What mean the nodding plumes, the fun'ral train,
And marble monument that speaks in vain,
With all those cares, which ev'ry nation pays
To their unfeeling dead in diff'rent ways!
Some in the flow'r-strewn grave the corpse have lay'd,
And annual obsequies around it pay'd,
As if to please the poor departed shade;
Others on blazing piles the body burn,
And store their ashes in the faithful urn;
But all in one great principle agree
To give a fancy'd immortality.
Why should I mention those, whose ouzy soil
Is render'd fertile by th' o'erflowing
Their dead they bury not, nor burn with fires,
No graves they dig, erect no fun'ral pires,
But, washing first th' embowel'd body clean,
Gums, spice, and melted pitch they pour within;
Then with strong fillets bind it round and round,
To make each flaccid part compact, and sound;
And lastly paint the varnish'd surface o'er
With the same features, which in life it wore:
So strong their presage of a future state,
And that our nobler part survives the body's fate.