There lay the warrior and the son of song,
	And there—in silence till the judgment day—
	The orator, whose all-persuading tongue
	Had mov’d the nations with resistless sway.

Mrs. Norton.    

	Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen’d there:
	Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs,
	Dead men have come again, and walk’d about;
	And the great bell has toll’d unrung, untouch’d.
	Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping,
	When it draws near to ’witching time of night.

Blair.    

	Yet there are graves, whose rudely shapen sod
	Bears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod;
	Graves where the verdure has not dar’d to shoot,
	Where the chance wildflower has not fix’d its root,
	Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a name,
	The eternal record shall at length proclaim
	Pure as the holiest in the long array
	Of hooded, mitred, or tiara’d clay!

O. W. Holmes.    

	The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
	Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
	Blended in dust together; where the slave
	Rests from his labors; where th’ insulting proud
	Resigns his power, the miser drops his hoard,
	Where human folly sleeps.

Dyer.