WHO, without horror, can that house behold (Though ne'er so fair) which is with tombstones made; Whose walls, fraught with inscriptions writ of old, Say still, 'Here underneath somebody's laid.' Though such translated churchyards shine with gold, Yet they the builder's sacrilege upbraid; And the wrong'd ghosts, there haunting uncontroll'd, Follow each one his monumental shade. But they that by the poor man's downfall rise, Have sadder epitaphs carv'd on their chests: As, 'Here the widow, Here the orphan lies.' Who sees their wealth, their avarice detests; Whilst th' injur'd for revenge urge heaven with cries; And, through its guilt, th' oppressor's mind ne'er rests. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH by ROBERT BURNS THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE AEOLIAN HARP; AT THE SURF INN by HERMAN MELVILLE SONNET PREFIXED TO 'THE COMMONWEALTH & GOVERNMENT OF VENICE' by EDMUND SPENSER |