Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade.

A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.

A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious read more

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard, unmeaning face, down read more

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

O how small a portion of earth will hold us when we are dead, who ambitiously seek after the whole read more

O how small a portion of earth will hold us when we are dead, who ambitiously seek after the whole world while we are living.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
read more

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country
churchyard, than in the tombs of the read more

I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country
churchyard, than in the tombs of the Capulets.

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came read more

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break.