Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Better to be always in a minority of one with God — branded as madman, incendiary, fanatic, heretic, infidel — frowned upon by "the powers that be," and mobbed by the populace — or consigned ignominiously to the gallows, like him whose "soul is marching on," though his "body lies mouldering in the grave," or burnt to ashes at the stake like Wickliffe, or nailed to the cross like him who "gave himself for the world," — in defence of the RIGHT, than like Herod, having the shouts of a multitude crying, "It is the voice of a god, and not of a man!"william lloyd garrison
In his own verse the poet still we find, In his own page his memory lives enshrined, As in their amber sweets the smothered bees, As the fair cedar, fallen before the breeze, Lies self-embalmed amidst the mouldering trees.
Underneath this crust Lies the mouldering dust Of Eleanor Batchelor Shoven, Well versed in the arts Of pies, custards and tarts, And the lucrative trade of the oven. When she lived long enough, She made her last puff, A puff by her husband much praised, And now she doth lie And make a dirt pie, In hopes that her crust may be raised.