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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529106" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sermon in a Churchyard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let pious Damon take his seat, <br>With mincing step and languid smile, <br>And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, <br>Sabaean odours o'er the aisle; <br>And spread his little jewelled hand, <br>And smile round all the parish beauties, <br>And pat his curls, and smooth his band, <br>Meet prelude to his saintly duties. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let the thronged audience press and stare, <br>Let stifled maidens ply the fan, <br>Admire his doctrines, and his hair, <br>And whisper, &quot;What a good young man!&quot; <br>While he explains what seems most clear, <br>So clearly that it seems perplexed, <br>I'll stay and read my sermon here; <br>And skulls, and bones, shall be the text. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Art thou the jilted dupe of fame? <br>Dost thou with jealous anger pine <br>Whene'er she sounds some other name, <br>With fonder emphasis than thine? <br>To thee I preach; draw near; attend! <br>Look on these bones, thou fool, and see <br>Where all her scorns and favours end, <br>What Byron is, and thou must be. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust <br>Some clod like those that here we spurn; <br>Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, <br>And shall like thee to dust return? <br>Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, <br>At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? <br>Behold the black, damp narrow pits, <br>Where they and thou must lie together. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dost thou beneath the smile or frown <br>Of some vain woman bend thy knee? <br>Here take thy stand, and trample down <br>Things that were once as fair as she. <br>Here rave of her ten thousand graces, <br>Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, <br>While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces <br>Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, <br>Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, <br>Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, <br>That prompt thy baby smiles and tears; <br>Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, <br>In one short hour of placid thought, <br>A stoicism, more deep, more stern, <br>Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The plots and feats of those that press <br>To seize on titles, wealth, or power, <br>Shall seem to thee a game of chess, <br>Devised to pass a tedious hour. <br>What matters it to him who fights <br>For shows of unsubstantial good, <br>Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, <br>Be things of flesh, or things of wood? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">We check, and take; exult, and fret; <br>Our plans extend, our passions rise, <br>Till in our ardour we forget <br>How worthless is the victor's prize. <br>Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: <br>Say will it not be then the same, <br>Whether we played the black or white, <br>Whether we lost or won the game? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dost thou among these hillocks stray, <br>O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan? <br>Know that thy foot is on the clay <br>Of hearts once wretched as thy own. <br>How many a father's anxious schemes, <br>How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, <br>How many a mother's cherished dreams, <br>The swelling turf before thee covers! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here for the living, and the dead, <br>The weepers and the friends they weep, <br>Hath been ordained the same cold bed, <br>The same dark night, the same long sleep; <br>Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave <br>O'er those with whom thou soon must be? <br>Death his own sting shall cure--the grave <br>Shall vanquish its own victory. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here learn that all the griefs and joys, <br>Which now torment, which now beguile, <br>Are children's hurts, and children's toys, <br>Scarce worthy of one bitter smile. <br>Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press, <br>Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail, <br>That science is a blind man's guess, <br>And History a nurse's tale. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here learn that glory and disgrace, <br>Wisdom and folly, pass away, <br>That mirth hath its appointed space, <br>That sorrow is but for a day; <br>That all we love, and all we hate, <br>That all we hope, and all we fear, <br>Each mood of mind, each turn of fate, <br>Must end in dust and silence here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Babbington+Macaulay">Thomas Babbington Macaulay</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529106" data-title="Sermon in a Churchyard de Thomas Babbington Macaulay" data-description="Let pious Damon take his seat, 
With mincing step and languid smile, 
And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, 
Sabaean odours o'er the aisle; 
And spread his little jewelled hand, 
And smile round all the parish beauties, 
And pat his curls, and smo..."></div>
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