s vicissitudes are ended Be this, be this my place of rest; Here let my bones with earth be blended, Till sounds the trumpet of the blest. For here, in common home, are mingled Their dust, whom fame or fortune singled; And those whom fortune—fame pass’d by: All mingled—and all mouldering;—folly And wisdom—mirth and melancholy— Slaves—tyrants—all mixt carelessly. List! ’tis the voice of time—Creation’s Unmeasured arch repeats the tone; Look! even like shadows, mighty nations Are born—flit by us—and are gone! See! children of a common father, See stranger-crowds, like vapors gather; Sires—sons—descendants—come and go: Sad history! Yet even there the spirit Some joys may build—some hopes inherit, And wisdom gather flowers from woe. There, like a bee-swarm, round the token Of unveil’d truth, shall sects appear, And evil’s poisonous sting be broken In the bright glance of virtue’s spear. And none shall ask—What dormitory Was this man’s doom—what robes of glory Wore he—what garlands crown’d his brow— Was pomp his slave?—Come, now discover The heart, the soul—Delusion’s over— What was his conduct?—Answer now! Where stands yon hill-supported tower, By Fili, shall I wake again, Summon’d to meet Almighty Power In judgment—like my fellow men. I shall be there—and friends and brothers— Sisters and children—fathers, mothers,— With joy that never shall decay; The soul, substantial blessings beaming, (All here is shadowy and seeming) Drinks bliss—no time can sweep away. Friends, on my brow, that rests when weary, Erect no proud and pompous pile: Your monuments are vain and dreary, Their splendour cannot deck the vile. A green grave, by no glare attended, With other dust and ashes blended, O let my dust and ashes lie; There, as I sleep, time, never sleeping, Shall gather ages to his keeping, For such is nature’s destiny. My wife, my children shall inherit All I possess’d—’twas mine—’tis theirs; For death, that steals the living spirit, Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs. Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow, No garments of the raven borrow; ’Tis idle charge—’tis costly pride. Be gay, through rain or frosty weather, Nor gather idle priests together To chaunt my humble grave beside. Cry, orphans!—cry, ye poor!—imploring The everlasting God, that He May save me when I sink—adoring— Amidst his boundless mercy-sea. My blessing to my foes be given, Their curses far from me be driven, Nor break upon my hallow’d bliss; God needs no studied words from mortals, A sigh may enter Heaven’s wide portals— He could not err—He taught us this. No songs, no elegy—death hearkens To music ne’er though sweet it be: When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens, Then let oblivion shadow me. No verse will soften Hades’ sadness, No verse can break on Eden’s gladness, ’Tis all parade, and shifting glare:— A stream—where scatter’d trees are growing, A secret tear—in silence flowing— No monument as these so fair. Such slumber here—their memory flashes Across my thoughts.—Hail—Sister! hail— I kiss thy sacred bed of ashes, And soon shall share thy mournful tale. Thou hast paid thy earthly debts—’tis ended— Thy cradle and thy tomb are blended, The circle of thy being run; And now in peace thy history closes, And thy still’d, crumbling frame reposes Where life’s short, feverish play is done. I live and toil—my thoughts still follow The idle world:—my cares pursue Dreams and delusions, baseless, hollow, And vanities still false though new. Then fly I earthly joys—I find them Leave terror-working stings behind them: ‘Beware! beware!’ experience cries; Yet ah! how faint the voice of duty, One smile of yonder flattering beauty Would make me waste even centuries.